Blood. Warm, sticky, and everywhere. Dripping from his hands, splattering against the brick walls. The metallic scent hung heavy in the air, clinging to his skin, his clothes—God, it was even on his face, smeared and mingling with sweat.
The body. Was it breathing? No... no, not anymore. The man lay crumpled, head bleeding heavily. Why? How? He was in alley—Was he? the Alley too hot. He wasn't. No cobbled stone. Just the loud haunting creak. Creak of the factory floor. The blood pooling, spreading over the cold iron.
A sharp clang echoed somewhere far off. The factory? Smith & Lancaster Ironworks. The machines, running full tilt. Too loud, overwhelming. The pounding of metal, the relentless churn of steam. Drowning out any scream. But this wasn't the factory. No, this was an alley. It was the Factory!
Screaming? who was screaming?
Dark. Cold. The cobblestones slick with—
He wasn't there. he was drinking. Celebrating. But he came back.
Shouting. Or was it just the machines? Hard to tell. Was he shouting? Was there yelling? Faces blurring.
The relentless pounding, the clatter of metal, mixing with—
Breathing. His own, ragged and shallow. Each gasp felt jagged. His heart pounding, hands trembling. The factory was dark, filled with shadows and shifting lights from the machines. Cold iron and hot blood. The floor beneath him seemed to shift, warping with each disjointed step. The harsh light from the overhead lamps flickered.
The man on the ground. The drunk? Was he still a man? Had there been shouting? Confrontation? Or just the roar of the machines? Hard to tell. Everything was... fragmented, slipping through his grasp.
There had been a scuffle. Rough hands. A bottle smashing against the wall. Screams? No, the sound was jarring. An impact. Blood rushing, warm and spilling like oil from a burst pipe. The noise of the factory blending with the chaos, making everything—
How had it gone so wrong?
Why did this happen?
"I didn't mean to..."
"I didn't mean to..." the words left his lips, unknowingly worrying one of his few companions in the past weeks.
"-tious?"
The words trailed off, fading into the fractured haze of his memory. Mumbled voices—was someone calling him? He didn't reply. It couldn't be real. It was just part of the chaos, slipping through his grasp. The shadows danced around him, mocking and distant.
"Sir Pentious?"
A hand on his shoulder. A touch that felt strange, unsettling in its gentleness. Fear. Pain. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it right away.
"Sir Pentious!"
He snapped out of the swirling fog. The reality of the present started to seep in. He turned toward the voice, feeling the hand on his shoulder shaking him gently. It didn't hurt. It never did. He looked up at the man addressing him. Blonde hair, a warm smile, and blue eyes—blue, beautiful eyes. They were looking at him with concern. Concern for him?
The man had wings, clear and white, not like Husk's. Right. The hotel. The battle. He remembered now. He had died again, but this time—this time was different.
Oh, right. He was with Saint Peter.
He was here. In Heaven. Not in Hell.
He was a winner. A new experience, just shy of two weeks. He had made it. The thought felt comforting but strange.
It was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be here.
Sir Pentious tried to force his usual, slightly confident smile onto his face, trying to act natural. Just like Napoleon. "Ah, Saint Peter, my apologiiiesss," Sir Pentious said, his sibilant accent and quasi-received pronunciation that he had worked so hard to imitate in his living years heavy on his lips. "My mind... wandered. I ssseem to have drifted off a bit."
Saint Peter's expression softened, though concern still flickered in his eyes. "As long as you're with us now, that's what matters." He placed a reassuring hand on Sir Pentious's shoulder. "Son... it's okay to get lost in your mind, just... don't dwell on the unsavory recollections."
Sir Pentious gave a weak chuckle, trying to recover his composure. "Yesss, yesss. I'll... try not to. It'ssss just all a bit... overwhelming, if I'm being honest. But, you know, nothing I can't handle." He puffed out his chest slightly, attempting to display a bravado that didn't quite mask his unease. "Not like it's anything new, really. Just a little... distraction, is all."
Saint Peter's gaze remained gentle, his concern evident despite his calm demeanor. "It's natural to feel this way. You've been through a lot."
Sir Pentious waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes betrayed his nerves. "Oh, you know how it is. Justsss need to keep my head up, right? Can't let a little... mind wandering get in the way." He forced a grin, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I'm a tough cookie, after all. Just sssome... residual effects, I'm sure."
Saint Peter nodded, his smile reassuring. "Take all the time you need. You're safe here, and it's alright to feel unsettled."
The snake demon—no, Winner, he reminded himself—shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not pretending, I jusst... I mean, I'm grateful! Truly! It'sss jussst... ssstrange, that'sss all. Getting u-ussed to thisss... Heaven sstuff." His tail twitched, betraying his unease.
"Strange, sure," Saint Peter agreed with a nod. "But you don't have to carry that weight alone. You deserve to be here just as much as anyone else." He paused, waiting for Pentious to meet his gaze. "We're all rooting for you."
He very much doubted that.
The Saint—an actual Saint who definitely deserved Heaven and did good for the sake of good, not like... He cut that train of thought short before it dragged him somewhere unsavory—clapped his hands with a smile that lit up the living room. His living room.
Yes, they gave him a house. He didn't have to go out of his way to find shelter or steal Baxter's stuff to know how to build a lair.
Saint Peter sat down, placing the tray he had been balancing on one hand onto the table. "I took the liberty of preparing us some tea to help calm our nerves. Since I know you're from Great Britain—yes, I know, a bit presumptuous of me to assume that means you like tea. Guilty as charged!" He chuckled, his smile light and warm. "But this brew is to die for—just joking! If tea isn't your thing, I can definitely make you something else."
"Oh, no, no. I... uh... like tea," Sir Pentious quickly reassured, though inwardly, he grimaced. He didn't really like tea, but he wasn't about to be rude to one of the few people who seemed to care about him here. They might be mistaken about him deserving to be here, but... he was still grateful for Emily, Peter, and the rest of the Apostles checking in on him.
Even if it did make his imposter syndrome worse.
"You sure? Because it's literally no problem, just a snap of a finger and—bam!" Saint Peter added with another easy laugh, his fingers hovering playfully, ready to make good on his offer.
"No, it'sss okay," Sir Pentious replied with a nervous nod, feeling the forced smile tugging at his lips. He graciously accepted the steaming cup when Saint Peter poured the tea, the warmth of the porcelain oddly grounding, even though the taste was the last thing on his mind. He held the cup tightly, as if it was anchoring him in this strange place where everything seemed too good to be real.
"You don't have to pretend, you know," Saint Peter said gently, looking over his own cup. "If you're not comfortable... with anything here, it's okay to speak up."
Pentious froze for a second before forcing a shaky chuckle. "Oh no, not at all! Jussst... need to get usssed to all thiss. It'sss... well, you know how it is, being a Winner and all." He gulped, feeling that familiar panic bubbling beneath the surface.
Again. The same reassurance, the same deflection. The same dance he'd been having with everyone since he arrived here. Smile, nod, pretend like everything was fine. Act as though he belonged. Like he didn't feel every second of being here was some mistake, like he wouldn't be cast down the moment someone figured it out.
It was exhausting.
Before Peter could call him out, Pentious hastily shifted the conversation to something that was getting harder to ignore. The constant music and cheers that shook all of Heaven for the past day were overwhelming. "You...you don't actually have to be here, Sssir Peter. I don' mean you're not welcome," he added quickly, panicking over his words. "It's just... you should be out there, celebrating with... the other Winners."
Saint Peter gave him a sheepish smile. "Yeah, well... I've never really been one for big parties and such, you see. Bit of a shy type, ha ha." His smile softened, growing more genuine. "Besides, I'm already with a Winner—a Winner I believe should be more involved in that party than me."
"I...was never one for large partiess either," Pentious muttered. Not entirely a lie, but not the full truth. He was never one for them becasue he was never really invited. And crowds weren't the problem. The real issue was feeling exposed. Seen. Judged. Heaven was a place of perfection, and he... well, he was far from perfect.
Peter's eyes made it clear he wasn't buying any of Pentious' nonsense, but he was spared from further scrutiny when the door creaked open. For a split second, Pentious thought it might be John or Thomas, but the bad singing that was very off-key from the blaring music from outside squashed that idea.
"Hearts all bRight, love tAKes flight, paraDISE in sighT, under Heaven'z light! Na-Nanana NA!NA-This is a nice house! Much better than the one Sera gave me when I first got here. Damn Heaven and their favoritism." A man's voice said.
The two Winners exchanged a glance before standing up, just in time to see a woman barging into the room. She had short, stunningly white hair and was dressed in a long Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and a bikini. Sir Pentious felt his cheeks heat up, cursing his inability to stay unaffected by beautiful women—a thought that immediately soured his mood as his mind flitted to the most beautiful woman he knew.
But before his mood could spiral, the man following behind her grabbed all his attention. He resumed singing—terribly—but that wasn't what froze Pentious in place. Like the woman, he was dressed casually in a red and yellow Hawaiian shirt, dark shorts, flip-flops, and a ridiculous number of lei draped around his neck.
The attire wasn't impressive, but his presence—that was overwhelming. Absolute. There was no other way to describe it. If Emily's seraphic glow was soothing like moonlight, this man was like the blazing midday sun. Unyielding. Commanding, and breathing life to All. Pentious felt his knees joints wobble, some part of him instinctively wanting to kneel.
Then he saw the blue cross on the man's chest. It hit him, the realization. Oh no—
"Nope, nope, not really doing that, not again." The man interrupted Pentious' reverie, casually shoving a coconut drink into his hand. "Not God, not Jesus, not a lord, not a king, not anything like that." He flashed a disarming grin, raising his sunglasses off blue and golden eyes and winking. "Just a good ol' Winner like you. Clear?"
Pentious could only nod dumbly, completely lost in this whirlwind of confusion. The woman pushed him gently back into his seat, draping a lei around his neck as if he wasn't in the middle of some existential crisis.
He wanted to say it was ironic, but his secondary school teacher made it very clear to him that he didn't understand what irony was.
"Simon!" The man turned to Saint Peter with a wide grin, arms open, as Pentious watched, still reeling from the strangeness of it all.
Saint Peter, usually so composed, stood frozen for a moment, his mouth slightly open. Then, slowly, his expression softened into a smile. Pentious noticed his eyes shining with emotion.
With a chuckle, Saint Peter stepped forward and wrapped the man in a hug, the gesture warm but not over the top, just two friends reuniting after a long time apart.
Pentious blinked, still gripping the coconut drink. He didn't fully understand what was going on, but the scene in front of him felt oddly... normal. Like it was something that should happen here, in this place.
"What did I tell you? I told you I'd come back, ye of little faith," the man with the Cross said, a smug grin spreading across his face.
Saint Peter let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Yes, yes, you always do." There was a fondness in his voice, the kind of familiarity that spoke of countless moments like this.
Pentious shifted in his seat, still feeling like an outsider looking in. He looked at the woman. She sipped her drink with a neutral look. Imitating her, he sipped the coconut drink awkwardly, unsure of whether he should say something or just stay quiet.
"Exactly! I always return to the place where I'm needed. For example: this surprisingly nice house." The man with the Cross turned to Pentious, his grin widening. "I came for you! What the hell do you think you're doing here?"
Sir Pentious felt a jolt of panic, his insecurities flaring up. He stood there like a deer caught in headlights, his mind racing. "I uh... I don't know, S-Sir," he stammered. "I... really don't know."
The man with the Cross raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by Pentious's discomfort. "Well know this, there's a party outside for you, and it's missing the main event. So get your ass out there, and make a fool out of yourself!"
"E-excuse me?" Pentious sputtered, his confusion evident.
"Excuse you." The man nodded, his grin never fading.
"Oh! You're talking about th-the party," Pentious muttered, relief mingling with his embarrassment. "I thought—"
The man's expression shifted to one of curiosity. "What else did you think I was talking about?"
Pentious hesitated, his face flushing a deep red. "I... well, I thought you might've been referring to, um, sssomething elssse. I mean, this is Heaven, after all. I didn't really expect—" He glanced around nervously, fidgeting with his hands. "I'm... well, I didn't think I'd be, y'know, involved in anything... like this. I... I don't really... and here! If I'm honest. Just thought, you know, I might be..."
The man with the Cross clapped his hands together. "None of that mumble jumble. Say it with your chest, boy!"
Pentious, still flushed and stammering, tried to muster some confidence. He straightened up a little, though his voice wavered. "R-right. I'll... I'll try. J-just, um, I don't belong in Heaven." He glanced around nervously, fidgeting with his hands. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, but—well, you know—it feels a bit like I'm out of place. I don't think I deserve to be here," he finally admitted.
The man's grin vanished, replaced by a frown. "Why would you think that?" His voice was low, serious now. "Did someone tell you that?"
Pentious shook his head quickly, his eyes widening at the suggestion. "N-no, no one sssaid anything," he stammered. Not even... him.
The memory of the masked Archangel sent a shiver down his spine, but even he hadn't said a word about Sir Pentious not belonging.
"But... it'sss like... every day, I wake up and I just... feel it." His hands fidgeted even more as his gaze dropped to the floor. "Like... like I'm sssome kind of mistake, and they'll all figure it out. I'm not like the othersss, and I don't think I should be here in. Not really." His voice cracked at the end, barely above a whisper.
He risked a glance up at the man with the Cross, half-expecting to see disappointment or confirmation of his worst fears. Instead, the man was watching him closely, no trace of judgment in his expression.
"You keep saying that but you're not exactly giving me a reason?" The Man with Cross said, hands on his hips.
Pentious blinked, his hands still trembling slightly. "A... reason?" He repeated, as if the word itself confused him. "I j-just... I mean, look at me!" His arms flailed slightly, gesturing to himself. " I—I hurt people, manipulated them, all for— I wasss a villain! I am a ..."
He couldn't say it.
"A murderer and a sleazebag. I see..." The man with the Cross finished the sentence when Pentious couldn't, his tone matter-of-fact yet gentle. "Yet, this guilt, it remained with you, but it never burned so brightly before, did it? Not until very recently."
Sire Pentious nodded, eyes closed shut.
"This... this is Uriel's work." The Stranger leaned closer, his eyes searching Pentious's face. "He made you see."
"His Higness' work?" Saint Peter echoed, his confusion deepening. "What are you talking about? What did he make you see, Pentious?"
Pentious glanced at Saint Peter, his chest tightening at the genuine concern in the apostle's voice. Saint Peter, of all people, getting worried and even angry on his behalf... at an Archangel of all things. It made him feel worse somehow, like he didn't deserve this kind of care.
He knew he didn't.
Pentious looked down, fidgeting with his hands again. "He... he made me sssee what I did. Not jussst... the people I hurt, but the way I hurt them. The fear, the terror, the lives I ruined without even knowing. Every lie, every betrayal... it'sss all there, every day." His voice wavered, growing smaller with each word. "I thought... I thought I wasss jusssst being clever, getting ahead... but..."
"You saw it thorough their eyes, didn't you, Percival."
Pentious flinched at the sound of his old name—Percival. It wasn't a name he'd heard in... ages. Not since he had donned the persona of Sir Pentious.
"I didn't mean to..." he whimpered.
The man of the Cross settled in the chair facing him, his gaze locked onto Pentious, unflinching. His voice was steady, almost casual, but each word cut deep.
The Warmth he felt earlier turned into an icy tundra.
"Killing him? No, that was an accident," the man said, waving his hand dismissively. "A man, recently laid off, drunk out of his mind, his shoulders heavy with the weight of responsibility. A family waiting for him at home, and he's confronting an equally drunk mechanic—you. He thought you were to blame for his problems. A struggle breaks out. Voices rise, fists fly, and then..." The man paused for a moment, eyes narrowing. "A blow to the head with a wrench, and he's gone. Just like that. An unfortunate ending, but nothing you planned, nothing deliberate. You were defending yourself."
Pentious couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. His hands fidgeted in his lap, trembling slightly.
"But afterward... what did you do?" the man asked, leaning forward now, his voice low. "You were afraid. A poor little country boy, finally got a job, a small one, sure, but it opened doors, didn't it? Possibilities. And you couldn't let a dead body ruin that, could you?"
Pentious's breathing quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. He remembered it all too clearly—the panic, the fear, the cold sweat running down his back.
"So, you threw the body into the machines, didn't you?" the man continued, his voice unwavering. "Crushed him up like he was nothing. Because if the body disappeared, so did your problem. No one would ever know."
Saint Peter, standing nearby, looked visibly shaken. His voice was soft, pained. "Why didn't you go to the authorities, Pentious?"
Because I am a coward and a piece of shit.
Pentious clammed up, his throat tightening as his vision blurred with tears. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. The guilt he had buried for so long came rushing back with a vengeance.
The man of the Cross watched him closely but pressed on. "You convinced yourself you couldn't go to them, didn't you? You were a nobody. The Reaper was already making a fool out of the authorities—what chance did you have? You believed they'd arrest you on the spot. That's what you told yourself, isn't it?"
Pentious nodded weakly, his voice barely a whisper. "Y-yes..."
The man's eyes darkened as he continued, his tone sharp. "And what happened next? People thought that disgruntled man killed himself, didn't they? Thought he did it to screw over the factory. More workers were laid off because of it, more families left to struggle. His own family was saddled with debt, and they were scorned for what people believed he did. And with Daddy gone..." The man's voice grew colder. "Mommy had to whore herself out just to survive. But it wasn't enough. Never enough."
Pentious couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They streamed down his face, his whole body shaking. He had convinced himself that it was just an accident, that it wasn't his fault. It had to be done, he lied to himself back then.
"But suddenly, a ray of hope for that poor family!" The man of the Cross leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. "Enter Percival Addington! The eccentric inventor who had made a name for himself in Staffordshire. Not a big name, of course—barely known outside those parts—but for them, he was...uh"
The man of the Cross snapped his fingers, brow furrowed as he searched for the word. "He was... what's the word I'm looking for? Not a hero, no... something more fitting for our brilliant Sir Pentious..."
He turned to the woman still leisurely sipping her coconut, raising an eyebrow. Without missing a beat, she lowered her drink and said, "A philanthropic panacea."
The man nodded, snapping his fingers again. "Exactly! Philanthropic panacea! You were the cure-all, "the man with the Cross continued, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "You gave them money—enough to pay off the debt, enough to keep their heads above water, at least for a while. You provided a job for the two eldest sons, ensuring they could support their family. Hell, you even checked in on them once in a while, didn't you? Played the part of the concerned benefactor."
The man with the Cross shook his head, his tone hardening. "But it wasn't out of guilt, was it? No, you did it to ease your own conscience. You didn't want them to suffer, but you sure as hell didn't want them digging into the truth, either. You buried your crime with your charity, hoping they'd never find out what really happened to their father. And because you loved it—the feeling of being adored, thanked, looked at like you were some kind of saint. You could do no wrong. It's addictive, isn't it?"
As the words washed over him, Sir Pentious could barely focus, the memories flashing through his mind.
"Thank you, Mr. Addington. You saved us, you're a blessing!"
'We'll always remember the kindness you showed to my family. You've made a huge difference.'
"We'll never forget what you did for my family."
"Thank you, Mr. Addington! You're the best!
In each memory, he saw his own face, smiling with a self-satisfied grin. It made him sick. he wanted nothing but reach and choke the snake in front of him. The gratitude and joy they felt when they saw him...
It wasn't guilt that fueled his actions—it was the pride, the adoration, the way people looked at him like he was a savior. He had convinced himself that it was enough, that the good outweighed the bad, but deep down, he had always known the truth.
Sir Pentious, trembling and broken, barely registered the sigh from the man with the Cross. He didn't notice the glance exchanged with the woman.
"Yet, clinging to your pride and the facade you built for yourself, unwilling to repent... you condemned yourself to this form—a snake. And when you died, crushed by machinery... well, you found yourself right where you belonged: in Hell."
Sir Pentious collapsed from his chair and sank to the floor, his body trembling as his wails escaped him uncontrollably. Saint Peter gently placed a hand on Pentious's back. He patted him softly, trying to offer some solace as Pentious's cries filled the room.
"I— I should've told them!" he wailed, his voice quivering. "I thought I could fix it with money, but... but it wasn't enough!" He clutched at his head, tears streaming down his face. "I thought I could make it right, but... it was all a lie!"
His sobs came in broken, choked breaths. "I didn't know... I didn't know how to face it. I tried to hide, to... to fix things, but... but I just made it worse!" He looked up at Saint Peter with a pleading, tormented expression. "Why did I think I could just... just forget it?"
Calm.
His soul obeyed.
"Wha.." His sobs began to subside, his breathing evening out.
"You were in Hell, but now you're here. Why, you wonder?" The man's voice was calm, almost soothing. "Because, in the end, the impact matters just as much as the intent, if not far more. Your evil deeds had unseen repercussions, but so did your good deeds. Your charity, though driven by self-interest and vainglory, still made a difference. It created ripples, spreading outwards."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "So, you earned yourself some goodwill with the guy upstairs. It was always a coin toss with you. All you had to do was humble yourself, cast away your pride. And after over a hundred years of crawling and humiliation, you finally did it. You put someone else before you."
Sir Pentious stared dumbly at him.
The man with the Cross smiled gently. "You thought you didn't deserve to be here, and had I not seen you, I might have agreed. But now, I'm at ease. Congratulations! you are as worthy as anyone in Heaven."
The woman next to him clapped.
"What... what do you mean?" Pentious asked, his voice trembling and teary.
Saint Peter answered him, gently rubbing circles on his back. "The fact that, even after making it into Heaven, you still feel remorse for your past actions—that's what matters. You've seen the true pain your actions caused and are deeply affected by it. That kind of regret shows growth, understanding, and the capacity for genuine change—it shows you've truly faced your past. It means you've learned and grown. That's what matters here."
Pentious looked up, confusion and hope mingling in his eyes. "But... I've done so much wrong. How can this ever make up for that?"
The man with the Cross grinned. "Just because you're in Heaven doesn't mean you can slack off. Redemption is a journey, not a destination. You've got the chance to continue growing, to make amends in whatever way you can. Here, you'll have the opportunity to do just that. Take it from an expert in fucking up and realizing too late." He finished with a laugh, giving a self-deprecating thumb point at his chest.
"I... don't know what to say," he admitted, looking down at his hands.
"Then don't say anything—just do." the woman replied with a flat voice. "Take that self-pity cock out of your mouth. Let your actions speak for you."
She approached, carrying a bag that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. "Here you go," she said in her usual monotone, dropping it into Pentious's lap. The bag started shaking and shifting, and Pentious looked up at the man with a puzzled expression. The man only gestured for him to open it.
With trembling hands, Pentious untied the knot. As he pulled the bag open, his tears began to well up again. Inside were several dozen eggs, each dressed in white and blue suits, nestled together.
"Hey boss!" came a familiar voice from the jumble of eggs. "It's me, Frank!"
Another egg chimed in, "No, I'm Frank."
"I thought I was Frank?"
Pentious stared at the bag, his voice barely a whisper. "My Egg Boiz... They... they're all here? I thought I'd lost them forever."
The man with the Cross nodded, a touch of sympathy in his gaze. "Thought you might need some familiar faces to keep you company until you're ready. I created around fifty of them."
Pentious's eyes welled with tears again as he carefully picked up each egg. To everyone else, they might have seemed the same, but to him, each one was distinct and precious. "Thank you... my Lord."
"Not a Lord," the man corrected with a chuckle.
Saint Peter, still patting Pentious's back, looked up in surprise. "Wait, you created these little fellas? As in, breathed life into them?"
"Sure did," the man nodded with a grin.
Saint Peter and the woman exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. "Sir, are you sure you're not a god? Between this, the plants, the ascension, and the whole 'bow-down-to-me-you-shits' aura you give off..."
"Not to mention the Eyes!" Simon added.
The man with the Cross laughed heartily. "I'm sure! Just because I look like God, can do things only God can do, feel like a god and I'm kinda keeping the universe from falling apart doesn't mean I'm actually God. I'm just a human."
Pentious looked up, still in awe. "You're... human?"
The stranger's face was suddenly obscured by a dark mask with massive horns, his features shifting into a more intimidating guise.
Pentious's eyes widened in shock, and he instinctively slithered backward toward the wall. "Adam! I—I mean Sir Adam!"
Adam's grin widened, and he took a step closer. "That's the reaction I'm more used to. Yes, it's I, the Dickmaster. Thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing."
Pentious's face turned pale, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. "I—I'm sorry! I didn't realize it was you. I thought— Are ..Are you really okay with me being here?"
"A bit late to ask that question, don't you think? Didn't you hear me declare it to the world?" Adam shrugged casually. "Besides, you should never forget the name of the man who killed you. Walter Hargrove never forgot about you."
Pentious's heart sank as he remembered the man he had wronged.
Adam flicked his hand, sending a card sailing through the air. Pentious caught it hesitantly and turned it over, revealing... an address? It was written neatly on the front. He looked back at Adam, puzzled.
"Him and his family live there," Adam said, his voice steady. "If you're serious about the whole redemption thing, you might want to start there. Make amends where you can."
Pentious nodded, clutching the card tightly.
"Sssir Adam... I know it's very presumptuous of me, but..." He swallowed hard, gathering his courage.
"Charlotte Aisling is alive, kid. As are the rest of the hotel," Adam cut him off smoothly. Sir Pentious nodded, recognizing the name. He had never learned her real name, but it was definitely her. "Don't worry, they're not dying anytime soon either. The hotel is under my protection."
Pentious's eyes widened in relief. "Oh! That's... tremendous!
She was alive. Maybe one day, she too... "Thank you, Ssir Adam! I won't disssappoint you."
Adam's grin widened as he waved a dismissive hand. "Don't call me Sir, brat. Just call me Adam... or better yet, Father, or even Dad. Never 'Daddy,' though. No one above the age of eight is allowed to call me that. You fuckers ruined it for me."
Sir—no, that wasn't his name anymore.
"Then please, call me Percival."
Adam grinned. "A fine name."
Sir Pentious was dead.
And it was time for Percival Addington to face his past.
This was a chapter I had been dreading to write because I first had to give Ser Pentious a character and backstory that explained his appearance, his sins, and his redemption in a way that didn't feel hand-wavey. I also had to keep it at least semi-canon and justifiable within the story.
Hopefully, I've done a decent job conveying that. Let me know what you all think!