A half-second too long, maybe.
The subtle movement of his mouth made Virelle laugh—a quiet, knowing laugh that deepened the blush already on her cheeks.
"And this," Lysandra said, gesturing to the third girl, "is Seraphine."
Leo turned. Seraphine had stayed quiet the entire time, unmoving, just watching him. Her silence wasn't awkward—it was deliberate. Heavy. Commanding.
She had a calm presence, but there was nothing plain about her. Her figure was striking, her curves unapologetically framed in her fitted dress. Her lips were full, poised. Leo's thoughts tangled.
'Wait—are they sisters? Friends? How do three women like this end up in the same place at the same time? That waist… those eyes… and—'
"Hello?" Seraphine interrupted, snapping her fingers softly. "Hey. Are you in there?"
Leo blinked, pulled back to reality.
He gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah—sorry. Just… wasn't expecting all this."
She raised an eyebrow. "All what exactly?"
He cleared his throat and chuckled nervously. "Everything."
"Where… where do I even start…?" Looking at how crowded it was from all angles, Oliver stood there with his hands on his waist, thinking of what to do, where to pass, and how to meet the lady once more.
While he stood there, a memorable fragrance passed by his nose. The air carrying the fragrance had a texture, one that resembles how she looked back at him. It was like the moon had listened to his prayers, his wishes. Then, without hesitation, he followed the path it was erupting from.
"Please! Give way…!" As he passed through the crowd, he whispered countless times, causing some to shift aside just enough for him to squeeze through. While some sincerely gave him some space to move through, others, the strong and more muscular men, didn't comply with him.
"Hey, man! Watch where you're going!" A loud, heavy voice slammed his ear like a hand as he mistakenly stepped on the foot of one of the strong-looking ones.
"Sorry! Make way!" At first Oliver thought his apologies were being accepted.
'Why do I feel like am being stalked…?' Then, as he moved further, he noticed a presence following his paces. Immediately he turned, and he saw someone coming in his direction in a rush. The speed of the person forced him to move, not facing forward but using his back to move in haste.
"Hey! Stop…" then the person shouted. The rate and manner of his voice surged tension around him, making the entire crowd turn towards him. How he moved made the crowd murmur to each other like they knew what would happen once he came face-to-face with Oliver. While some murmured and drew away from him, some also tried to calm him down by brushing his chest.
"Boy, you better kneel before he comes close to you." A voice broke through the wall of people behind him, blocking him from moving even further away from the fierce man. With nowhere to turn to and no one to turn to, Oliver became confused and frightened.
While he stood in front of the wall of people blocking him, his eyes began to give out as they slowly closed.
'Why!' Is he the only one I stepped on his toes? Is he after me or after someone else? Why did I hear a voice saying I should kneel before he gets close to me? WHY?' While his mind goes into countless loops, his body can't contain the tension surging in him.
Then, his legs began to shake profoundly, forcing a liquid to ooze out of his thighs. How they all looked at him with sharp eyes made Oliver feel like his world was at an end. He could feel the tension like a thick metallic tree, which can only be uprooted by a god or a celestial.
"Hey, boy. Don't you have any damn manners?"
The voice didn't just strike—it carved into him, slow and deliberate, like a rusted blade dragged across flesh. Every syllable shredded something inside. As the figure's shadow lengthened in his mind, the pressure built like a noose tightening with each heartbeat. His body betrayed him. Warm liquid spilled down his legs—shame, terror, and something far older than either.
"What the fuck…?"
The voice cracked, no longer just angry—uncertain now, disturbed. The laughter stopped. Eyes shifted downward. Then came the realization. Gasps. Silent horror. And then, as if some dam of cruelty broke wide open—howling laughter. Hideous. Inhuman.
He wished he could disappear. But there was no escape. His muscles froze, his skin prickled, and the warmth spread uncontrollably. Even before they smelled it, he knew—they knew.
"Oh God… Did he piss himself?"
The whispers were blades.
"Right in front of everyone…"
And then—
"HA! Look at him! The little coward!"
The crowd tore into him with joy.
"Pathetic!"
"If I were him, I'd slit my throat and vanish!"
"Look! He's trembling. Probably high out of his mind!"
The laughter grew monstrous—children pointing, women cackling, and grown men howling with delight. They weren't people anymore—they were animals in a pit, feasting on the scent of his humiliation. Their faces blurred, became grotesque. Demonic.
Worst of all—
They held their noses.
"Yama! Look what you've done!"
He heard the name echo like a curse.
"Yama didn't even touch him. And yet…"
The laughter became screams.
"…the boy pissed himself just from the presence of Yama!"
"He's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet…"
"How's he even going to show his face again…?"
Then a voice cut through the madness.
"Hey! What the fuck is wrong with all of you? He's a boy! You're laughing at a boy!"
It came sharp and clear, and for a moment—just a moment—he clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood. Someone saw him. Someone reached for him.
And then—
SPLASH.
Ice-cold liquid struck his skin. Not water. Something rank. Intentional.
The voice was gone.
And all that remained was him—soaked in piss and shame, drowning in a silence more brutal than the laughter.
"Hahaha… I hope this rebuilds your drained water… hahaha..."
Then, the first helping voice resounded again; this time, it rose immediately as the splashing water filled his entire body, sending chills all over his face and chest.