Five years ago.

It started with pain.

Burnt nerves. Splintered bone. His body had already reached the threshold—bleeding, broken, half-collapsed in the dirt of a shrine that no longer remembered god or demon. The air reeked of foxblood and smoke. Screams rang somewhere distant, but dulled, like he was hearing them through water.

He was in Japan.

Zagan had attacked again. The yokai – dozens of them – swarming like teeth in the dark.

Were the others still holding the line?

Dan? Victor?

Liz—

His head jerked up.

Where was Liz?

And then he saw her.

Just a flicker – her face through the smoke. Pale, blood-smeared, eyes wide. She was reaching for him. Hand outstretched. Calling his name.

He tried to move. Tried to lift his arm. Tried to pull fire.

But there was nothing left in him.

No Hellfire. No strength. Just smoke in his lungs and the bitter taste of copper behind his teeth.

And then— the world tore open behind him.

Not a sound. No flash. Just a rupture. A line in the air, sharp and dark, like reality had forgotten to finish drawing itself. It split the shrine in two – cracked light across his vision – and out of it stepped a shadow.

Small. Childlike.

A boy's outline, hands behind his back. Head tilted like a question he'd already answered.

Max tried to shout – warn Liz – warn anyone.

But the shadow moved faster.

Not toward his body.

Toward his soul.

Chains of shadow lashed out – impossibly fast – hooking deep into his spine, through skin, through memory. He wasn't being grabbed. He was being yanked backward through the centre of himself.

And then the voice came.

Soft. Innocent.

"You've done enough for her."

The world folded.

Not like falling. Not like teleporting.

It collapsed. Sound first. Then light. Then sensation. Liz's scream – half-formed – cut off mid-breath.

Max reached forward, toward her hand—

And then the ground was gone.

The sky. The fire. The pain. All gone.

What remained was the pull. The unnatural drag.

He opened his mouth to scream— but there was no air. No breath. Only dark.

And the long, echoing silence of a soul being unmade.

…………………

There was no light.

Not darkness, exactly. Darkness implied the absence of something. This was worse. This was a place that had never known the concept of light. No sky. No shadows. No distance.

Just… nothing.

Max didn't know how long he'd been here.

He wasn't lying down. He wasn't floating. His body didn't ache because there was no ground beneath it to press against. No chains to pull against. No frame to collapse into.

He was simply hung – suspended in a position his nerves no longer reported, as though the laws of flesh and bone had been rewritten.

He tried to move.

Nothing answered.

He tried to breathe.

There was no air.

No breath. No lungs. Only the tight, spiralling sensation of inward. Like the world had turned inside out and stuffed him in a pocket too small to scream inside.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Even thoughts came slow now. Like walking through syrup.

Where am I?

What happened?

Liz.

That name came sharp. Like a knife held in memory. His mind clutched it instinctively.

Liz—

No answer. No echo. Just the word collapsing into the static of this place.

He didn't know if his eyes were open or shut. There was nothing to see either way. No texture. No floor. No horizon.

No fire.

That was the worst part. No hum. No spark. His Hellfire – his soul – was gone.

Extinguished.

He reached for it the way a dying man might reach for his last breath – pure instinct.

Nothing.

Time passed. Or didn't. The thought of time passing was a human thought. It didn't belong here.

His mind began to slip. Thoughts looped.

Where is she? What did I do wrong?

Was this what losing felt like? Not death. Not defeat. Just being erased quietly, until no one remembered why you fought.

Was she safe? Where is she—

And then— a sound.

Faint. Rhythmic.

A heartbeat.

Not his. Too slow. Too heavy. Each thud shook something in his spine.

He strained toward it – whatever "toward" meant in this place.

Then it spoke.

A voice. Soft. Precise. Like a child reading a bedtime story.

"You've been quiet long enough."

Max tried to scream. Or snarl. Or say her name.

But there was no voice.

Only the sound of that heartbeat getting closer.

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…………………

Light arrived like a wound.

Just one – narrow, clinical – cutting across the dark. A spotlight with no source, no beam, just presence. It illuminated nothing around it. No walls. No floor. No space. Only a man.

Ethan Campbell.

Exactly as Max remembered him.

Same pale face. Same thin frame wrapped in a cheap suit. But now it was clerical uniform. Priest's collar still clean. Not a speck of dust or blood on him. His hair was combed, his smile was small. Familiar. Warm. Smug.

It took Max a second too long to realise he wasn't hallucinating.

Ethan looked untouched by time. Unaged. Unburdened.

Unrepentant.

Max's fingers twitched in the dark. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel how little control he had. He wanted to lunge. Burn. Tear.

But there was nothing to move.

Nothing to burn with.

He could only watch.

Ethan stepped closer, hands folded neatly in front of him, like a teacher addressing a troubled child.

"Max," he said, warm. "It's good to see you again."

Max didn't answer. Couldn't.

But the hatred that filled his chest was molten.

Ethan tilted his head, examining him like a specimen on a tray. "You're holding up better than expected. The void… it breaks most people. But not you. Of course not."

His smile widened, just a hair. "You were always exceptional."

Max strained. His vocal cords grated like sand through rust. No sound came out.

Ethan circled him slowly, the spotlight following his steps with unnatural precision.

"You're probably wondering why you're here. Or maybe not. You were always good at seeing the angles, weren't you? The hidden patterns. The thing behind the thing."

He stopped. Just in front of Max now. Close enough that Max could smell his cologne – cheap antiseptic with a faint floral note. Just like he'd worn at April's funeral.

Max's jaw clenched. Something cracked behind his temple.

Ethan nodded, as if sensing it. "Yes. April."

He sighed – fond, nostalgic.

"She was brilliant," he said. "So much more than she let on. That mind of hers… She was tracing the edges of something enormous. Demonology, soul mechanics, contract theory – she got close. So close. She didn't even realise how close. You ever realise that, Max? She was circling the truth for years, and she never got to see it."

He chuckled to himself. "She would've loved this place."

Max's hands twitched.

Ethan kept going.

"She loved the dark. Loved it. It was her obsession. That drive to understand. To map what the rest of us barely dared name."

He stepped closer, voice lowering to something more fragile.

"She was like me, Max."

Then, a pause. A stillness.

Something sharp slid behind Ethan's smile.

"I loved her," he said.

The words landed soft – but the air got colder.

"I told her," he continued, "one night. After a research symposium in Delhi. She was so alive. Talking about the old pacts, the sigils carved into bone. She looked at me like I mattered. And I told her. I laid it bare. My devotion. My hunger. My heart."

He swallowed.

"She laughed."

His eyes drifted for a moment. Somewhere far away.

"No. Not laughed. Not at first. She was quiet. Said I was confused. That I needed rest. That she loved you."

The word curled in his mouth like it tasted foul.

"She tried to let me down gently. Thought I was... fragile."

His smile cracked into something jagged.

"So I kissed her."

Max's pulse thundered.

Ethan kept talking, calm and glassy-eyed. "I thought she'd feel it. That once I touched her, once I showed her, she'd remember who we were. What we could be. She just had to see it."

His hands flexed once, twitching.

"But she didn't. She pulled away. She slapped me. Scratched. Called me sick."

Max's teeth ground together.

"I left," Ethan said softly. "But I left her a gift."

His voice darkened now – reverent and rotten.

"A flame. A beautiful one. Gas in the pipes. A cracked incense burner. The air already thick with summoning chalk."

He exhaled, eyes gleaming.

"It freed her."

Silence.

Then his gaze snapped to Max.

"It freed her from you."

His voice rose for the first time – shaking with something feral.

"You were always there. Always controlling her. Always pulling her back from what she was meant to be. I hated you."

He stepped closer, voice seething.

"I hate you."

The mask slipped. The priest was gone. What stood before Max now was the thing underneath.

"April was mine. MINE."

Max shook with silent rage. But Ethan wasn't done.

"I asked Moloch to bring her back. I begged. I bargained. I gave him everything. And he told me no."

Ethan's smile returned – hollow this time.

"He said he couldn't bring her back. That some things are final. Even gods have limits."

He stepped closer.

"But he promised me the next best thing."

Max froze. Something primal tightened behind his ribs.

Ethan's voice dropped.

"He promised me Liz."

Max's heart slammed in his chest.

"When this is over," Ethan said, "when Moloch remakes the world and you've done your part… I'll have her. Raised by fire, sharpened by grief. She'll understand me like April never could."

Max's breath caught.

Ethan smiled wider. "You're doing this for her, you know. For the world. You protected Liz. You did the impossible. And now we need you to do it again."

Silence.

Max's throat tore itself open.

Blood filled his mouth.

"I will kill you."

It came raw. Scraped and cracked. But it came.

And Ethan laughed.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just… amused.

"Oh, Max," he said. "You still don't understand, do you?"

He leaned in, voice low and surgical.

"You're not a man anymore."

He let it linger.

"You're a key. And keys don't choose which doors they open."

Max's eyes burned. Not with power. With the memory of power. The ache of it.

Ethan's voice was kind again. Almost tender.

"Welcome to your real purpose."

Then the spotlight blinked out.

And Max was alone again.

…………………

Time didn't pass in the cage.

It scraped.

Moments bled into each other without form. Memory blurred. He didn't know how long he drifted after Ethan left. Minutes? Hours? Days?

At some point, the dark changed.

Not light. Not exactly. But the pressure shifted – like breath held too long finally exhaled. A second spotlight cut the void, harsh and sterile, revealing a room that wasn't a room.

Stone floor. No walls. No ceiling. Just space pressed into the shape of ritual.

Symbols burned into the stone. Fresh. Still glowing. Wet with something red that wasn't paint.

Max stood.

He didn't remember standing. Didn't remember walking. But his feet were planted in the centre of the circle now, and the circle was binding. It sang in his bones.

Chains of etched gold ran from his wrists to iron rings at the edges. Not taut. Not slack. Just waiting.

Across from him stood a boy. No older than sixteen. Eyes wild. Dressed in rags that might've once been a uniform. Knees shaking.

His mouth was gagged. But his eyes were screaming.

Max turned his head – barely. A crunch in his neck. Pain flared. The first real sensation in what felt like forever.

Ethan stood beside the boy.

Calm. Gentle. Familiar.

"He's a volunteer," Ethan said. "Contractor initiate. His soul is ripe. All he needs is a spark."

He smiled at Max.

"Your spark."

Max said nothing.

"You light him up," Ethan said. "He gets his contract. We get another empowered soldier in the field. You know how this works."

Max closed his eyes.

The fire didn't come.

Ethan stepped closer, voice soft. "You've done this before. You awakened Liz. You did it without a Contract. No Demon, no bargain. Just… intent."

Max's breath was shallow.

Ethan continued, tone almost coaxing. "This boy believes. He wants the power. He's ready for it. You just have to open the door."

Silence.

Max opened his eyes again.

Met the boy's gaze.

And saw terror.

Not awe. Not readiness. Just a kid who hadn't known what he was signing up for. Who'd been dragged here and fed a lie.

Max clenched his fists.

The chains pulsed with heat.

"No."

His voice was sandpaper. But it landed.

Ethan sighed. "Max—"

"No."

Ethan turned toward him, slowly. The warmth in his voice cracked slightly.

"You don't understand," he said. "You don't have a choice."

Max bared his teeth. "Then take it."

Ethan paused. His smile vanished.

"You really want Moloch to take it?" he asked, tone sharper now. "Is that what you want?"

He stepped forward, voice low.

"He will take it. Do you understand me? He will wrench it out of you, and you will feel every inch of it peeling off your soul. You think this hurts now?"

Max said nothing.

Ethan leaned closer.

"You think I was cruel?" he whispered. "He doesn't need to lie to you, Max. He doesn't need you to believe. Only to burn."

Max's jaw tightened. The boy's eyes were wide. Wet. Shaking.

"I will not be your matchstick," Max rasped.

Max raised his chin, eyes bloodshot but burning. "And fuck you, Ethan."

Ethan stared at him a long moment.

Then he straightened.

"Very well."

He raised one hand and snapped his fingers.

The boy disappeared – no scream, no sound. Just a smear of light and ash sucked into the ground.

The circle dimmed.

The chains slithered back into the stone.

And the cage of silence began to close again.

Ethan didn't look at Max as he turned to leave. He just said, quietly—

"We'll try again tomorrow."

Then he was gone.

And the dark returned.

…………………

After Ethan left, the light vanished again.

No spotlight. No altar. No bloodstained stone.

Just the dark.

Deeper than before.

He wasn't suspended. He'd been unwritten – peeled from the laws of gravity, stripped of edges, turned into silence wearing a name

Thoughts didn't come easily anymore. They were echoes now. Memories swimming in tar.

How long had it been? Seconds? Days? Months?

He wasn't sure there had ever been time in this place. Only weight. Only silence.

But the pain still lingered.

Not the physical kind. Not anymore. Moloch hadn't even touched him yet, not directly.

But the cage had.

It wore on him with every moment of emptiness. With every failed refusal. Every memory replayed until it warped.

He couldn't remember April's face anymore.

He could remember her death. Her voice the moment the fire caught. But not her eyes. Not her laugh. Not the way she used to mutter to herself while scribbling translations at midnight.

It was fading.

He clutched for Liz instead.

That was clearer.

Her face at the shrine. Her hand reaching through smoke. Her voice – Dad, please – echoing like a flame in his chest.

He wanted to hold onto it.

But even that… it was slipping.

His fingers twitched in the void. He didn't remember telling them to. He just wanted… something.

A spark. A breath. A tether to anything.

And for one fragile second— he felt it.

A flicker.

No heat. No light. Just pressure. A pushback from deep inside. The faintest rebellion. Like someone whispering no to the dark.

He closed his eyes – if they were open at all – and leaned into it.

It wasn't Hellfire. Not yet. But it was real.

April's voice surfaced again. Distant. Muffled. But real.

"You save them first. Always."

Then Liz's. Stronger. Clearer.

"You're still here."

He remembered her scream – the one that never finished. It was still inside him. Caught between ribs. A spark waiting to catch.

His hand flexed again.

A single blue spark glowed at the edge of his palm. So faint it could've been imagined.

Then it vanished.

But it had happened.

Something in him was still alive.

The void didn't like it.

He felt it recoil. The cage tighten – just a little. The silence hissed at the defiance.

But Max smiled.

Not fully. Not with joy. With resistance.

The first in a long line to come.

He would not give them what they wanted. Not today.

And somewhere, deep inside the black, the ember stayed lit.

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