Sinful Obsession

22. 22 – Vienna

22 – Vienna

T he past few days I’ve done everything I can to just survive under the radar. I’ve learned to move through the motions, to adapt to the suffocating routine of Briarwood. But every moment feels like a battle, each interaction a test of my will to stay sane. The worst are the mornings—when the medication still lingers in my system, turning my body into a leaden weight.

Nevan has taken to sleeping by my side, and it’s the only reason I can pull myself out of the haze most mornings. His touch eases the remnants of the drugs, peeling back the veil just enough for me to function. It’s not comfort in the traditional sense; it’s survival. I’d never admit it, but I’ve come to depend on him.

I spend most of my time in their room when I’m not forced into the charade of group therapy. Their room has become my sanctuary. They’re steady, constant, and I’ve found myself leaning into that stability more than I ever thought I would. Even their sharp edges feel safer than the carefully crafted facades of the doctors and orderlies—the angels.

And then there’s Asmodeus—or rather, his absence. He hasn’t spoken to me or shown himself in days, but I can feel him, always there, a shadow lingering just out of reach. His presence is a hum beneath my skin, a reminder that I’m not alone even when I am.

It’s the others who unsettle me the most. The doctors. The orderlies. The way they move, their grace unnatural, almost inhuman. Their very existence feels off, their presence turning my stomach in ways I can’t explain. Michael and Raphael are the worst of them, their probing questions and too-perfect smiles setting my nerves on edge. Every meeting with them leaves me raw, trembling, my panic barely contained until Kaua pulls me back together.

This morning is no different. I barely manage to stomach the orange Nevan hands me at breakfast, my appetite strangled by the tension of the room. The group therapy looms ahead and I feel like I’m walking toward my execution as I shuffle into the circle.

The others are already seated, their eyes dull with a mix of resignation and exhaustion. I recognize some of them now, their stories swirling in my head. Demons. Chaos. The embodiment of sin. They don’t understand why they’re here, but I do. Or at least, I think I do.

This place isn’t just a mental hospital. It’s a cage. A holding pen for the parts of the apocalypse, gathered here like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be assembled. The portal, the door at the end of the hallway—it’s the lock. And for some reason, I’m the key.

“Vienna,” the orderly’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s looking at me expectantly, her sharp gaze pinning me in place. “It’s your turn.”

I’ve avoided speaking for two days now, dodging every attempt to draw me into the group. But today, there’s no escape. The circle of eyes is on me, waiting, judging.

I take a deep breath, my hands twisting in my lap. “I don’t see why I need to—”

“You can’t get better unless you talk about the truth,” the orderly interrupts.

The truth. The word feels like a mockery. I glance around the circle, my gaze catching on each of them in turn. We’re all gathered here, right next to the portal, under the watchful eyes of angels who seem determined to keep the apocalypse at bay.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I believe Satan’s son meets me in my dreams. And sometimes in my room.”

The words hang in the air, the silence that follows almost deafening. I don’t elaborate, skimming over the details of Asmodeus’ visits, leaving the others to fill in the blanks.

The orderly doesn’t look satisfied, but she lets it go. The session drags on, each story more absurd and horrifying than the last, until finally, the group is dismissed. I rise from my chair, relief flooding through me, but it’s short-lived.

“Vienna. A word.”

I freeze, turning slowly to face her. She gestures for me to come closer, her expression unreadable. “You’re going to have to start participating,” she says, her voice low but firm. “If these groups don’t help, we’ll have to move you to private sessions.”

My stomach drops. Private sessions. Isolation. The thought alone is enough to send a spike of fear through me. “I’ll participate,” I say quickly, my voice trembling. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

The orderly eyes me for a moment before nodding. “Good.”

As I turn to leave, I feel their eyes on me—Michael’s eyes, Raphael’s, all of them. Their presence presses against my back like a physical weight and I quicken my pace, nearly running into Kaua as he waits for me by the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just falls into step beside me as we head down the hallway. The weight of the orderlies’ gazes doesn’t lift until we’re halfway back to their room and by the time we reach it, I’m practically sprinting.

Inside, the others are waiting. Nevan sits perched on the arm of a chair, his gaze flicking to me as I burst through the door. “What happened?”

I pace the room, my breaths shallow and uneven. “They know something,” I say finally, the words tumbling out in a rush. “The angels. The doctors. They know about the portal, about Asmodeus. About me. I can feel it.”

The room goes quiet, their expressions darkening. I don’t stop moving, the panic bubbling up inside me until it feels like it might consume me.

“I need the night alone,” I say suddenly, my voice shaky. “I need to call him. I need to talk to Asmodeus.”

Kaua steps forward, his broad frame filling my vision. “We’ll let you call him,” he says, his voice low but steady. “But don’t think for a second that we won’t be watching.”

I don’t argue. I can’t. Their presence is the only thing keeping me tethered, the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing me whole.