The outskirts were a lonely, hungry place, the Haunt decided as he surveyed the twinkling silhouettes making up the skyline. Anton stood dishevelled, in simple clothes caked in dirt, a strapped canvass sack slung over his shoulder.

He could hear the snarl of distant cars as he trudged towards the city, feeling the weight of his Sins wrack through and rattle him with each step. Out in the wilderness it had been a dull, burrowing throb. Proximity to humanity transformed it into a ravenous, surging furnace; a restless serpent slithering between dead organs. Here, same as anywhere, Anton Flores was beyond God's grace, and the sinning snake only reminded him of this. He considered its nature. It was a part of Damnation which mutilated passions. It prevented the gluttonous from slaking their appetites and denied peace to the wrathful. It enslaved the lustful to hollow pursuits and condemned the prideful to empty reflections. On the other side of the coin it aided the purposeful Damned, lending them the hunger and the anger to carry out God's mandate.

The embers settled with the reaffirmation. The Haunt rested a calloused palm against an old dead tree. "For I am not some Godless beast who hunts beneath the grandeur of sanctity..." he uttered, voice haggard and hoarse. He drew the old hunting blade taped to his abdomen and carved his initials, his real initials, into the pitted trunk. He drew a heavy line through them, completing the personal ritual before picking up his stride again towards the city lights.