The massacre

Cassian's thought process had shifted completely. The man who once hesitated to harm was now a vessel of cold, unflinching fury. There wasn't a flicker of remorse in him for killing the fat man—understandable, given the torment he endured. But now, as he stood over the smashed skulls of two guards stationed outside the chamber, their blood pooling beneath his feet, he felt nothing. No pity. No regret.

For him, their deaths were justified. They had been complicit. They had kept him locked away, standing guard while that grotesque excuse for a man tortured him for amusement. In Cassian's eyes, they were no less guilty. They all deserved this, every single one of them.

He tightened his grip on the stone ball's chain as he moved forward, his eyes burning with determination. His thoughts weren't just on these accomplices—they were on the one who orchestrated all of this.

The pastor.