killer_fields

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.

Where Monsters Pray

They thought they were interrogating me.

What they didn't realize... was that I had been interrogating them since the moment I walked in.

Three days. Seven officers. Two psychologists. A profiler from the capital. They all asked the same questions in different accents, different clothes, different levels of desperation.

They were already in their questions.

Translation: We don't understand your selection criteria.

Translation: We're hoping for an emotional trigger.

Ah. That was the good one. The holy grail of police morality. Remorse. They needed it like religion.

So I gave them what they couldn't process: honesty.

Detective Ayra Sen stopped coming in by day four. I could sense her watching from behind the mirror, but she never stepped inside again. The others were easier to bend.

Especially the profiler—Dr. Mihir Das. He fancied himself an expert in deviance. Quoted Freud and Jung like scripture. He thought he was mapping my psyche. What he didn't realize… was that every word he spoke was a breadcrumb trail back into his own mind.

"You exhibit classic signs of antisocial behavior. Lack of empathy, narcissistic tendencies—"

"Do you think what I did was wrong?" I asked him.

"So if I hurt a man who was already hurting others, that's wrong?"

"But if the court gave him five years for raping a child, then let him go after three... that's justice?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Be careful, Doctor," I whispered. "If you keep thinking like that, you might start agreeing with me."

The silence was different now. Not sterile, but fearful. Like the building was holding its breath.

I looked at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. Smiled.

I had left one piece of evidence behind. One drop of blood. A deliberate mistake. It was the bait.

Now they were stuck with a man they couldn't charge properly, couldn't release publicly, and couldn't understand logically.

So they turned to the last place left: psychology.

The white walls. The "safe" furniture. The soft-spoken staff and cameras in every corner.

Chapter 8: The Breaking Point.