The moon used to remind Hypnos of his mother; bright, vibrant, and brimming with life. That happiness had tarnished into misery after two decades. Looking at it now reminded him of the night he sold himself to Corina for Pandora’s survival and Hades’ sake. 

Corina had taken that comfort from him, too. 

He stood before her shop, fixated on the flickering light that sent a shiver up his spine. He was unprepared for the pain, as he always was. Corina never took what she demanded gently. 

No, she ensured it hurt. 

The door swung inward without a touch, demanding his entrance. Corina’s voice drifted from somewhere upstairs, coaxing him. 

His mind recoiled. His body did not. 

She controlled him beneath the moonlight, and Hypnos stepped across the threshold on feet that were not his own. 

Up the creaking stairs; through the dated kitchen with its yellow lighting and chipped mint-green tile backsplash. 

Past the herb room, where bundles of medicinal plants hung together to dry. 

Beyond her bedroom. Soft purple illumination spilled into the hallway, infused with the warm scent of cinnamon. 

Then, to the chamber at the rear. 

It offered none of the previous warmth. 

Harsh fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead, somehow failing to brighten the black walls. Heavy manacles dangled from the ceiling, their chains creaking. 

The room smelled of iron and antiseptic. Old blood bit through. 

A basin waited beneath the metal to catch whatever blood Corina failed to devour. 

Hypnos avoided looking at the restraints. 

He knew where his wrists would be soon enough. 

She’d begun selling potions infused with his essence. A single drop induced restful nights until the following full moon. 

Until his next session. 

The concoction earned her a hefty fortune. 

Bile burned his throat. 

His suffering paid for her luxury. 

“Good eve, pet,” Corina called from the corner. A tray of medical instruments waited beside her, each meticulously arranged. 

“Corina,” Hypnos inclined his head. 

He stripped. There was no point ruining another set of clothes. She would only rip them from him. When only his underwear remained, he stepped into the center of the basin. 

The cuffs lowered. 

Hypnos slipped his wrists into the cold metal. 

Corina jerked the bindings above him and cackled when a grunt escaped him. 

He had learned the rules. Break too early, and she punished him for disappointing her. Hold out too long, and she grew angry. 

She wanted him to fracture at a specific moment. One only she knew. 

Hypnos had become very good at finding it. 

“Not even a whimper for me?” she asked as she sliced into his skin just below his bindings. 

“No, you old hag,” he thought as he swallowed the agony. 

The second cut imitated the first on his other wrist. Rivulets of red poured, pooling underneath him. Her too-large tongue flicked over his nipple, sampling what she would soon devour. 

Six more cuts before she fed. 

Each mirrored on the opposite side. 

Radial. Carotid. Femoral. Peroneal. 

In that order. 

Every time. 

The torture was methodical. 

Never deviating. 

There was no getting used to it. 

“You remind me of lavender cookies,” she cooed, her teeth stained under those artificial lights. 

Hours later, Hypnos stumbled from the torture chamber. He bounced from one wall to the other, knocking aged photographs from their hooks. Glass shattered under his bare feet, shards biting into his heels. 

He barely felt them. 

Corina sauntered out behind him. 

Hypnos didn’t need to look at her. She was young again. Her footsteps were lighter. The melody she hummed had lost its rasp; each note was clear and youthful. 

She sounded happy. 

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder. 

Hypnos flinched. 

Corina steadied him and guided him toward the kitchen. 

“Let’s get you comfortable. I’ve got a pot of tea on the stove, and the shower will be ready for you when you’ve recouped a bit.” 

He settled at the dining table. His limbs hung as he rested his cheek on the rough wood. He was past the point of exhaustion. His voice no longer worked. He’d screamed until his vocal cords failed, then kept screaming until something in his esophagus tore. Each attempt to swallow reopened the pain. Copper flooded his mouth whenever he tried. 

He had to drink the tea. 

Refusing would only anger Corina anew. 

Her cruelty had no bounds. This was not kindness. She provided aftercare for a single reason: she required his mind intact for the following month’s bleeding. 

Without it, he couldn’t access his magic. 

Without that, his blood was worthless. 

And without his essence, her precious potions were little more than snake oil. 

“Your endurance is getting better,” she remarked from the counter as she stirred numbing herbs into the drink. 

She placed the concoction before him and stroked his matted hair away from his face. Hypnos wanted to shrink from her touch, but she had taken that option from him tonight. 

Unable to speak, he grunted his appreciation and pulled the cup closer. He mustered what little strength was left and lifted it to his mouth. 

The mixture was foul. Rot and medicine coated his tongue, and his damaged throat protested every swallow. 

Then the discomfort was gone. 

For all her savagery, Hypnos wouldn’t deny the potency of her magic, especially after she fed. 

Forty minutes passed before Hypnos  could speak. Corina busied herself in the herb room, her humming drifting through the shop and grating his ears until it became unbearable. 

He stumbled to the doorway, gripping the jamb to hold himself upright. 

Corina glanced up. Satisfaction curved her lips. His essence coated her hands, and viscous drops landed on the table below. 

“Going to see that harlot of yours?” She tapped her fingers together until the dripping stopped. “She’s not proper for you, pet.” 

“Don’t,” he whispered. 

“What do you get from it?” 

“Love. Adoration.” 

“You aren’t that stupid.” The witch cackled. “At best, she gives your—” Her gaze dropped pointedly to his groin. “—friend good head.” 

He dematerialized. 

Not gracefully. It felt like melting away. Whatever survived of him dissolved into the night. 

He couldn’t return to the Underworld. Not yet. Not while Corina’s handiwork remained visible. 

Instead, he reformed outside Pandora and her friends’ Upperworld apartment. 

His shoulder struck the door, and he managed a soft tap against the wood. 

It opened. 

Hypnos collapsed inward. 

Warin was on the other side and caught him before he hit the ground. He dragged Hypnos inside, lowering them both to the floor before pulling him into his lap. 

Hypnos sobbed. 

“Fuck! Hypnos,” Warin murmured, offering him the only gentle contact he’d received all night. “She went harder than usual.” 

That sensation broke what was left. 

For fifteen years, he’d been coming to Warin. 

That initial time had been an accident. Hypnos was looking for Pandora, desperate to confess the awful decision he had made and beg for her forgiveness. 

She hadn’t been there. 

Warin had. 

He promised to keep Hypnos’s secret with the sole condition: Hypnos needed to let him help afterward. 

So, monthly, as sunlight crept over the horizon, Hypnos came here. 

And Warin healed the parts of him that had snapped. 

They lingered on the floor. 

Warin never pushed him for details. 

Hypnos craved to tell someone. Five years of carrying this alone had become too heavy. 

So, he revealed everything to Warin. 

Warin listened. He did not interrupt. Didn’t pity him. Spoke only when necessary. 

Perhaps that was why Hypnos kept returning. 

“I’m here, Hypnos,” Warin choked out as his weeping turned into silent shudders. 

*** 

Warin hadn’t told a soul about the god he nursed back to health every month. 

Only Helen noticed he disappeared for the day around the full moon. Of course she had. She was the Champion of Wisdom. Too damn smart for him. 

She never questioned him. Only begged him to be careful. And reminded him to call if he needed her. She would come. 

He assured her it wasn’t a woman. 

Helen only offered him a sad smile before patting his arm. 

He missed her. 

Even when she was near him. 

Warin shoved thoughts of her aside and refocused on the man in his arms. 

Hypnos had slipped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Warin knew because Hypnos once told him he found it impossible to be in Slumber after seeing Corina. 

His gaze drifted over the damage. 

Bruises covered Hypnos’ lips. One split was deep enough that the wound punctured through the flesh. Warin hated when that bitch added unnecessary cruelty to the ritualistic cutting. Hypnos required the most support after those nights to regain himself. 

When his legs numbed, he gathered his charge and carried him to the sofa. He weighed next to nothing. Hypnos curled into himself, still in flight mode. It broke his heart, but there was nothing more to do. Not until Hypnos woke in a panic. 

And that part was coming. Whether it came in an hour or four, it made no difference. Warin would be here. 

Watching. Waiting. Willing. 

The entrance handle jiggled, and Warin whirled just as Helen entered. 

Their gazes met. She almost smiled before noticing Hypnos asleep on the sofa. 

Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. 

“What the fuck?” she mouthed. 

Talk about an understatement. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Warin whispered, dumbfounded. 

“I live here sometimes,” she retorted, careful not to wake Hypnos. Her stare darted toward the god again. “Explain, because I can’t leave. Not after this.” 

To the best of his ability, he did. 

By the end, Helen was fighting her tears. 

She had idolized Corina before walking through that door. Now she rested against the counter, a steaming mug cradled between her palms, staring at the slumbering god. 

“He’s endured this for so long,” she croaked. 

Warin knew he didn’t have to say it. He did anyway. 

“Please keep this confidential. He doesn’t want anyone to know.” 

Her attention shifted to him, and her frown deepened. 

“You’ve also been carrying his secret.” 

Warin stiffened. 

“You need comfort, too.” 

She set her mug down and crossed the space between them. 

Her arms encircled him. 

Warin momentarily forgot how to move. 

Then he folded around her frame. 

“Thank you,” he murmured into her tresses. She smelled of textbooks, hidden knowledge, and sage. He breathed her in, wishing the scent would cling to him after she let go. 

That was when Hypnos started shouting. 

Warin and Helen tore apart. 

He vaulted over the island and reached the couch first. He forced Hypnos against the cushions, gentle but firm, as mismatched red-and-blue eyes locked on his. 

Then they rolled back until only the whites remained. 

Hypnos arched violently. 

Helen was there a heartbeat later, smoothing Hypnos’s hair as she murmured words Warin couldn’t hear over the wailing. 

Another cry ripped from Hypnos. 

His hand flew to his neck, nails clawing at the healing wound until it split once more. 

Blood poured between his fingers, staining the cushions. 

“Persephone,” he cried. 

Then his body went limp.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero