There was no fire.

No breath, no body. No gold, no blood, no battle.

Just white.

Max floated – or thought he did. There was no floor. No gravity. No pain. Only endless white, like falling into an empty page. Even the fire that had always been with him – his curse, his strength – was gone.

He reached for it out of instinct, but there was nothing.

Nothing… except a thread.

A warmth. Thin. Faint. Like the curl of a sleeping breath against a windowpane.

It pulsed.

Max turned toward it, even though he had no feet to walk, no lungs to breathe. It was just there – a heartbeat not his own, calling to him through the void.

And he knew.

Liz.

The warmth flickered again, brighter now – curling through the emptiness like a red silk ribbon of memory. Max didn't think. He moved toward it, or maybe it moved toward him. Space meant nothing here. Only feeling did.

The warmth touched him.

And the white gave way.

He was in a zoo. Liz's hand curled tight around his, too small to hold it properly, her fingers sticky with ice cream. She was laughing. Laughing hard. A giraffe had sneezed and she shrieked and called it gross and perfect and asked if they could take it home. Max had said no. She pouted. He gave in.

Then it changed.

He was on a couch. She was studying, earbuds in, foot bobbing. Max passed by the doorway with a cup of tea and watched her for a second too long. She noticed and rolled her eyes but smiled.

A new moment bloomed.

Hospital lights. A hiss of machines. Max asleep in a chair, her fingers weak but still curling around his. Her voice, a whisper: "Don't leave, Dad."

She had always been stubborn. She had always been brave.

The warmth tightened around his chest like an embrace.

And then—

He heard her voice.

Not a memory.

Now.

"I'm still here."

…

Max's knees – if he had knees – buckled. The sound was fragile. Raw. As though spoken through cracked glass.

He opened his mouth, but what came out was a sob. His hands covered his face – not flame-wreathed hands, not fists but human hands, scarred and shaking.

She was alive.

Buried under it all.

Still Liz.

Still his.

"I've got you," he whispered. "I'm coming."

The warmth pulsed again. Stronger.

But it changed.

The thread that had wrapped him began to shiver.

The void rippled.

Darkness crept into the edges of the white—like bruises blooming on skin. The warmth faltered. Became irregular. Distorted. Like a heartbeat skipped. Then another.

"I'm still—"

Her voice cracked.

The syllables shattered, fragmenting into jagged echoes.

Max reached forward.

"Liz?!"

The warmth twisted.

Became heat.

Then pressure.

Then pain.

He heard a scratching sound.

And the white around him—

Began to break.

…………………

The warmth vanished.

Replaced by rot.

The white of Liz's mindscape cracked inward – spiderweb fractures blooming across memory. A scream echoed once, distant and wet. Then the world tipped sideways and pulled Max under.

The fall didn't end.

He slammed into a landscape made of flesh and static. The sky rippled red, carved with shifting scars. The air smelled like sweat, sulphur, and blood dried long ago. It wasn't a place.

It was a wound.

Max tried to move – no body. Just awareness. Just soul.

And then he saw it.

Her.

Crawling.

A figure dragged itself across the broken ground on ruined elbows and knees, each motion slow and awful, like something remembering how to die. The limbs were too thin, too long, shaking with the effort of movement. Her face… it was Liz's.

But stretched. Gaunt. Her lips were raw from chewing. Her eyes bulged – wild, red-rimmed, never blinking. Her hair clung to her skull in matted clumps, streaked with black rot.

She wasn't walking.

She was scratching.

At the walls. At the ground. At the seams of memory. Her fingers were bare bone, claws now, worn down from years of clawing toward freedom that never came. Torn fingernails littered the floor like fallen teeth.

Max screamed.

But no sound came.

She didn't see him. Or couldn't.

She mouthed something – over and over.

"Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out…"

The Wretch kept crawling, kept bleeding.

And then the visions began.

Memory fragments erupted like glass from the ground, slicing the air, hurling images at him in a kaleidoscope of torment.

April burned again. And again. And again. Each time, Liz stood behind her – holding the match.

Crawling things came for her. Over and over. Relentlessly. Not demons with names or faces, but sensations – fetid hands made of shadow, hunger that had forgotten what it once was. They slithered through her ribs, slid between the cracks of her mind, whispering things in voices made of her own screams. They didn't kill her. They didn't leave. They waited until she tried to think of home, or Max, or light – and then they came again. Every time she remembered love, they repaid it with ruin.

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Max turned his back and walked away as Liz screamed his name, reaching for him with hands that weren't hers.

The demon – smiling with her face – reached out to Max. He embraced her. Kissed her forehead. Said "I'm proud of you."

Liz watched from inside. Trapped in her own face.

Screaming.

Her voice narrated it all in broken gasps:

"He didn't know. He couldn't tell. He saw me… and never saw me."

The mindscape buckled.

Hands grabbed Max. No – Liz's hands, forced by possession, puppet-limbs dragging him through broken memories like trophies.

He saw the ritual again. The contract she tried to make. The one that failed. The moment the demon pushed inside her, not with fire or claws but with need. With ownership. Her soul was held down, pinned beneath consent that wasn't hers, forced to watch herself disappear.

"Don't take me— take anything else— please—"

Max's soul buckled.

It was too much.

Too much.

The pain wasn't pain. It was helplessness made physical. The feeling of your child being broken – and knowing she still called your name.

He saw her cut herself – not to die, but to feel like herself again.

He saw her eyes go black. Her mouth open to scream, but only the demon's laugh came out.

"Dad, I tried. I really tried. I'm sorry—"

"I wasn't strong enough."

He fell to his knees – inside himself.

Eyes wide. Body shaking.

His soul cracking like porcelain under pressure.

"Stop," he whispered.

"Please. Stop."

But it didn't.

The last image came like a blade between ribs.

Liz. Curled in a corner.

Hair ripped out in chunks.

Arms bruised from her own fists.

Her body skeletal. Lips trembling.

And her voice – barely a whisper:

"Dad… I'm sorry I wasn't strong."

Max screamed.

And the soul around him began to break.

…………………

The storm inside her soul raged without end – howling winds of memory and torment, a kaleidoscope of pain rendered in flesh, in fire, in the shuddering echo of broken breath. Max knelt in it, burning from the inside out, not from flame but from sorrow so vast it felt like he'd been hollowed.

Then— A flicker. A hush. A tremor in the storm.

She stood there.

Not The Wretch.

Not the crawler.

Not the fragmented thing he had seen scuttling through darkness, begging for release.

Liz.

Her true self.

Sixteen. Slender. Haunted.

She stood barefoot in the mire of memory, the storm still gnashing around her like teeth made of time – but she was no longer the Wretch.

Red armour clung to her soul.

Not forged of metal, but memory – cracked and scorched from battle, layered in trauma, shaped by every second she survived alone. Her gauntlets trembled. Her shoulders slumped. She looked stronger than he remembered – and yet smaller somehow. Like a girl who had been reforged too many times.

Her eyes – those same green eyes – locked onto his.

And for a second, she didn't breathe.

"Dad...?"

It came out like a confession. Like a prayer.

Her mouth trembled. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, red armour creaking like it might break under its own weight. She blinked fast – once, twice – and staggered a step toward him.

"You're here," she whispered. "You're really here."

Max opened his mouth – he wanted to say yes, wanted to say always, but nothing came out. He couldn't. His throat collapsed around the words.

Because this wasn't just a flicker. This wasn't an echo.

This was Liz.

Alive. Flickering. Wounded.

Here.

She took another step forward. "You heard me…"

"I heard everything," he choked.

She covered her mouth, tears mixing with blood on her cheek. Her legs gave out. She collapsed forward.

Max caught her.

She was shaking.

So was he.

She pressed her forehead to his chest, sobbing once – just once – and whispered:

"I begged."

And that was what broke him.

He fell to his knees, arms wrapped around her.

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

Max couldn't say more. His throat locked. His hands trembled. He had seen everything. Every violation. Every scream. Every second she endured alone. And yet she stood.

Not whole.

But not gone.

"I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "I wasn't strong enough."

She tried to back away.

"Don't," she begged. "Please. You'll break too."

"I don't care."

He wrapped his arms fiercely around her.

She froze.

Then shook.

Then broke.

Her arms clung to him like a drowning girl clings to the last breath she'll ever take. She sobbed into his chest – not loudly, not wildly, but with the quiet, stuttering grief of someone who never thought she'd be held again.

Max said nothing at first.

His arms tightened around her.

Then—

A glow.

His fire returned.

Not the golden flame of rebellion.

Not the hellish blue rage that devoured worlds.

But a gentle, cerulean light.

It glowed from his chest, wrapping around them both. A father's flame – not meant to destroy, but to protect. To warm. To remind.

Max whispered it into her hair.

"I'm still your dad."

The words cracked something in the air.

"You survived everything I couldn't protect you from," he said, voice thick, trembling. "But you're not alone anymore."

She wept harder. He held tighter.

The blue flame swelled – slow, steady, bright – and the red-black mire around them began to steam. To melt.

The illusion began to collapse.

The broken mindscape, the architecture of her pain, her prison—

It began to burn.

And neither of them let go.

…………………

The real world snapped back like a whip.

Max's eyes shot open – wide, wild, wet with tears that instantly turned to steam. He sucked in a ragged breath and nearly screamed – not from pain, but from everything.

He was kneeling before the pod.

Still scorched. Still broken.

But not the same.

The flame had returned. But it wasn't gold anymore.

It was blue.

Not sapphire. Not celestial. But a deep, primal blue – like the bottom of the ocean catching fire. It didn't burn upward. It swirled, curled, pulled inward as much as it radiated out. It dragged the air into itself, bending the smoke, the light, the sound.

His veins lit beneath his skin – lines of cobalt lightning etched into muscle. His hands shook, but not from strain. From power. Terrible, aching power.

Chloe stirred nearby, blood at her temple, barely conscious. Her eye cracked open—and widened.

"What the hell…"

Dan shielded his face from the sudden heat. "That's… that's not his usual fire."

Victor groaned from behind a shattered pillar, claws twitching. Even Alyssa, pinned beneath debris, turned toward him with something close to fear.

The pod pulsed behind Max – syncing to his breath. Red light thumped in time with his heartbeat, and then faster, brighter, louder.

Max stood.

Slowly.

His spine cracked with the motion.

And then they saw it.

His face – different.

Not twisted. Not monstrous. But wrong.

Black veins webbed up his neck and jaw, pulsing with hellfire. His teeth gleamed – sharper now. Too many. Not human. Not demon. Something in between. His irises were pure flame – no pupil, no distinction. Just glowing rings of blue, endless and impossible.

Two faint ridges curved along his skull – horns not yet formed but promised. His breath came out in curls of smoke, tinged blue at the edges. His body didn't cast a shadow anymore.

It pulled shadows toward it.

The fire was alive. Breathing. A storm made sentient.

Dan stepped forward, awe cracked by dread. "Max…?"

Max didn't respond.

He didn't have words yet.

He stepped forward instead – just once.

And the floor melted.

Where his bare foot landed, gold turned black. Stone warped. The air shimmered like a mirage collapsing under the weight of something old. The chamber tilted slightly toward him, as though gravity itself had adjusted.

The others braced.

Mammon turned slowly – his steps careful now, measured.

He looked at Max not like a warrior. Not like a threat.

Like a ledger anomaly.

A glitch in the balance.

A silence hung between them.

Then Mammon's eyes narrowed.

His lips parted into something like a smile.

"Ah," he said softly. "There it is."

…………………

The moment stretched.

Mammon took one step forward.

Max didn't move.

He couldn't.

Not yet.

His fingers twitched at his sides. The fire inside him wasn't roaring anymore.

It was rumbling.

Boiling.

Like a tectonic plate grinding under his skin.

He saw Mammon raise one hand toward Liz's pod again.

That same elegant gesture.

That same collector's poise.

It wasn't malice. It wasn't wrath.

It was inevitability.

The final claim.

And that—

That was when Max broke.

The scream tore from his lungs like it had been buried there since the fire that took April. Since the coma. Since the contracts. Since the demon. Since Liz begged in the dark for him to save her and no one came.

His body detonated.

Blue Hellfire exploded from his spine like a star going nova.

It wasn't flame – it was judgment.

A tidal wave of cobalt light flooded the chamber, rippling out in concentric rings. The gold in the air disintegrated. The spires melted. The atmosphere screamed. Every glyph etched in the walls shattered into raw syllables of soul and ash.

The Grimm Institute buckled.

Smoke split apart like parting curtains.

And standing at the epicentre – back arched, mouth open in a wordless cry, arms blazing with holy fire – was Max.

But not the Max they knew.

Not anymore.

His skin was carved with glowing cracks of flame, etched with the sigil-patterns of Aamon's brand. The horns had grown – twin black arcs curving backward like a crown of ruin. A long spinal ridge of charred bone had erupted from his back like a devil's spine. Fire bled from his eyes. His breath came out in plumes that turned the air liquid.

Blue Hellfire roared in every direction – endless, tidal, alive.

Chloe flinched. Her body instinctively phased a few inches away, not by choice but by fear.

Dan collapsed fully to one knee. His golden aura dimmed.

Victor stared through bleeding eyes and whispered, "Oh hell."

Alyssa, pinned beneath gold, stopped struggling – not in surrender, but in awe.

The floor under Max's feet turned to molten obsidian.

The ceiling above fractured with heat stress. Beams screamed and split.

The entire Grimm Institute groaned like it was being re-written.

And Mammon?

For the first time—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A flake of gold dusted from his sleeve where Max's aura had touched him.

He didn't step back.

But his weight shifted.

Like an investor seeing the first number on a spreadsheet that didn't add up.

Max lowered his head.

His mouth opened.

When he spoke, his voice was two voices layered over one another – his and something darker, deeper.

Something older.

"You hurt my daughter."

The fire coiled tighter. Not chaotic. Not wild.

Directed.

Focused.

Max raised one hand.

A comet of blue fire spun into existence above it – a mini star, compressed soulflesh and vengeance. His aura cracked the sound barrier with a snap like thunder beneath the sea.

It didn't burn air – it devoured possibility.

Mammon took one half-step back.

The world held its breath.

Max's final words were low.

Gravel, ash, and love turned into wrath.

"No more debts. No more demons."

He punched forward.

The comet detonated.

The Grimm Institute's lowest level vanished in a dome of blinding cerulean light.

The explosion melted the ceiling, vaporized the remaining spears, and sent a shockwave up through eight levels of reinforced soulsteel.

Every light in the compound went out.

Silence followed.

Not quiet.

Silence.

And from within that silence, as molten gold dripped from cracked walls, and steam hissed from the earth like breath from a dying god—

A single figure stood.

Backlit by blue fire.

Breathing hard.

Unburned.

Alive.

Max.

No longer a Contractor. No longer just a father.

He was something else now.

Hell's true heir.

And Mammon – emerging from the crater, robe torn, mask cracked, face dripping with golden blood – not like a variable.

Not like an asset.

But like an extinction-level error.

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