#unscripted vn

Possibly! Infact, you can see him right now too LOL

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Devon Darling

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Devon stirred in his bed, hands still sticky no matter how many times he’d scrubbed them raw. The blood clung to him like a sin…no soap strong enough, no water holy enough to lift it. His eyes squinted against the sudden daylight spilling through the curtains, the Sunday sun rising softly as it always did. By the grace of God, he had awoken. He stretched, limbs reaching in any which way as his bones cracked.

As he stood, the gold cross at his neck swayed gently against his chest. His gaze drifted to the dark clothes tossed carelessly over the TV stand—of course, those too were stained. He groaned, already dreading the routine ahead: the cleaning, the wiping, and God—the endless cycles of laundry. Maybe he could hire one of their “family friends” to take care of the guilt rotting quietly in the basement, still and unmoving. But first—prayer. Or something close to it.

A shower, really.

A shower to wash the guilt away.

—

Water poured over him, rinsing away the last clinging traces of soap as steam filled the room. His racing thoughts slowed, settling into a familiar rhythm, soft and hypnotic in a way. The kind he liked. The kind that let him breathe.

It was the Lord’s day.

He would be glad in it.

A prayer slipped from his lips without thought, half-remembered words murmured like a reflex, though it brought him comfort in times like this. When he opened his eyes again, he stepped out and moved to the counter, water dripping from his hair onto the tile. His royal eyes met their reflection in the mirror, sharp yet calm. Slowly, his eyes wandered downward before flicking to the cross resting against his chest.

His heart began to pound without realization.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for church today.

Maybe he needed to face this guilt properly.

Maybe—

—

A voice echoed through Devon’s sprawling chateau, sharp and unmistakably British.

“Devon?”

Polished shoes clicked across the marble entryway. “Are you ready for church? You aren’t hungover, are you?” The irritation was already there, simmering beneath the words at the thought of dragging the young star to service in such a state.

The whir of a washing machine answered instead.

“Just—just a second!” Devon called back from somewhere deep within the house, just in one of many rooms.

Henry raised a brow. ‘Of course’. He set his Bible and briefcase down on the entry table and headed toward the washroom, unease crawling up his spine. He stopped short at the sight that greeted him: a heap of bloodied sheets and clothing, Devon frantically shoving armfuls of fabric into the machine like he could bury the evidence beneath detergent and overpriced softener.

“DEVON?!” Henry barked.

Truthfully, he should have expected this. Devon had been doing too well, for too long. Of course he’d killed someone. Of course there was another body. How had Henry not seen it coming?

He grabbed Devon by the arm and yanked him away from his activity. “Finish getting ready for church and be downstairs in five minutes. I don’t want a peep out of you.”

The words were sharp as he sneered them. Henry shoved the younger man toward the door, casting one last glance at the mess before sighing heavily. He pulled out his phone, dialing a number without hesitation.

“Hello? Yes. I’m going to need a quick favor.”

—

Soon enough, Devon zipped his boots and stumbled down the curved staircase, coat slung over his arm, bag clutched tight to his side. His hair was pulled neatly back, clothes pressed and immaculate—crisp and polished as a freshly picked apple. No one would have suspected him of murder! Not on a Sunday!

Henry tapped his foot as Devon reached the bottom step. Cleaners were already filing in, quiet and efficient.

“You’re lucky they came on such short notice,” Henry muttered. “On Sunday of all days.”

Devon stiffened at the sight of familiar faces—the same ones who always came when things got tad messy in the family. The ones who always seemed to draw the short end of the stick when it came to Devon’s kidnappings and killings.

“However,” Henry continued calmly, “to teach you some kind of lesson, you will be cleaning every inch of your basement. Floors. Walls. Ceilings. Until it’s spotless. Is that clear?”

Devon’s eyes widened. “W–what!? Why? They’re already here—” He gestured helplessly at the cleaners. “Why can’t they do it?”

Henry groaned, exhaustion lacing his voice. “I could ask you the same thing, Devon. Why? Why do you kill? Why do you kidnap? Why can’t you control yourself, hm?”

The words hit deep. Devon shrank instantly, folding inward as guilt crushed down on him. His fingers closed around the cross at his throat, grounding him.

Henry sighed, his tone softening. “...Right. Do you have your Bible?”

Devon nodded, tightening his grip on his bag.

“Good,” Henry said quietly. “Let’s go to church. Okay?”