Even now, sitting perfectly still, Simon should've been in blinding pain. But all he felt was... nothing.
Jeanette wasn't calm. Not even close.
She stood behind Simon, eyes wide and wild, arms wrapped around herself like she was physically holding her soul together. Her hands trembled, not with cold, but fury and fear and something rawer than either. Every few seconds, her lips parted like she wanted to say something, scream something, but all that came out were short, shallow breaths.
Her gaze was glued to her son's back. That wound. That thing. It looked like flesh had been peeled off with a cheese grater. And he didn't even flinch. Not once.
He sat there like it was nothing. Nothing?! Jeanette felt sick.
A thousand thoughts chased themselves through her head. What if it gets infected? What if there's internal damage? What if he's already dying and doesn't even know it? What if this is something unnatural?
The church air felt too thin. She pressed a hand to her chest.
She wanted answers. She wanted a doctor. She wanted to scream at the people gawking like this was a reality show. She wanted to shake her son until he cried or screamed or felt something, anything. Even if that doesn't make her feel good, she'd appreciate that.
And in a quiet corner of her breaking heart, a darker thought whispered:
If something happens to him... I'll never recover. I'll never survive this.
Jessica sat quietly beside him, wringing her hands. No visible bruise, not a scratch — not even dust on her clothes. People kept saying she was "lucky," but Simon noticed the way she flinched when anyone touched her. Her shock clung to her like perfume.
"They're safe," someone whispered behind them.
"Yes, thank God," another replied.
"But that wound... have you seen it?"
Simon sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't need a mirror to know what they were talking about. He could feel it.
And yet, still no pain.
Steve, Simon's father, was a man in his early forties, tall and undeniably hunky. The resemblance between them was uncanny. Simon clearly got his height and frame from him. He had sandy blond hair, combed back with practiced ease, and eyes the color of morning sky. Pale blue and just as unreadable.
He looked sharp, even in the chaos. His plain white T-shirt hugged his arms snugly, the sleeves slightly rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Over it, he wore a brown monkey jacket and a brown-striped tie. His black trousers were crisp, paired with a polished set of Grensons that clicked sharply with every step he took.
Now, he stood behind a wooden bench in the church's cellar, the makeshift silence a welcome escape from the whirlwind upstairs. Simon sat in front of him, shirtless, facing the door while Steve knelt slightly behind, tending to the wound with the church's first aid kit.
The blue shirt Simon had been wearing that was soaked through with blood lay crumpled beside them. Steve had already cleaned the area, dabbing around the torn flesh with cotton soaked in antiseptic. The wound looked brutal, layers of skin peeled away, angry red and raw.
But Simon didn't even flinch.
Not a hiss. Not a wince. Just… nothing.
Steve paused, the bloodied gauze still in his hand. He stared at Simon's back, puzzled. Not horrified. Not surprised. Just deeply, inwardly puzzled like his mind was running through a list of possibilities and none of them made sense.
Congenital insensitivity to pain? No. Steve knew his son wasn't born with that. Simon felt pain. He cried when he scraped his knee jumping out of the bathroom at six. He yelped when he stubbed his toe on the stairpost. This wasn't some medical anomaly.
Something about this moment unsettled Steve.
And not just the wound.
His son bleeding, broken, silent felt wrong somehow. Not just physically. There was something else beneath the surface, something Steve couldn't quite name. A heavy silence had settled between them, thick with unspoken dread.
"Does it hurt?" Steve's deep voice echoed gently through the old cellar, steady but low, like he was afraid the question itself might shatter something. He paused, eyes on Simon, waiting for a response before doing anything else.
Simon shook his head. No. No pain.
"Not even a pinch?" Steve asked again, this time more softly, his brows knitting just slightly.
Simon tried to lift his back, turning halfway to face him.
"No — don't!" Steve's hands flew to his son's shoulders in an instant, holding him still. The reaction was pure reflex. He'd just heard Simon say he wasn't in pain, but the what ifs shouted louder in his head.
Simon let out a long sigh, not irritated, not dramatic, just quiet. The kind of sigh that said, "Fine."
"You'll be okay, son," Steve said, resuming the first aid treatment with hands that were a little too careful. "You'll be healed in no time."
"Thanks, Dad."
Simon didn't seem fazed anymore. The scariest part, the moment that had left his heart racing and his lungs shaking had already passed. But everyone else? They were still caught in it, like the danger had just happened seconds ago.
Steve tried to keep it together. That calm, collected dad look he wore so well. But behind the cool exterior, he was unraveling. Blaming himself.
If I hadn't left alone this morning. If I'd made them all come with me… This wouldn't have happened.
His thoughts spiraled, every one of them soaked in guilt. He felt like he had failed. Like somewhere along the way, he dropped the ball on being a father, and now his son was the one bleeding for it.
Simon started to notice. His father, usually composed and grounded, now... unsettled.
"Thank you."
A gentle pat landed on Steve's shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned and there he was. Father Nicholas.
He stood at the entrance of the cellar like something out of a magazine cover shoot titled "Holy & Handsome." He wore a fitted black tab-collar shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans and clean tan Clarks. The man was pushing mid-forties but honestly? You wouldn't know it. Not with that sculpted jawline, those piercing blue eyes, and a face that somehow looked both angelic and... frustratingly attractive.
His brown hair was brushed up in a sharp taper cut, every strand behaving like it had somewhere important to be. A neatly shaped goatee hugged his jawline — just enough edge to make anyone question whether celibacy was really necessary.
There was an elegance to the way he moved. Measured. Effortless. Intentionally slow, like he had no reason to ever rush. Nothing rattled him. Not chaos, not injury, not even the weight of other people's fear.
He was more than just a good-looking man — he was the kind of fine that made people double-take and then silently repent for their thoughts. The kind of man that made people whisper things like, "That fine man? A priest? Hmmm, God really does call the best ones." The kind of fine that didn't fade with age, but got sharper — more refined.
Father Nicholas was calm, intuitive, and always carried this quiet wisdom in his presence. A supportive friend, the go-to rock for everyone in the community — but also, the cause of at least five different church aunties trying to "pray with him" privately.
Simon, though his gaze had been fixed downward, had already recognized him from his shoes alone. Those Clarks were signature.
He lifted his head slowly and offered a small smile. Father Nicholas returned it, warm and knowing, as he stepped past him toward Steve.
He placed a steady hand on Steve's shoulder, his calm presence instantly grounding.
"You good?" he asked, voice deep, strong, and yet smooth and gentle.
Steve nodded slightly. Just the sight of him eased something in his chest.
"How's it going?"
Father Nicholas took a step back and crossed his arms, eyes flicking quickly between Simon's injury and Steve's posture. Always watching, always reading the room. Only the bandages remained.
"All cleaned up," Steve replied, already unrolling the last bit of gauze.
"I've got it from here," Father Nicholas offered, stretching a hand toward the roll. "Let me finish it."
Steve handed it over with a nod. "Yeah, sure. I'll go check on Jeanette. Thank you, Father."
He stood, peeling off his brown monkey jacket, then quietly stepped toward the door.
Father Nicholas bent over to Simon and began wrapping his back with the bandages. He was tender and calm while doing it. He wore a smile on his face. It was a natural. Simon was quiet all this while, it seemed he was struggling to say something to break the oddly quiet room.
"Pain is proof you're still tethered to this world, Simon. Without it, what keeps you human?"
His voice was calm, but the words cut clean — deliberate, like he wasn't just asking about the wound, but about something... deeper.
"The ones who don't feel pain... usually forget what it means to care."
"Some say pain is punishment. But sometimes, it's the only thing anchoring you to the light."
He paused, eyes flickering to Simon's back.
"When you stop hurting, be careful — that's when the darkness creeps in."
"Still feel nothing?"
"No." Simon answered immediately, baffled by the weight of the words.