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Siegfried lay on his bed, his breath coming in ragged pauses, pungent with the smell of semen and cigarettes. His tailhole was stretched and filled with semen, a flared cock, remained on his back, ropes of semen sticking and trailing onto his tailhole. Dalton lay behind him, his arms, encircled around Siegfried's stomach. He felt the horse's steady air tickling his neck, a murr escaping the horse's chest as he slept, exhausted and content with their recent lovemaking.

The dragon rolled Dalton's arms off, and carefully slipped off the bed, heading towards the bathroom with unsteady steps, his tailring complaining as it tried to constrict itself from it's stretched state. His bare feet absorbed the chill of the tiles, and Siegfried pulled his bathrobe from a wall hanger, putting it on in an effort to make himself feel warm.

His paws turned the faucet and splashed his face with water, trying to clear his head of everything that has happened in the days that went. His silver eyes had lost their brilliance and what stared back at him on the mirror were white holes that felt darker than tar pits. He felt dead and vile. He thought drenching himself in sex with Dalton would make himself feel better; that every thrust of Dalton inside him would tear his inner turmoil apart or his every scream of pleasure and pain would be loud enough to make him deaf to the voices that constantly reminded of his wicked actions. It didn't. It only made him feel worse, sinking harder and deeper into his self-hatred. For once, he felt like a real politician, manipulating his believers and supporters into doing his bidding for his own selfish gains. Dalton was his victim.

A quick gurgle and splash of water and he was done. He went out of his bathroom and out of his room, unable to stop by and stare at the slumbering figure of Dalton. His mansion's halls were long, with hundreds of doors to pass through. It takes him a while to go from one place to the next, feeling like it's a pilgrimage each time he moves around. But it is not for no reason, he reminded himself. Most of these were room with hundreds of weary souls asleep in them, living under the safety of his roof.

He was a blessing to them, as they were to him. He gave them a chance; he was a person who accepted their mudded faces with open arms. He took them in, gave them a house for their families to sleep and eat, live. Yet again, his doubts against himself intensified. They might have been just like Dalton, living souls that are used as desperate arguments against his deteriorating confidence. They no longer looked like living breathing humans to him, only something lesser--whores bribed to make himself feel better.

He wandered the halls up until he reached his office by the top of the grandstairs. He entered and instantly turned livid, finding the place unvacated. The fireplace beside his desk was lit, embers snapping like sticks as someone thrust a poker through it.

"Cynthia, it's already past twelve, what are you doing here?" He said, passing by her and settling himself on his chair behind his desk. There were stacks of paper laid out on it, much work to be done.

Seated on a recliner, she dropped the poker on it's holder before turning to him. The flames danced on her brown eyes like wilted grass, burning towards Siegfried's direction, "We have to talk."

The dragon took some of the papers onto his hand, the dim moonlight from his window bouncing off of them but wasn't enough for the letters to be readable. Still, he laid his eyes upon them and not at Cynthia.

"Take that down, we know very well that you can't read in this ghastly lighting."

And Siegfried did take them off of his hands. It was a poor attempt to divert his eyes from Cynthia, a hint to tell her he wished she'll leave him alone, but she was forceful as always, intent in pushing him.

"What is it Cynthia?" he asked her. His tone was flat, formal, as if Cynthia was a stranger.

She crossed her thin arms under her bosom, "You're hurting Siegfried. Not only yourself, but Dalton as well."

"There is nothing wrong with what we're doing. I'm giving him what he wants, and he's giving me what I need."

"Giving you what you need? You're treating him as a rebound man Siegfried, he deserves better than that," She said, "These aren't acts done by a respectable human being, not done by the Siegfried I know. What's gotten into you? You're a different person."

Godric fucking Ryleigh happened, it occurred to him, "I'm in a great deal amount of stress Cynthia. He's merely helping me forget about them."

"So you use him like an object? A painkiller, Siegfried? Is that what he is to you? A thing?" She said, her voice starting to rise in volume. There was spite in her words and Siegfried felt his heart sink. She had never been this mad at him.

"It's that dog, isn't it? Dalton told me you found him in that horrid place lying with another cat." She was yelling now, and Siegfried felt his nerves start to wreck at her words. Dog, she called Godric a Dog! The word flowed down and constricted around his neck, a tightening in his throat, the urge to scream at Cynthia. He bit on his lip and crumpled the papers on his clawed hands, fighting the raging urge to silence her with his own words.

"When will you ever learn Siegfried? Godric is sick!" Sick.

"Obsessed with that cat, Ryleigh!" Obsessed.

"HE WILL NEVER RETURN YOUR FEELINGS!"

THAT'S IT!

"He will Cynthia! He will!" He yelled, and papers were flying, waving over to the fireplace and adding fire to the inferno. Cynthia stood, on the recliner, obviously shaken. She had not expected Siegfried to yell at her.

"You have no idea have much he SACRIFICED! For me, for us, for the WHOLE CITY. You have NO RIGHT to speak his name like he's a pig, because HE'S NOT! He's an angel Cynthia! An ANGEL! But you keep looking at him like he's a DEVIL! You don't understand him, NOBODY DOES but ME, and if I leave him then he'll be ALL ALONE!"

I'll be all alone. He meant to say, but he couldn't bring the words out. He was left breathless and sobbing, tears swelling from his eyes, shimmering like broken crystals against the moonlight before they dropped down on his desk. The red haze that raced through his eyes was slowly crawling out like a leech from its host, left bleeding and sapped of strength. The transition from angry to comprehension was excruciating--the realization that he had screamed at Cynthia, a blend of pain and remorse on his chest like plaque clogging his heart.

His own voice echoed at him, taunting him and making him more conscious that he screamed at Cynthia. All she ever desired was to put some sense in him, and the gratitude that he gave her were a many hurtful words. He knew she was losing sleep all for her concern for him, it was obvious that her eyes grew redder as the days passed.

Now they were filled with tears.

Siegfried stared at her. She was only a foot taller than Timmy, yet, now, she looked so much smaller, so shrunken. Her muzzle quivered, her body trembled. She looked as if she wanted to retreat. To take back everything she said. Her legs were giving too much force and pushed her away from him, unconsciously moving back towards the fireplace. She was scared and terrified of the monster before him. Siegfried feared for her life, thinking she might be swallowed whole by the flames behind her. It was irrational, but still, he scrambled desperately while sobbing and collapsed at her lap, drenching her skirt with his tears. For a moment, the mouse hesitated to touch and comfort Siegfried and the latter felt dispirited for it. But soon, the mouse rested her face against the back of Siegfried's head and wept. They loved each other too much. Like mother and son, yet they became total strangers and hurt each other so carelessly.

"I'm sorry." Both of them muttered under they're cries, both becoming deaf under the intensity of their emotions. They muttered their apologies again and again, louder each time while their cries lessened until there was only the mute silence and the crackling of fire.

Siegfried felt tired, and he sensed that Cynthia was as well. Her hands lay draped over his neck, and the dragon's around her waist. If there was anyone that heard their altercation then they didn't dare disturb them. Nobody came, and Siegfried was thankful for that. It was about time that he fully became honest with Cynthia, she deserved it.

"Cynthia." he spoke, moving away from her.

The mouse let him go and faced him, both of them, with teary eyes, "I'm sorry Sieg." she said, "I know you love him, and I shouldn't have said those things."

"No," he said, kneeling down and crossing his legs under him so Cynthia was higher than him, "It's all true. I'm just too stubborn to believe it."

Her eyes lit up, "So does that mean you...?"

"I won't give up on him," he said, "But I won't chase him anymore, or at least I'll try."

"You don't have to do this."

"I do," he said, "I've been living in guilt. Not because of what I did, but because of what I made him do. It's my fault that he is what he is now...a monster. I'm a coward Cynthia, he wasn't. He just did what I couldn't do. But I don't want to punish myself anymore. He needs help, and I have to be there for him. I just wished that you could be there for him too."

"I-I-...Siegfried," She said, her voice wavering, unsure of what to say, "I don't know if I can..."

Siegfried sighed as he squeezed the area in between his eyes, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I have to," he paused, looking more serious, "Christian didn't pay for your freedom. Godric did."

Cynthia gasped.

"I-I can't believe--"

"It's the truth. Godric got mad when he heard news of what he was doing to you. He threatened Christian. That's why he ran away." Siegfried said, a note of finality to his voice. He stared at Cynthia, who stood silently on his news, but her face was not without shock. She opened her muzzle, as if wanting to speak, but there were only the pausing cackling sounds that came out. Her eyes waved left and right, as if she was skeptical of Siegfried's claims, and trying to find a loophole or a rebuttal.

Soon, she spoke, "I guess that would make sense. It's unbelievable Sieg...but I trust you."

"Thank you." He said.

Cynthia rubbed her hands together, and looked sideways towards the ground. She looked reluctant, "Do you want to ask something about Godric?" he asked her.

Still, Cynthia looked reluctant, but she nodded her head, "Yes," she muttered, sounding abashed, then her next words came in rapid succession, "Tell me why Godric does the things he do. I've judged him for so long Sieg, and you made me realize that it was unjustified. I want to know how he became the way he is...Why you love him so much."

Siegfried nodded, silently noting how exasperated Cynthia seemed, her glassy reddened eyes were pleading, genuinely sorry for her words. She really wanted to know about Godric. Siegfried took this as a chance to win her over for Godric, to make her see what he saw.

The dragon readied and calmed himself before he spoke. He relayed everything to her, from Godric taking over the dirty work due to Siegfried's apprehensiveness to the job's nature up to their latest progress: Cedric, though he could not tell the last part in detail, he couldn't take the image of burning someone alive so he left before Godric started his 'work'. By the end of it, Cynthia was still skeptical.

"I'm sorry Sieg, but I still don't get why he's so intent in saving the city. If that's even possible."

"It's hard to say Cynthia," Siegfried said, "Like I said before, Godric trusts me to keep silent about his past."

"But then it wouldn't make sense at all!"

Siegfried nudged in between his eyes again. This was starting to get difficult. "I guess I could tell...a part of it."

Cynthia nodded.

Siegfried started speaking reluctantly, trying hard to filter his words, "He's sick with albinism," He said, "His eyes are real, but his fur color isn't, it's dyed. He used to be white like snow. Other children were always mean to him, calling him names and bullying him. I always had to be there to defend him."

Cynthia's eyes narrowed, and snorted in disgust. Siegfried imagined her to be thinking of Timmy, going through all of that. She looked like she was growing mad.

"Where were his parents?" She said, her tone aggressive, "What did they do about it?!"

"You see, that's the problem. He didn't have the best parents. They barely cared about Godric. I was there Cynthia, they treated him like he was a burden. He wasn't even allowed to cry! But her grandmother was different. She was always there at her house waiting for us on her rocking chair after the other kids leave us. She was always ready to comfort me and Godric. She was the nicest person in the world...I guess, to Godric, she was the only other person that he really trusted and loved more than me."

"Then what happened to her?" Cynthia was leaning towards him now, having propped herself down on the carpeted floor with the dragon.

Siegfried hesitated and swallowed the lump on his throat, "She died."

"Can I ask how?" Cynthia said, and Siegfried was thankful that he had a choice in refusing. He had already crossed his boundaries in talking about Godric's past.

"No," he said, "I'm sorry."

Cynthia sighed and dusted her skirts off, pushing herself up and collapsing on the recliner, "That was a lot to take in...but I think I could understand him a little better now, or at least for the most part."

Siegfried pushed himself up as well and noted the scattered papers on the floor. Cynthia saw this and apologized for her carelessness. They started picking the papers up and placed them on Siegfried's desk. Unfortunately, some got burnt but Siegfried reassured Cynthia that it was fine. He read them already, and all was in his head. Information, that was both horrifying and surprising. Siegfried sat behind his desk and Cynthia on the other side, the mouse reading some of the reports from the Playground. He didn't mind her reading them even though they were highly confidential. She was a great advisor, and she knew how to keep her mouth shut.

"These...these are--"

"Reports. From Dalton. Very accurate." Siegfried said.

"Yes, I know, but these are unexpected," She said, "And speaking of Dalton. What would you do with him?"

His muzzle curved at the sides to show his white teeth, a genuine smile, "I'd give him a chance. I just hope that he'd forgive me and give me another chance."

"I'm sure he will," Cynthia said, returning the smile, "He likes you a lot Sieg. And he's a fine enough man."

"He is. I've seen it in action." Siegfried grinned and Cynthia chortled. He felt the night grow warmer but he was sure that it wasn't a change in the temperature but rather a loosening of both of their tension and emotions. He chuckled and Cynthia did as well, but thinking back on the reports, his mirth dissipated and his face turned grim, "Would you mind if we discuss the events at the club?"

Cynthia shook his head

There was a rustle of papers as Siegfried rearranged the stack and hand it for Cynthia to read, "That rhino. He's a sly one," He said, "Godric's usually cautious, but that rhino made his move so slowly that it was hard to notice if you're always at the club, like Godric. It seems he had his own men, stationed at the club as bouncers before he himself entered. If you look here..." Siegfried pointed at some part of the paper, "The number of hired muscle grew. Normally, Godric would find that unnecessary. But if you look here again...this. The number of fights in the Playground increased. Presumably staged by the rhino so Godric would hire more men--him, ultimately. Furthermore, there were more fights, not all were staged I think, but still, that rhino always managed to stop fights, and soon, he got Godric's attention."

"And that's how he was put in the Dungeon." Cynthia said, and looked up from the paper, "What's his name?"

"Alexander Lacroix," he said, it felt like dry ice in his tongue, "It's presumably an alias, or at least his last name. His affiliations, however, are shocking, and I fear that Godric had found himself quite a formidable enemy."

"I'm more scared for the cat," Cynthia said, "What did he want from him?"

"I don't know," Siegfried admitted, "But it couldn't be good. I fear he works for a dangerous man...Probably the most dangerous here in the city."

"...Wellings?" Cynthia said, there was dread in her voice and her face.

"Possibly," Siegfried said, "But I don't see what he could gain from the cat. I know the man well enough that he sees everything either as treasure or garbage...I don't see how the cat is of any value to him."

He looked over the papers again and Cynthia did as well, her eyes gazed upon him from time to time, as if she wanted to say something. He concentrated, but find it hard to do. He knew that when Cynthia hesitates speaking, it's usually a depressing topic. When Siegfried was about to speak, Cynthia did before him.

"Sieg. Why didn't we take that cat when we had the chance?" She asked him, guilty, "He could be living a much worse life."

Siegfried dropped his eyes on his desk. It was true. But there was nothing that they could do about it now. The opportunity had passed. "I don't know Cynthia. I was shocked when I recognized him, but I didn't show it or he might've run away too quickly. You know what I did--I followed him to the washroom, but when I saw him kissing the rhino, all I could think about was--"

"You did the right thing Sieg," Cynthia interrupted, "I understand what he went through, but I know he had it worse. He'd been locked for Five years Sieg, five years, I would've gone mad if I had to go through that. For all we know, getting out was probably the best thing that happened to him."

"But he might--"

"We aren't even sure what that rhino would do to him."

"So...What are we going to do?"

Cynthia's face turned sour, "Hope for the best."

Siegfried folded the papers and decided that it was best for both of them to retire for the night. Cynthia graciously agreed and gave a light smooch on his cheek before stepping out of his office. Siegfried remained and arranged everything on his drawers, his hand tapping something solid and smooth inside. He pulled it out and was met with the sober eyes of a younger Godric, white, youthful, and smiling. His little white ears were curled forward; his legs widely spaced and he was holding out the peace sign with one of his hands. Behind him was the river that they so frequented, playing in the water and picking up different rocks to see who could get the biggest or the smoothest. Those were the times.

A remaining tear rolled from Siegfried's face and washed down his cheeks then down towards the glass of the picture frame. He dried it off with his thumb and gave a sad smile on the image, his muzzle quivering, "I can't chase you anymore. But I'll still be here for you. Goodbye and hello my friend."

With that, he put it back on the drawer and went out of his office, his face slamming on someone's broad and brown chest.

"Why hello there pretty little thing." The fur said and he encircled his arms around Siegfried's waist.

"Dalton," Siegfried murred, "How long have you been awake?"

"Enough to hear you and Cynthia talking." He said, his words making Siegfried want to push himself off of the horse's chest. He did, and nervously met with Dalton's eyes.

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough. Your fight with Cynthia, Godric's story, and..." he paused, "About us."

"I-I'm sorry Dalton. I used you."

"I don't mind Sieg," Dalton said, "I'd do anything for you...even if it's only just to make you feel good."

Siegfried shuddered and averted his gaze somewhere else. Dalton saw this and cupped the end of the dragon's muzzle to face him. Siegfried was still hesitant, unable to dismiss his guilt. But in the next second, his mind emptied. Dalton's muzzle connected with his own and his tongue licked on his insides. In an instant, Siegfried's defenses gave off and he buried himself on their deep and passionate kiss. They held each other for minutes, fully examining each other's maws while they tasted both of their semen's taste that still lingered on their mouths. After what felt like an eternity, they pulled away from each other's muzzles. Siegfried's eyes lingered on Dalton's, meaningful and needy.

"Dalton. Please forgive me. I'm sorry if I used you. But please, this time, I'll make sure to do it right! So please...Will you give me another chance?"

Dalton grinned, "Why don't you tell that to little Dalton down here?"

Siegfried looked down and had only comprehended that Dalton was naked. He blushed at the sight of Dalton's cock starting to harden but managed to speak, "W-why are you naked? People could see you!"

Dalton groaned in mock distress, "Don't tell me that you don't like what you see?"

"I-I do but--"

"Whoops, little Dalton's growing up quite fast! I think he's misbehaving. His daddy's not giving him enough attention, don't you think?"

Siegfried grew more flustered, and groaned, but soon gave a lecherous lick on his lips, "Dear God Dalton. We have to take care of that. Now!"

---

Godric staggered on his feet, tripping by the stairs that he walked through. His heavy weight made the wood below cry in protest but he paid it no heed and proceeded. He had walked these three-step stairs too many times that the hardwood had become too much acquainted with Godric, the sound of it reminding him of both pleasant and unpleasant memories of rocking chairs.

Slipping his, hands on his pocket, he drew out a key and turned it on the knob. It turned without a snap and he cursed himself for his stupidity and carelessness, he must have forgotten to close it the last time he was there. He cursed and entered the house and was vividly hit by the feeling of nostalgia.

It was not the grandest of places to be in for a person of his standing: Just a wide-open house without any walls to part the kitchen from the bedroom. It consisted of a bed with clean sheets in a corner, a stove here, a refrigerator there, potted and green plants by the window. A rocking chair stood beside the window. Approaching it, he rubbed a finger along the wooden seat and snarled, finding it dirtied. Light flowed from outside, dust motes pranced in his sight, they touched and tickled his nostrils, making him sneeze. There was cleaning to do.

He fished for a basin on the cabinet just under the sink and wet it. Moving around, he rubbed every surface that was reachable, paying special attention towards the rocking chair by the window. He focused all of his energies on the job at hand, his mind empty and the only conscious thought ever-present was his breathing and the repetitive movement of scrubbing rag against wood. Soon, he found himself breathless, body full with burning heat and sweating. He took his shirt off and let it drop on the floor, revealing his bare chest and abdomen. Taking a towel from the cabinet, he dried himself off, patting his shoulders, pectorals and...A white spot? The towel ripped from his clawed hands, a growl rumbling from his chest. There was a sudden haze of red as his blood-filled eyes raged with anger and he had the urge to shout and ran amok. A train of images filled his head: Of him breaking the tables, smashing the plates, clawing the bed, burning the house down, his grandmother's heavy-lidded eyes crying at the sight of him.

No!

He clamped on his muzzle before his scream erupted from his throat, and all his muscles flexed with tension. He trembled, the sound that should've come out from his muzzle, instead reverberated and crawled across his body. He tripped on his feet and was sent sprawled on the bed. His chest and face slammed against the bed, his giant weight making the impact more painful than it should have been. His blood rushed towards his head and soon, he found himself drenched in a cloud of darkness.

He blinked and a glimmer of clarity passed by his mind. Pushing himself off, a line of saliva connected him with the sheets. When he looked down, drool was pooling from where he had laid his head. He blinked again and realized that it was dark. Outside, coming from the windows were light from the streetlights. His eyes readjusted to the darkness, and stared at the rocking chair which had the full illumination from the light outside. He sighed, glad that he hadn't broken the hefty piece of wood. He must have passed out when he fell; he hadn't realized how tired he was in the midst of his rage. But he was glad he hadn't run amok, else he would've broken the only place that held his pleasant memories.

His body felt wet and sticky with dried sweat, his face, also matted, though not by drool. Tears perhaps, maybe he cried through his sleep; It was fast, like closing your eyes and opening them a second later. Or maybe it just felt that way, for the only way to know that you've slept for long was to have dreams. He didn't. He's been sleeping for more than eight or nine hours with nothing but an endless pit of nothing for dreams, this time was no different.

But still, he thought again, Its better than tearing this place down. If he had come here only to wreck the place down then he would never forgive himself, even if it were for his emotions that were barely in his control. He was clueless as to why he was here. He should've gone straight to Siegfried, but the memory of Siegfried's face when the dragon took the faux Ryleigh from him made him retreat. The dragon never looked so saddened in him. Siegfried couldn't even look him straight in the eye, as if he was embarrassed that he was his best friend, and he caught him in his fantasy sex act with the cat. He remembered the dragon smelling strong of musk, sweat and cum, intensifying when the horse, Dalton appeared from behind him. Siegfried was not a man of one-night stands, and Godric knew that the dragon invests all of his emotions when he goes on a relationship. That night, the dragon was so out of character. Not laughing nor even smiling, his witty humor that he so loved was not there. It was his fault. He blamed himself that Siegfried did something so rash, sleeping with Dalton. For revenge and hatred, at him.

He remembered hastily putting his clothes back on and running out of the Dungeon then the Playground, and now, he found himself here in his childhood home. He did everything to try to forget everything what happened but a single sight of a minor flaw made him lose it. He couldn't even control himself anymore. One second, his mind was empty, the next, it was full of memories. It felt like he was forced to carry a metaphorical boulder that he was too emotionally weak to carry.

The speck of white in his fur was enough to trigger his repressed memories, and the emotions that came with them. Children, young and stupid, calling him Freak, Snowy, and the one that he hated most. Powder. He had been so weak back then but Siegfried was always there, defending him. He always hugged him, while his leathery wings covered both of them. The kids would throw rocks at them and all Godric could do was stare at Siegfried's face, an inch away from his while his silvery eyes were closed, writhing in pain, crying.

When the children got tired of them, they would walk away and there would be bruises on Siegfried's wings. Then it was their turn to walk away, albeit Godric fairly unscathed while Siegfried bore most or all of the blows. They would come here while Godric's grandmother waited for them on her rocking chair on the porch. A kiss on both of their cheeks and everything would be better. She was a very fair and nice lady, probably the most beautiful woman in the world, or perhaps she was in Godric's eyes. She was a hunchback, from her severe osteoporosis, and lived most of her elder life alone in this house. She'd sit comfortably with all smiles when they come running to her with their snot-nosed faces and had strawberry pancakes ready in a few minutes.

But she was dead.

Godric scratched the sheets of the bed and ripped a large portion of it off, not by anger but by necessity. His shirt was too much drenched with sweat to wear, and the night was cold. He'd die of hypothermia before reaching his other destination naked. He covered his body with the cloth, layering it twice around his body and tying it by his waist and by the end of it, he looked like a shadowy Greek god, muscled, furry and handsome like a devil. Finally, he gave a longing look back at the rocking chair. A figure materialized from thin air, her glassy eyes and smile was warm. She beckoned him towards her, and Godric whimpered, reaching out. And just like that, she was gone.

He wished that his grandmother was still there, guiding him, protecting him from the outer elements. That she'd cook her warm asparagus porridge while he stared out of the window on her rocking chair on the rainy days. He'd sip at the porridge carefully and when he finished, he'd show the clean bowl to her and be rewarded by a new knitted sweater that he could wear by the afternoon. _ _But she was gone, and so was Ryleigh.

He didn't know what to do. Ryleigh, the only other being that he could fully relate with! He remembered the first time he saw him, defiant and distrustful, the result of being thrown away. He was just like him! But it was too late when he noticed. He had already raped him on his car out of anger and turned him into a sex slave. Ryleigh's hatred and defiance turned and focused on him like sunlight on a magnifying glass. He didn't even know it but he was falling in love, and when he did know, he tried desperately telling the cat I love you but all the cat could hear was I love to fuck you. He tried to express it in subtle ways, giving him luxury while the other slaves did not. He hadn't even lain in bed with anyone else but Ryleigh! But it was lost. He knew the damage he dealt to the cat was permanent, and Godric's own name would forever be a scar to Ryleigh. He himself was scarred by Ryleigh's name. By the things he's done and said. He tried dressing himself formally and acting composed around the cat, but the sight of Ryleigh's innocent face was enough to set him off and lose himself in the throes of passion inside Ryleigh's body, only to realize that he overdid it and damaged Ryleigh even more. There was no person who he had damaged more than his love, Ryleigh. He wasn't just damaged merchandise_._

He was broken.

Now he ached for his touch more than ever.

He moved out of the house, making certain that he locked it this time and trudged down the stairs and went along the tall grasses and rocks. A river ran a few feet from the side of his childhood home, reflecting the night sky's color. A few heaps of plastic and trash flowed, and some stuck towards the river's edge on a few jutting rocks. He winced. The river was now deemed biologically dead, drenched with chemicals and trash with no hope of revival. Such a waste.

There was a slight shiver on his body, and he hugged on his makeshift clothing to warm himself as he started by the side of the river. His body was automatic and somewhat robotic, having memorized the path hundreds of times. The dead river ran silently, almost invisible in the night. The only indication that it was there was the foul stench on the cold night air. It was damp, and the smell of chemicals and waste threatened to stick to his nose, so he ripped a smaller portion of the cloth and used it as a handkerchief. Soon, the buildings of the city rose higher, the meager trees that used to cover the city's industrial scenery no longer existing, now only living as flat stumps on the ground.

The city seemed as large as always, like they were moving along with him, refusing to leave his side. White lights came from their narrowed windows like eyes staring at him, always watching him, beckoning him. It was just imagination, he knew, but it was true that the city had pulled the clueless in, never coming back out again. They were promised hope. They were given ruin.

He wished that he and Siegfried and him were never born here, and presently, sometimes, Godric himself wished that he was never born at all. The one person he treasured more than Siegfried, gone, vanished. Ryleigh.

He had been careless. The events were unsettling, and he, the receiver of most of its repercussions was still unsure as to what exactly happened. He had no written data, only observations of the aftermath. Half his work force, gone, his slaves, missing, the Playground, shut down. He knew that it was his own decision to shut the club down, and Siegfried would be responsible to take his slaves when such events like this occur. The first of said problem though, he did not know. Perhaps Siegfried knew of something, he always did, but Godric could not approach him now. Maybe not ever again.

He had arrived by the edge of the city, sirens blaring like a whimper on the distance. His childhood home was now far out from him, far out from the city, on the outskirts, always at peace. Checking his watch, it showed that it was past midnight and almost morning already. The Devil's hour, he thought, but it was a stupid one. Crime happens in the city more than once or a dozen times an hour. There was no such thing as a Devil's hour, only devils.

There was no one in sight, and if there are, they were hiding on the darkness of the alleys, on the manholes, on the blinded windows, maybe already pointing a gun at him. He shrugged the bothering thought off and went towards an intersection, and when he did, his canine nose instantly took the scent of damp earth and urine.

There were black, three-pointed fences on the corner, about half his height. Behind them stood slabs of rocks on dark grassy land, with another slab of rock laid vertically over the other with epitaph on them. A patch of dead trees were rooted beside a narrow watch house. Looking around, the caregiver was absent, as always. He passed through the cobblestoned path in between the fences and through the thousands of gravestones that lay about, muddied and chipped. It wasn't taken care of obviously, but he didn't care. He was glad that it wasn't. Most of the dead buried here were criminals, and they deserved the meager treatment. He believed in heaven and hell, and hell, they will face eternal damnation.

He had arrived at an empty part of the graveyard, unpopulated by the dead and their gravestones. The place was barely illuminated, and Godric had to walk by memory else he'd never get to his destination. His shoed feet tramped on muddy ground, and he had to hasten his pace else he'd get buried along with the dead. He wouldn't want that. Soon, his eyes found two gravestones lain beside each other, remote from the others in this dank graveyard. His giant figure cast a shadow over the small stones. His body was suddenly fueled by malevolent power rushing over his veins while his darkened red eyes glared at the names on the stones.

Here lies Godric Lucier Sr. and Amelia Lucier.

"May their souls ever rot in hell"

He opened his mouth, seeming to look like he was about to speak, but instead.

He spat on their gravestones.