Chapter 31 – Time Pierced by Needles
Enver's steps into the old hospital echoed like a forgotten prayer.
The paint on the walls had peeled away. The smell of disinfectant mixed with dried blood clung to the yellowing white tiles. The flickering lights seemed afraid to shine too brightly—for the truth here was not meant to be seen, but forgotten.
Enver did not bring light. He was the shadow that knew its way even through the darkness crafted by human hands.
The silent corridor carried him to the 3rd Floor—reserved for those said to be "not ready to die." In truth, most were simply not ready to pay enough.
Room 30.
A clock hung above the door. Its hands moved backward, as though time itself was taking a deep breath before stopping altogether.
He opened the door. At the end of the room, a frail, trembling body lay on the bed. Tubes ran from the nose to half-empty infusion bottles.
A woman stood beside the bed. White uniform, hair tied neatly in a bun, her smile polite. But her eyes—empty, like a room without windows.
Elia.
She injected a clear liquid into the patient's veins while scribbling on a chart. She did not notice Enver, though the air behind her had shifted. Enver never needed to introduce himself. Sins always recognized him first.
"A new drug," Elia said calmly. "It may not cure them. But it helps them last longer. Sometimes, lasting is more important than healing, don't you think?"
Enver stared at the clock on the wall. Its hands kept ticking backward.
"Someone stabbed daily with no hope is not surviving. They are being delayed from death—for a fee."
Elia turned. "What's the difference? We're all just being delayed. Then they give us a plaque: 'Survivor.' As if living were an achievement, when in truth, it's only a longer punishment."
She smiled. But beneath that smile, Enver saw Vorcis—the astral creature twined around her soul. Mouthless, yet its body moved like melting clocks. It drank time from wounds, feeding on rotting hope.
"How many have you let wait for death, just so you could eat better?" Enver asked.
Elia stiffened. "I am not a killer. I care for them!"
"By stabbing them every day? By injecting legal poison so your pockets stay full?"
The creature emerged from behind the clock, its long arms like needles stretching toward him. But before they could touch, a black card flew from Enver's sleeve—the Ten of Spades.
The card warped into the symbol of a melting clock. Every second in the room froze. Even the patient's heartbeat halted, as if the world itself awaited judgment.
Enver spoke, his voice like an ancient incantation:
"Stolen time never dies. It waits—bound within the bodies you made into fields for harvest. Now your time belongs to them."
Vorcis screamed without sound. It lunged, but the ceiling split open, revealing an astral corridor—etched into the night sky. Within it gathered all the stolen time, all the wounds that had never healed.
With a snap of his fingers, Enver cast Vorcis into the rift. The creature convulsed, aged, and finally vanished—not slain, but devoured by the very time it had stolen.
Elia screamed. Her head bowed, hands trembling. She realized: it was not Enver who judged her, but all the moments she had deliberately delayed.
Enver approached. He touched her forehead gently and whispered:
"You will not die. But you will sleep… until every second you stole is returned to its owner."
A black light poured from her brow. Elia collapsed into a coma. Yet she smiled—for the first time, not as a pretender, but as a soul willing to accept her own punishment.
On the patient's monitor, numbers shifted. Their condition improved. They slowly began to heal—for the burden was no longer chained by hands pretending to care.
Enver left the room. The night air greeted him.
He raised his hand. A single card glowed. The melting clock now ticked forward.
"The next one…"
The sky answered with a whisper: a new name, a new soul, a new sin.
And the hunt continued.
"Purificazione is not judgment. It is the rite of returning. To the soul. To time. To where it belongs." — Enver Eraly
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