They called him a monster. A mistake. A mind beyond saving.

Until the war came.

Now the killer wears a uniform, his blade baptized by state orders and national pride. For the same hands that once strangled in shadows now serve the flag in broad daylight.

He kills. He protects. He obeys.
And the applause rings louder than the screams ever did.

But how can the same act be sin in one world, and salvation in another?
As bodies pile and silence grows heavy, the question gnaws at him like rot beneath the skin.

What is good? What is evil? And who decides?

Told through fractured memories, visceral monologues, and a mind unraveling at the edges, Sanctified by Sin is a descent into the soul of a man sculpted by violence—now seeking truth in a world that only understands blood.

In the end, he won't ask for forgiveness.
He’ll demand answers.

I shaved that morning. Smooth. Precise. Razor against jaw like a scalpel on skin.


In the mirror, I looked normal. That was the game now. Look normal. Sound normal. Be the calm sea above the churning abyss.


The job at the meat processing plant helped. Blood didn't phase me. Guts, sinew, bones cracking under weight—they made me feel... ordinary. Camouflaged.


People joked around me. Smiled at me. Jane, the redhead from packaging, even flirted. Once. I didn't respond. Didn't know how.


But every now and then, when the lights buzzed a little too loud, when someone looked too long, when the world bent in just the wrong angle—


Flash. Orchard. Cold eyes. The snap of ribs. The softness of skin.


"Am I good? Am I bad? Or am I just what the world made me?"


They fed me loneliness, then judged the hunger it birthed.


I sat in the break room with my sandwich untouched. The others laughed at something dumb. Memes. Gossip. Their lives were small, wrapped in plastic comfort.


I watched them. Studied their hands, necks, where the veins pulsed. Not because I wanted to. Because I couldn't stop.


I wanted to understand first. What I was. Why I felt pure only in the act. Why guilt was a foreign language.


Maybe it was broken wiring. Maybe it was something deeper. Sacred. Filthy.


I left work early that day. Bought apples. Sat alone in my room, turning one in my hand. Polishing it. Imagining.


Because no matter how hard I bit into it, it never bled.


Chapter 3 - Chapter 2: The Mask That Smiles