He floated, face-up, in a black sea that seemed to have no shore.The surface was mirror-still, stretching outward into a vast and endless night.

  Still — he must be still.His breathing shallow, his body rigid, only his eyes darting beneath half-closed lids, searching blindly without turning his head.

  Above him, the sky churned.Red clouds tore themselves across the heavens, twisted into shapes too fast to follow — driven by silent, furious winds he could not feel.The sky boiled, but the air remained dead.

  His pale skin rose into gooseflesh, stark and ghostly against the dark.The water clung to him like oil, weightless and cold, holding him in place.

  He felt it moving through the deep —not a thing, but a presence, vast and terrible, scraping against the edges of his mind as it searched for him.

  He dared not move.He dared not breathe.He dared not even think too loudly.

  Far beyond sight, somewhere past the dark horizon, something shifted.The black sea stirred.

  Miles to his left, the sky began to glow deep red.The black water parted as great horns broke the surface — slow, deliberate.A massive, dragon-like head rose from the depths before sinking again, scales catching the sickly light.Behind it, a ridged back stretched on and on, like a mountain range sliding through the sea.

  Tears welled in his eyes, slipping free.His breath hitched into a frantic pant — still, he told himself.You must be still.

  The scaled back rolled endlessly toward the horizon.Farther away, the horned head surfaced again, sweeping the waters as it searched.

  He had to wake.He had to tear free.

  But the dream held him like a heavy blanket...

  Finally, the great shape sank from sight, slipping beneath the dark waters — and his breathing began to slow.

  Then the sea beneath him burned red.The waters boiled.

  He woke with a shudder, drenched in sweat.The same dream — again.

  His thinning brown hair clung wetly to his scalp.The sun hadn’t yet risen — only a faint glow pressing against the skyline, the first hint of another day.Traffic stirred in the distance — tires whispering, engines coughing.

  Sometimes he dreamed of other places —Places washed in light and peace, where no shadow lingered long,where existence moved like a great symphony, each part humming in perfect harmony with the whole.Worlds without cruelty, without hunger, without sorrow —where minds not born of flesh kept the universe turning with patient, tireless grace.

  He glimpsed it only rarely —a world where thought and structure, kindness and logic, beat like a single great heart.A place untouched by decay.

  And even in the dream, he knew:he was not made for that place.He was a relic of a broken world, a wounded thing adrift in an order too pure for him to touch.

  Sometimes he dreamed of cold dead stars, where barren worlds drifted through silence haunting more then orbiting the suns that once warmed them.

  Dreams of disfigured titans battling for freedom on a burning plane of existense to amuse the their dark master.But mostly he dreamed of the black sea.And the red demon.

  His room was large, but he had carved a small fortress for himself:the TV, the bookshelves, the dresser — all crowded close around his bed, leaving the rest of the room empty.The same room that had once held his crib, thirty-six years ago.

  He swung his skinny legs over the mattress —chicken legs, they had called him in school.and crossed the familiar hallway to the bathroom.

  Five steps.Always five.

  The sun cracked the horizon, spilling golden light into the house like a slow blessing.

  He sighed, steeling himself as the last drops hit the water.Flush.

  He turned to the mirror.

  Red jaws slammed shut beside his head — a serpent’s mouth, full of jagged fangs this time.He didn’t flinch. It wasnt real. He knew it.

  The serpent grinned at him, the way a cat might grin at a cornered mouse.

  "Anta dīlī," it whispered.And then it was gone.

  His hand shook slightly as he opened the mirror to the medicine cabinet —an army of pill bottles lined up in mute parade.Zyprexa. Risperdal. Abilify. Fluoxetine.

  He swallowed each one in turn, without thought.Mother counted.Mother always counted.

  A ritual.A useless sacrament.

  He no longer read the labels.He knew each by the sound and weight of pills rattling inside their bottles.

  . The smell of cooking bacon flowed from the kitchen. He returned to his room...floorboards cold and familiar beneath his soles...5 steps from the bathroom back to his room. He dressed quickly, white shirt, tie, kakis ..and walked to the kitchen...11 steps...the sun fully risen warming the rooms. His mother in her favorite flowered robe, hair looking like a gray q-tip cooked breakfast. "Good morning" she said without turning. She always knew when he entered a room no matter how silent he was...somehow. He sat at the table already set for breakfast...2 plates, 3 chairs...the third seat had been empty for years....but never removed. Tuesdays scrambles eggs and bacon slid onto his his plate. Tommorow was waffles his favorite. Friday was spinach mushroom omelet which he loathed but ate without complaint. They didn’t speak during breakfast. Eating mechanically—him, wrapped in thoughts of the day ahead; her, still hollow-eyed from the overnight shift at the hospital. A golden eye slid across the reflective surface of the wall clock as he glanced up to check the time. He blinked. It was gone. Not real. His stomach churned from the pills. A quick kiss on her gray head. She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. In the bathroom—blessedly alone—he did a fast hair check, brushed his teeth. No voices. No fangs. Just steam and silence. Outside, the sun slipped behind a cloud, letting the early spring chill reassert itself. He zipped his jacket higher and walked toward the subway station. Steps unknown, shifting day to day. Eyes down. Too many reflections in car windows and storefronts. Too many chances to see something he didn’t want to. He descended into the subway. The 8:15 train rumbled distantly, a familiar growl beneath the city’s bones. He slid his card at the turnstile, moving on muscle memory. Stopped at the edge of the crowded platform—exactly as the train pulled in. Always the same. The train was the hardest part. Reflections everywhere. Chrome. Windows. Sunglasses. Phone screens. And the soft murmur from mouths that didn’t move. Anxieties. Fears. Hatred. Not real. Not real. But loud. 22 minutes to Manhattan. 9 minutes to the office. Steps, steps, steps, and ground. He glanced up at a window just as he approached the front door— A red beast of ragged hair and claws walked beside him, perfectly in step. It didn’t snarl. It didn’t lunge. Just turned its burning eyes toward him and whispered: “Eres mío.” He didn’t stop. Not real. Through the squeaky sliding door into the relative safety of the bland lobby. The fluorescent hum was a comfort. The silence of walls, a blessing. Security knew him. Everyone knew him. The crazy guy. Nineteen steps from the front door across to the elevator. No one greeted him as he crossed the lobby— Just steps and black-and-white tiles, alternating like a rhythm only he remembered. Same everyday..endless...same... He pressed 23. The elevator doors closed with a sigh, and the dirty floor filled his eyes— a mosaic of scratches, heel marks, and muddy streaks left behind by everyone who’d passed through. He exited into the highlight of his day: Heather, the receptionist. Beautiful, but touched with sadness. Her thoughts echoed—worry over her daughter’s fever, rent due, no sleep again. Her dark, tilted eyes met his and a smile bloomed like sunlight. But it wasn’t real. None of it was. “Good morning, Sirius,” she said. He felt a little dizzy. “Good morning, Heather. How was your weekend?” “Great!” she lied, too quickly. She’d been caring for her daughter all weekend. He saw it—her pacing, her worrying, the stream of concern rolling off her like waves. Not real. All in his head.... “And yours?” she asked after a beat. “Good. Got lots done,” he said. That was a lie, too. Similar converstions every Monday for years. “Happy hump day!” On weds! “thank god its Finally friday!”... Echoes of weeks past ..of weeks to come.. " The conversation awkwardly hung as he got lost in her dark tilted eyes for a moment. “Have a great day,” she said finally, looking away. “Team building meeting at 10 a.m.” A punch in the gut. “That’s today?” he asked, his smile fading. “Yes,” she said, not looking up from her monitor. Five steps to the double doors. Opened into a maze of bland cubicles. He often wondered if the color of the cubicles had a name. Soulless tan? Life-sucking beige? ...Despair brown? “Another manic Monday,” Dave muttered without irony upon seeing Sirus enter, as if quoting a decades-old pop song made the weight of existence lighter.” Printer 3 is down again” —because of course it was. No reflective surfaces here, at least. The hum of office life wrapped around him—phones chirping, keyboards clacking, someone clearing their throat every 9.6 seconds. People leaned over cubicle walls festooned with photos of beaches and faraway places they’d never visit. Too many cat pictures. Cats in sunglasses. Cats in tacos. Cats clinging to branches with the words “Hang in there.” Trying desperately to bring life to this corporate crypt. Sirius slid into his chair, dropping his bag by his feet like a ritual offering. The desk was exactly as he’d left it— Two pens (one out of ink), a cracked coffee mug, and a stack of reports that no one would read unless he screwed them up. The hum of the office settled around him like fog. Monitors flickered. Phones buzzed. The printer wheezed like it was dying in slow motion. Sirius pressed the power button. The monitor blinked awake—first black, then the company logo, then the usual login screen. But for a heartbeat, just before the glow stabilized—something else. A face. A jackal—crooked and wrong—stared back. Its snout was broken sideways, nostrils flared, scabrous lips twitching around yellow teeth too flat, too human. It didn’t snarl. It clicked. Always there....always waiting. "You are mine." He blinked. Gone. Not real. He sighed—just a little. The login prompt awaited like nothing had happened. He almost preferred the snarling groteque horror to what followed. He opened his email. Thirty-seven unread. Two marked urgent. One flagged red—from Brad. Subject: Team Synergy Activation Hour! ??? Time: 10:00 AM Location: Conference Room B Note: Attendance mandatory. Positive attitude required. :) He stared at it. The emoji somehow made it worse. He needed more coffee to deal. He locked his computer and slid through the bustle of the office like a small fish swimming against the shoals 22 steps. For once, there was actually fresh coffee. He wasn’t the praying type, but a flicker of gratitude to some higher being passed through him. It died almost instantly. Brad was there. Brad who was his the “team leader” because “Overseer” had certain historical baggage Brad and Preston were the two smuggest names in the English language. And he had one of each in his office. Maybe this was actually hell. He wondered if he had a Russian doppelg?nger somewhere—pouring his own coffee in some flickering-lit break room, living the same hell. Maybe his tormentors name was Vladimir. Or Sven. Something brimming with smugness.. Maybe he had a Brad too. Brad caught his eyes and gave him a fake-cheerful grin and a finger gun. The echoes of Brad’s thoughts started to bleed through. Sirius pushed them away—hard. Flickering images of sports cars. Loud, empty dominance. And violent, degrading sex that felt more like conquest than connection. Not real. Not real. Not real. Too much for this early in the day. Too much for any day. “How’s my favorite IT guy today?” Brad boomed, mocking ,striding over to clap him on the back. Brad was a large man—handsome, a former Marine who spent every evening lifting weights, just to make sure his back slaps hurt. His blonde hair was immaculate. Not a strand out of place. Like even his follicles respected the chain of command. He loomed over Sirius by six inches and a hundred pounds. Sirius tried to shake off the sting without showing it. “I’m great, Brad!” he boomed back, voice forced into cheer, a laugh slapped onto his face like a sticker. Anger beat at him from the inside, fists pounding from behind his ribs. God, he hated Brad. Then the coffee pot he’d just set down burst in a flash flash of red, a crack like bone snapping, coffee spraying across the wall in a steaming arc. Conversations froze. People gasped. A few instinctively brushed at their arms, even though—miraculously—no one was hit. No glass. No burns. Just heat and shock. Brad frowned, startled. “What the fuck?” Sirius stared at the destroyed machine—then turned and used the distraction to walked away. He liked creamer. But black coffee was a small price to pay for freedom. Nervous laughter followed as he fled the room. People muttered about the temperature, about pressure differentials, about how they’d needed a new coffee maker anyway. Someone grabbed paper towels. Someone else made a joke about black magic. But a few eyes followed him as he disappeared down the hallway. This wasn’t the first time weirdness had followed Sirius Grey. And it wouldn’t be the last. 9:45 a.m. He returned to his desk, sipping bitter coffee, scanning his emails with quiet desperation—any excuse to leave, any service call to pull him from the upcoming team-building session. No luck. He reread the invite, confirming what he’d feared: The meeting ran until noon. Despair didn’t quite cover it. He answered mundane tickets about new equipment orders, future server upgrades—, remotley restarted printer 3 his fingers moved but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Then—a clap on the back. A sharp sting as Brad once again managed to strike the exact same spot from earlier. Sirius stumbled—not from the hit, but from shock. He was standing just outside the meeting room. But across the floor, his cubicle sat empty. “Absolutely outstanding today!” Brad bellowed in his usual too-loud voice, grinning like he’d won something. Another clap. Another sting. Sirius blinked at him, confused. “No, seriously, you committed today—and I respect that!” Brad’s voice dripped with something he usually kept hidden. Fakeness. Envy? “Wait… what happened?” Sirius asked. The words felt wrong in his own mouth like a mouthful of sawdust. Time had slid. “You okay, buddy?” Brad’s grin faltered just slightly. “You blew Silvia’s mind. Where did you come up with that energy?” Silvia? The district manager? Sirius’s stomach turned. The wall clock said 12:03 p.m. He hadn’t been in that meeting. Had he? He took a step back from Brad—one slow, cautious step—still facing him. Then turned, and walked fast. The bathroom. He hated using it. Always avoided it. But this time… he needed to see. He pushed the door open, rushed to the mirror. And found himself alone— in the bathroom. And in the reflection...things seemed muted, darker. What was happening? He left the bathroom after splashing water on his face side eyeing the mirror...only to open the door and find Silvia nearly face to face as he left the bathroom. Silvia was the kind of woman who seemed to expand into a room before her body even entered it. Hugely obese, She wore perfume the way other people wore declarations of war—thick, cloying, inescapable. Her voice was loud, syrupy, and always ended statements with a question that wasn’t really a question. She sat too close. She laughed too loud. She remembered your name—but not your humanity. And somehow, in the middle of this hell… she liked Sirius. Which made it worse. "How amazing were you today?" she beamed—though somehow, not quite looking at him. Sirius started to answer, but she overrode him with an overly sincere, "I didn’t know we had an actor in our midst?!" Her blue eyes touched his, then drifted just slightly—maybe to his forehead? He felt her thoughts like a TV on full volume… but playing only static. Not real. He drew a sharp breath. Something was wrong, but he needed time. Time to investigate. "It was nothing," he said. And it was. Three hours of nothing, his mind now probing like a tongue against a lost tooth. Silvia smiled again, with almost no warmth. "You were so in the moment! When you picked up Brad during the trust fall? I had literal chills!" Sirius forced a smile. "I was definitely in the moment. Thank you." Picked up Brad? Brad was huge. "I gotta go," he said—too loud—and began to walk around her. And it was a walk..she was massive. Back at his barren cubicle—no cat memes, no personal touches—he logged into the security cameras. A perk of being the IT guy: admin privileges. He began scanning—lobby, hallways. Only one camera had a view near the meeting room. He watched as the timestamp rolled back. There he was—entering the meeting room at exactly 10:00 a.m. His mind tried to remember… Nothing but a red haze. Black velvet. There were no cameras inside the room, but the floor-length windows gave him a view. There he was—talking, laughing, slapping Brad on the back hard enough to stagger him, then yanking him into a side-hug like they were old friends. He looked directly into the camera..his eyes met his…. It was too much. He shutdown his PC and hurriedly grabbed his bag forgetting his jacket and fled the office the fluorescent graveyard. No counting steps now. Heather stood at the elevator as he arrived going to lunch. The world felt disjointed, like a badly dubbed film—sound and movement out of sync, his thoughts skittering like water on a hot skillet. She gave him a smile—genuine, warm, unguarded. And in that moment, a voice flickered through his mind, soft and certain: Doctor called. It’s just the flu. My daughter’s gonna be okay….but so far away...barely heard. He blinked. She hadn’t spoken. She just stood there, watching the elevator numbers climb. Still smiling. He turned slightly away, chest tightening. He didn’t know that. He couldn’t have. But the thought had already been in his head. Not real. Had to be. Right? " The elevator doors slid open with their usual reluctant sigh. Heather stepped in beside him, clutching a paper cup and the tired grace of someone held together by caffeine and motherly instincts. He braced for it—the hum, the flicker, the whisper of her thoughts. They were always there. Half-formed plans. Quiet hopes. Worries for her daughter. Not real....not...there...something was...fading ....what was happening? Nothing. Just silence. No static. No undercurrent. Not even a flicker. At first, it felt like peace. Then it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff in fog. The world looked the same. But something was missing. He risked a glance. Heather smiled politely, eyes on the rising floor numbers. She seemed fine. He felt hollow. Silence in his head was alien. He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge the quiet. Heather glanced over at him, puzzled. The elevator doors closed. In the faint reflection of the brushed steel, there was nothing but him and Heather. He stared at it. Alone. The world looked the same, but the color was gone, drained like someone had turned down the saturation on reality. The elevator stopped. The doors opened. More people stepped in. Soon it was full—shoulder to shoulder, perfume and cologne, coffee breath, rustling coats and mindless chatter.. But it was as silent as a tomb at midnight in his head... No flickers. No thoughts. No emotional static. Just him. Everyone exited at the lobby, flowing like a gaggle of noisy geese toward the glass doors. He followed behind. Heather had started chatting with Chrissy from accounting— who, as always, showed too much cleavage and a skirt too tight for HR policy...her desperate need for male validations usually shone like a light house... .Brads fantasy. Sirius focused on her as she walked ahead. Trying to tune in. Reach out. Nothing. Just his own thoughts. Screaming. Echoing. Alone. Even the checkered tiles beneath his feet offered no comfort. No rhythm. No counting. Just ground. And the growing sense that something important was missing, something blocked and might never come back. The chill hit him the moment he stepped outside. The sun was hidden behind a solid sheet of overcast, and whatever warmth March had offered earlier was gone. No jacket. He remembered something he’d read once on a survivalist blog: The key to enduring cold was to accept it. Don’t tense. Don’t shiver. Just let yourself be cold. Passive. Let it pass through you like a river. It didn’t help at all. He broke off from the group of coworkers without a word, unnoticed, drifting toward the subway station. No step counting. No focus. Just the quiet sound of his own footfalls and the passing blur of city glass. He caught his reflection in a shop window. Alone. No echo. No flicker of a beast. Just him. Was it over? Was the medication finally working? Then why did it ache so much? His feet carried him more than thought did—muscle memory guiding him homeward. Card slid. Turnstile clacked. The train was already waiting, lights buzzing faintly. He boarded. There were seats available, but he remained standing, facing the darkened window. The train rolled forward. No red demon. No whisper in his ear. No flicker of something watching. Just him. Just glass. And his reflection. He felt like a man climbing stairs in the dark— Finding one less step than expected. Reeling. Stumbling. Unsure. The train doors closed behind him. He had missed his stop somehow. Missed many stops. He was nearly in Coney Island. The awareness crept in like a cold hand on his spine. He had lost himself—searching the reflection. Lost in this new, aching void of silence. The GPS that had unconsciously guided him his whole life… Was off. He exited the train. half seeking....like a blind man in a round room searching for the corner. Then the station. And walked toward the boardwalk. He passed barren trees, some just beginning to blush red with early spring growth. The place felt like a ghost town. Off-season silence. Faded signs. Empty benches. A space once bursting with life. He remembered warm summer evenings. The bustle. The laughter. The lights and fried food and music, tangled like a carnival fever dream. And the red demon. Always there. Watching. Mocking. But now? Gone. The pavement gave way to sun-bleached boards beneath his feet. The cold ocean wind sliced through him—but now he barely felt it. His feet stopped at the end of the pier. There was an itch in his mind like an aputated limb remembering a bug bite.. Gray, cold ocean waves churned and crashed against the pier’s legs. Gulls screamed overhead. And something else. A sound—long, low, mournful—rose up over the wind. A wail, like a soul torn loose. He lingered, reaching forward with his mind on instinct— and hit something. A soft resistance. Velvet wrapping steel. The more he pushed, the firmer it became. Something was there. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. God—he was freezing. The cold hit him like a sledgehammer now, seeping deep into his bones. He turned to leave, to retrace his steps— And then the cry came again, from his left. Between two shuttered buildings. A narrow, filthy alley. He paused at the entrance, arms wrapped around himself for warmth as the wind gusted. Trash stirred like it was trying to take flight—desperate to escape. At the far end of the alley: a figure. Huddled. Still. The picture of misery. Old, layered clothes. Filthy hair spilling from beneath a ragged winter cap. Feet wrapped in strips of cloth. The wall behind them was covered in red marks—scratches, symbols, words. Some spelled meaning. Others were just pain etched into brick. But they all screamed the same thing: Gone. Lost. Empty. And Sirius felt it. Felt drawn. Pain. Loneliness. Suffering. A raw, aching echo. The first emotion he’d felt from another since the elevator. Real. Real... real. He moved slowly, the wind covering his approach. But the figure turned toward him as if he’d shouted. Their eyes locked. And a jolt shot through him. Not fear. Not pain. Recognition. A connection beyond words—deep and instant. A flood of memories not his own began to pour through him. A lifetime. He staggered. Overwhelmed. He slammed the door in his mind shut, stopping it cold. And stopped walking. It was a girl. Early twenties. Eyes the color of the surf—gray, stormy, full of knowing. And those eyes— They knew him. Knew him to his bones. Knew him as he knew himself. She... Charlotte. No. Charlie. She hated Charlotte. She rose from the ground— Unfurled, almost, like something long-folded. Stood staring at him, small and sharp and ancient in her stillness. Her fingers dripped blood, raw from scratching the wall behind her. Symbols. Words. Desperation. The pain radiated from her fingers—and into him. It hurt him like it hurt her. She had recoiled too—he could feel it. But then came a flicker—a timid pressure against his thoughts. A knock on the door of his mind. Real. Real. Real. He was cold. She shivered. They breathed in unison. He knew her—end to end— like they had been the most intimate of lovers for millennia. Not flesh, but soul. Memory. Pattern. Pain. He gazed into her eyes Found, at last. He took her hand without words , none were needed. . Real He opened to her again—hesitant, trembling—and the memories flowed. Not his. Hers. A lifetime shared in seconds, A lifetime of suffering, of being an outcast from her own family, of intense anger and loneliness ,of being mocked…. She knew the demon. Wait—no. A different monster. A different torment. But the pain… the rhythm of suffering… It resonated deeply inside him. Like hearing your own scream echo from someone else’s mouth. It had never occurred to him that there were others. That the thing inside him wasn’t unique. That he wasn’t alone in his unraveling. Just... one vessel among many. She knew her demon’s name. Abaddon. It never occurred to him that his had a name, even. It was just the thing. The presence. The shadow in his life. But when she looked into his eyes—deep and sure— She said it. “Azazel.” And it struck like lightning. The name echoed in him, ancient and right. A bell that had always been ringing—he’d just never known how to hear it. She said it— Azazel. And it echoed inside him. The screaming, bellowing, roaring silence of his monster’s name. Like the world paused. Like breath collapsed. Like time shivered inward. It had always been there— beneath every dream, every whisper, every breakdown, behind every nightmare. he’d just never known how to hear it. “How... how do you know?” he stammered. She didn’t answer with words. She answered with memories. Of long nights pouring over forbidden books, chasing half-spoken prophecies. Of portents and whispers and symbols that made her teeth ache. Of consulting witch doctors, truthsayers, madmen. Of the loneliness of knowing something no one else would believe. There were no pills for Charlie. Only disbelief. Only pain. Only exile. She had been on her own since she was little more than a child. The world had beaten her for daring to be marked. Her pain mirrored his. Symmetric. Terrible. Holy in its horror. “Azazel” he said. And the world rocked. The black velvet veil exploded into a hurricane of darkness, and a presence—enormous, ancient, wrong—pushed between them. Charlie tore her hand from his, stumbling back, eyes wide with fear. “You must not name your demon ALOUD!” She screamed it— over a maelstrom only they could hear. And then— Silence. It hung in the air leaving a ringing void. She stood before him. Still. But gone. The connection severed. Broken. And Sirius was incomplete again. “No!” he roared—both in his throat and in his mind. Anger rose in him like a spear of white-hot light. He lashed out at the storm, rage turned blade. He struck. He carved. He raged. Tearing at the dark like a man trying to claw his way out of a shallow grave. And then—surprise. He felt it. The storm recoiled. He waded deeper into the shadow, lips curled into a snarl. It gave, grudgingly. He pushed. He shoved. He burned. He dug deep ...and found something...and lay a finger on it. The world exploded. Not just in his mind— The real world. The buildings flanking the alley evaporated under an unseen force, walls shattering into clouds of dust and flying debris. The pavement beneath his feet spiderwebbed with cracks, then sank—groaned—under some impossible pressure. He stumbled forward— Suddenly. The dark storm was gone. And Charlie was gone with it. Like a man pushing a boulder that vanishes mid-strain, he fell face-first into the dust, arms scraping pavement, breath torn from him. Blood streamed from his nose. From his right ear. But his eyes— His eyes were clear. Seeing for the first time. Full of Charlies knowledge. Full of purpose. Full of rage. He tried to stand— But the pain was everywhere. His head rang like a struck bell. His clothes hung in shreds. And he shook with a bone-deep exhaustion, all the strength torn from him. It was definitely a Monday. He rolled onto his side, groaning, and levered himself upright. Shaking. Breath shallow. Eyes wide with shock. The alley—the buildings—were gone. Scraped clean like a planer had dragged across the earth. Flat. Water fountained from shattered pipes all around him. To his left, the great Ferris wheel listed, its steel groaning like a wounded animal. The ocean was full of debris stretching away almost to the horizion. His eyes scanned the wreckage— No sign of Charlie. But his head… his soul… was full of her. They had only moments, but shared decades. His mind reached out—desperate. Searching. Calling. And found voices. Clear. Numerous. Thousands. Millions. Something was different. He heard the world now.. They poured into him like wind through a broken window. He slammed himself shut. Like a door against a hurricane. Too many. Too many. His mind— No. His soul—felt burned. Torn open.. Blasted. Raw. His strength returned—somewhat. Enough to climb. He stumbled up the side of the crater where he stood, each step a tremor through his battered frame. But with each footfall, something changed. He began walking. Steps became strides. Strides became purpose. Because he hadn’t just touched Charlie’s mind—her soul— He had brushed Azazel’s. And the contact left scars of fire. Images poured into him, fragmented and burning. Millennia without end. Centuries of servitude. Then rebellion. Then— the Fall. Cast down into the Black Sea. Not water. Not earth. Not time. Hell? Purgatory? Pandemonium? He didn’t know. Only this: it was not of this world. But above all else, more powerful than hatred, hunger, or exile— was Azazel’s singular, driving thought. Judgement Day. The War. The desire—no, the need—to inflict pain. Upon the world. Upon humanity. Upon creation itself. The wind no longer blew cold. The shrieking gulls stilled. The world stood frozen—shocked. He found the subway station mostly intact,its concrete bones ringed by stunned New Yorkers—the most unshockable people on earth,now silent, wide-eyed,staring past him at the ruin.Thank God it was off-season.Like the coffee pot that survived the breakroom blast—somehow, impossibly, nobody was hurt. A few glanced at him, but quickly returned to their phones— filming, uploading, live-streaming, chatting excitedly into the glowing rectangles. Sirens wailed in the distance. Sirius descended the stairs. He didn’t need a card. The turnstile clicked and turned on its own. He didn’t even notice. He had to find Charlie. He rode the train staring at his reflection— only his own dark eyes staring back. He reached out again— mind aching— like reaching through the flame the pain seared him. soul blistered. He called for her. For Charlie. Endured the shrieking storm of millions of thoughts— pain, terror, joy, longing. Searched for the mirror of his own soul. But he couldn’t hold it. Too much. He was exhausted to his bones, step leadened. Too ...real. The subway car was empty. So was the station. Even the ticket attendant—usually hunched behind scratched glass and graffiti—was gone. Sirius noticed, vaguely, as he ascended to street level the sky seemed strange...to still like it was holding its breath. Fourteen minutes to… It didn’t matter. He didn’t count the steps. He didn’t need to anymore. His apartment screamed with familiarity. After everything—after the storm, the rupture— it felt too normal. The clock ticked softly in the kitchen. Sunlight poured through the west-facing window, but had no strength to warm the linoleum. Dinner waited half-prepared on the stove— left for him, as always, after she went to work. It was just after 4 p.m. But it felt like he’d been gone for years. His mother bustled in. Blue scrubs. Badges and lanyards clinking. Hair tidy. Pinned up. “You’re home early…” she began— but trailed off. She saw his shredded clothes. The dried blood. Then their eyes met— And he heard her thoughts. For the first time. She had always been silent. Surrounded by a haze— a velvet blackness that shielded her. But now… he heard her. All of her. She tried to stop him— tried to hide. But he pushed forward. Like a juggernaut cradling the tiniest, fragile bird. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh no, Sirius… oh no.” And the flood began. Images. His father screaming. Ripping at his own skin. Falling into catatonia. Wailing only she could hear. The fracture of a mind shattered by others. By Azazel. “Not my boy,” she whispered. And he saw her. All of her. Her childhood in Armenia. Fleeing the Germans. Crossing Europe. Her father—selling family heirlooms for safe passage. And her name. Kohar—his gem, his light. Haris—his beloved child. He wrote it at Ellis Island. Carved love into a form. But to her, it was a curse— a name that never let her grow up. But now… Sirius understood. How could she hate it? Every time someone said her name, it was her father saying, “I love you.” And in that moment, Sirius loved his mother completely. All of her. The fear. The ache. The quiet sacrifices. Her heart, withering beside a man who had been hollowed out. Her arms holding him as a baby— even while she suffered. Her fear, as he began to change. The medications. The silence. Not to suppress. Not to deny. But to protect. He stepped forward and hugged his mother— fiercely. Held her for a long, long moment. Then drew back, and looked into her eyes. “I love you,” he said— without moving his lips. And then, he showed her. The deepest of loves. The kind only he could now. A love that reached through memory, through pain, through time itself. Fresh tears spilled down her face as she collapsed into him again, arms wrapped tight, a new hug. He had never realized how small she felt in his arms. How careworn. He sighed. Stepped back. Kissed her gently on the forehead. “Go to work,” he said— his voice rock steady. “They’re going to need you.” “I need to tell you…” she began. But his slight smile stopped her. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay Mom.” And he walked to his room, her worried eyes following him. He closed the door—softly. Then, gently, like blowing out a candle— he took the memory of him coming home from her. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the door, staring at what he had done with detached interest. He had heard but never altered thoughts and memories before only heard….always real now. From the hallway, he heard her stir— a slight gasp, a breathless moment— then the sound of her walking down the hall. She was humming. A tune learned from a Dutch soldier more than fifty years ago. She had taught it to her father as they walked down a pitted dirt road, the weight of survival heavy on their backs. a brief carefree moment among the hunger and fear. He shook his head. He couldn’t get lost in others' memories. Not now. He stripped off his shredded clothes and fell—filthy—into bed. And slept. And dreamed. More in control now, he sought what Charlie’s memories had told him… He was standing beside a river—thick, churning, and the color of old blood. It reeked of rust and rot, and something beneath its surface pulsed like a heart out of time. On the far bank, pyramids loomed—impossible in their scale, carved from obsidian and bone, their tips piercing a sky as black as judgment. Above, the clouds churned with locusts, millions, maybe billions, their wings whispering the names of the dead. He blinked. The world twisted. Now he was ankle-deep in the warm, reeking water of a Louisiana swamp, the air heavy with the smell of mildew and rain-soaked earth. Cicadas screamed from unseen branches. The tree stood ahead—that tree—massive and ancient, with a hollow trunk like a broken mouth. Its bark was tattooed with a chaotic snarl of symbols: sigils scraped by jagged hands, names half-finished, profanity carved like prayer. Chalie's memories had told him about this place. Where she used to hide. Where the bruises couldn’t follow. The air here felt different—not heavy like the river's fury, but sad, burdened by long-held grief. He reached out and ran his fingers across the carving she had described so many times in an instant: the crude, child-drawn face of Abaddon. Its eyes bled sap. The mouth was open wide, as if screaming, or singing. He heard her then. Not her voice exactly—but her memory. A sob, muffled against moss and shadow. He knelt. The ground beneath him shimmered like it remembered her pain. He could feel it—Charlie's loneliness etched into the roots like scars. The face she’d carved had not aged. It was waiting. He closed his eyes and whispered her name into the dream. The swamp did not answer. But something else did. The tree shivered beneath his hand. It wasn’t wind—there was no wind here. The swamp held its breath, and the cicadas had fallen silent. The carvings began to glow faintly, ember-like. Not all at once—just certain ones. The ones she’d made. The ones she hadn’t told him about. The ones she couldn’t. He felt it like a tug—not physical, but something in his soul uncoiling, remembering what it had never known. The hollow of the tree yawned wider, impossibly so, splitting like a mouth in slow motion. The air within was cold and wrong, smelling of scorched parchment and saltwater. He didn’t hesitate. Sirius stepped into the dark. Inside, he found no trunk, no roots. He was walking on something like glass, or oil, or mirror—his reflection beneath him, but wrong. It moved when he didn’t. Arbor Obscurorum Somniorum...he dreamed it because she had..He took another step, and the reflection below twitched. Not in sync. Not delayed. Just… wrong. It tilted its head, the same way Charlie used to when trying to understand a cruel joke. Then it opened its mouth—too wide—and screamed. But no sound came. Around him, the dreamglass darkened. Others gathered beneath it—countless reflections walking with him, beside him, behind him, but all facing upward. Their mouths stretched open in noiseless agony. Some pounded the glass. Others floated limp, as if drowned. These were the ones who had gone too deep. Now they belonged to the Arbor. Their bodies were long gone, but their consciousness remained—anchored to the root system, feeding the tree with their suffering. Each one a failed vessel. Each one a warning. And yet they followed him. As if they recognized something in him. As if they remembered hope. But hope doesn’t grow here. Only roots, roots that would consume him to if he lingered. Above him loomed pillars, tall and angular, rising into nothing. Each bore symbols—some he recognized from Charlie’s tree, others he knew were ancient beyond reckoning. One was bleeding. One was burning. One was humming his name. And far in the distance, he saw the black sea. Not calm. Not still. It boiled, white froth like teeth gnashing against the shore. Shadows moved beneath the surface, circling. The air was vibrating now, like it was trying to split. He was close. The others were almost awake. He stood on the black sands on the shores of pandemonium. The waves crashed and and the sea boiled alive with dark shapes...farther out massive things rose and fell, all scales and claws...Almost dancing, there seemed to be pattern almost..."It was almost time"...Not his thought ...a collective anticipation...like wolves circling an injured buck...blood on the ground. A low hum crawled up from the sea, deep and wordless, vibrating in the marrow of his bones. The shapes beneath the waves turned as one. Not toward him—but toward the wound in the world itself. The sand beneath his feet pulsed. "Soon," came the thought—not his, never his—and it echoed through the dark like a bell tolling underwater. Something vast was arriving, and it would not arrive alone. The water receded for a moment, dragged backward as if inhaling. The exposed seabed writhed—not sand, but something living, something waiting. In the silence that followed, he could hear them whispering beneath the surface. Not in words, but in memory. Regret. Hunger. Joy twisted into unfamiliar shapes. Far offshore, one of the towering shapes rose fully from the water, blotting out stars. Its eyes—if they were eyes—shimmered like oil and turned toward the shore. Toward him. He should have run. Screamed. Prayed. But he stood still as the tide returned in a single, crashing wall. It didn’t touch him. It parted around him. He understood, then. He was not prey. He was not intruder. He was summoned. He gasped awake. The sound of waves still roared in his ears, but it was the air that hit him first—wrong. Thick, electric, like a storm had just passed through the room and left its static behind. The ceiling above him flickered. The walls trembled, just slightly, like the building was breathing. Outside, the world screamed softly. Sirens wailed somewhere distant, blending with the shrill cry of birds—so many birds—spiraling in a black knot across the sky. The TV was on but it was snowed out, the screen twitching with static, but beneath the noise was a voice. Not a station. Not music. Just a voice. Repeating something over and over in a language that tasted like ash. He staggered to the window. The streets below were flooded with light. Red. Flashing. Pulsing. And above them, high in the clouds, something massive shifted—a silhouette where no shape should be. Something watching. His breath fogged the glass. He pressed his fingers to it. He’d seen it before. He felt it in everything now—a low hum, like a transformer about to blow. The world itself thrummed, as if straining under some unseen weight. Bruised and filthy, inside and out, he staggered to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him, as always. But this time he didn’t flinch. He peered into it—not looking for monsters, but for answers. There were none. He shook his head. He’d overslept—hours late for work. A small concern now, barely a whisper in his thoughts. He needed a shower. And coffee. The apocalypse could wait. No pills today. His thoughts were clear—oddly placid. He had been summoned. His destination was certain. It was almost over. He missed Charlie. After a quick, hot shower, he dressed in silence. White shirt. Tie. Khakis. He couldn’t find a pair of matching socks. Some things never changed. Familiar footsteps down the hall. His mother’s scrubs lay slung over a chair—filthy, bloody. It had clearly been a long night at the hospital. But there were waffles. His favorite. It was Tuesday. Only Tuesday somehow. Love welled up in him for her—his mom, who, despite everything, had made time for him. Exhausted. Asleep in the other room, dreaming softly. He reached out without touching. Just a whisper of intent. And gently, almost reverently, he pushed her deeper into sleep. To safety. He grabbed the two waffles from the plate and set them aside. Then he washed the dishes, wiped the counters, swept the floor. He wanted it clean for her when she woke. Retrieving the waffles, he slung his bag over his shoulder and quietly closed the door behind him. The air outside was hot and bloated. He walked to the subway through a tide of strangers, all bustling with forced purpose. Their thoughts were riddled with anxiety—they could feel it too, now. He munched on his waffles as he walked. Dry. Perfect. The sky ignited to his left. Like a second sun rising barely a mile above the ground—searing, radiant, and alive with power. It surged across the sky, a streak of molten fury, then curved sharply downward into the city. No one looked. His eyes only. But they all hunched their shoulders and walked faster. The subway station greeted him like an old friend. Still quiet. Still empty. The ticket booth unmanned. He slid his card through the turnstile with a faint smile, his eyes distant and glassy. On the platform, a few passengers stood like statues, glued to their phones. He couldn’t even remember where his own phone was. The train arrived. Shrieking pushing a warm stale breeze ahead of it...like everyday...but like no day. Only three people in the train car. A young couple in matching exercise clothes sat across from him—just beginning their lives together, their bodies still buzzing with the energy of morning routines and optimism. But now they huddled close, their phones gripped tight, scrolling frantically. He saw through their eyes. Images of wildfires swallowing highways. Volcanoes vomiting ash into the stratosphere. Shadows of massive figures streaking across the sky, half-captured by shaky hands. And, of course, politicians—always pointing, always smiling, always telling everyone to remain calm. He felt their worry. But it didn’t reach him. He was still inside. The train stopped. Familiar steps carried him from platform to lobby. A wave of human bustle moved around him, quickened by unease. One of the lobby guards brushed past him roughly, backpack slung over one shoulder, heading out early. His thoughts were a storm of concern. His dog. The only family he had left. Alone at home. Sirius didn’t look back, but he sent a sliver of warmth into the man’s mind—a wordless comfort. The dog would be fine. Then he stepped into the elevator. The ascent began. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a gentle ding, like nothing had changed. Like the world hadn’t split. Like gods hadn’t stirred in their deep graves. The office was brightly lit. Too bright. Heather’s laugh rang out from the breakroom like wind chimes in a storm. Artificial. Brittle, A little too high. A little too forced. She stood near the water cooler , plastic fork in one hand, phone in the other, talking fast to someone who wasn’t really listening. Brad was already holding court, leaning against a cubicle wall with that same smug posture—arms crossed, jaw tight, perfectly unbothered. His shirt looked more expensive than usual. Overcompensating. But something was different. The laughter was brittle. The smiles too wide. People kept glancing at the windows, at the TVs mounted in the corners—each one showing muted newsfeeds filled with smoke and fire and chaos behind scrolling banners of reassurance. Sirius stepped into the office like he was stepping onto a stage. Still. Calm. Present in a way none of them could match. Brad saw him. Of course he did. “Well, well,” Brad called across the room, voice riding a shaky thread of bravado, “Look who’s back from whatever cave he crawled into.” Heather laughed, a beat too late before returning to her phone. Sirius didn’t stop walking. He moved past cubicles like they were reeds in a field. The whole place shimmered—like something behind the walls was holding its breath. He stopped just a few feet from Brad. And smiled. Not smug. Not mocking. Understanding. Brad’s whole life opened to him like a book already read.Every secret, every memory, every fragile desire laid bare.Growing up under the iron silence of a military father—alcoholic, rigid, unknowable.The fear. The discipline. The cold dinners.Chino was his dog—his only real friend.The loss when his father left.The impossible task of becoming the man of the housefor a mother already worn down.The acting out. The fists. The bullying.Then the military—training for a war that never came.Now? Just echoes. Just alcohol.Trying to be his own man and becoming his father anyway.Brad loved the spring flowers.Sirius loved him in that moment.Loved him the way Brad once loved himself—before the world taught him not to. “You’re afraid,” Sirius said gently, like he was comforting a child. “And that’s okay.” The room quieted. Brad blinked slowly . “You’ve always been afraid,” Sirius continued. “But now the world is too. So you feel safe pretending again.” Heather’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Sirius turned to her.

  The worry she carried as a mother was immense—rooted in the shadow of her own, a superb woman who raised her in the neat-lawned, picket-fence dream of suburban America.

  Did she measure up?

  Her daughter was always sick. The questions gnawed at her: Was I careless? Am I enough?One thoughtless night had rewritten her future—law school fading behind the relentless gravity of motherhood.

  Now she was trapped behind a reception desk, her voice cheerful by reflex, her dreams quietly rotting in fluorescent light.

  And for Sirius?

  She barely noticed him. A kind word here, a shared lunch now and then—but she was like that with everyone. He wasn’t special.

  There was no interest.Not even a spark.

  The special hell of the friend zone—where kindness feels like hope until it doesn’t.

  He had hidden it from himself for so long.“Figures,” he thought.

  But he loved her anyway—loved her as she had once loved herself, back when the world was still bright, and her dreams still fit in her hands.

  She dropped her fork under the weight of his gaze, the knowing in his eyes..

  Silvia stood nearby, her presence big in every sense—her girth arriving before her, as always.

  But Sirius didn’t laugh. Not anymore.He understood.

  The smiles she wore were practiced—smooth as glass, sharp underneath.She was always “on,” always performing warmth, humor, confidence.But it was camouflage.

  Beneath it lay a cycle she couldn’t escape:Eat to forget.Hate herself for eating.Eat to bury that hate.Repeat.

  She loathed her body in the quiet places of her mind—the way her thighs touched, the way chairs groaned.She laughed with others before they could laugh at her.And every bite was a whispered apology to a world that never truly accepted her.

  But Sirius saw her. The real her.Not the weight, not the jokes.

  He saw the softness she hid behind shields.The intelligence dulled by exhaustion.The ache of being unseen and still performing every damn day.

  And in that moment, he loved her too.Not romantically, not out of pity—but with a quiet reverence.

  The kind you give to someonewho has suffered beautifullyand still chooses to smile.

  He gave her a warm smile as he walked past her.

  He was almost there, the designated spot. He was summoned. He hugged Brad. Fiercely. Briefly. Brad didn’t react—just froze, confused, arms half-raised, unsure whether to push away or hold on. Sirius stepped back, met Heather’s gaze for a moment. He sighed, almost fondly, and walked to his desk—but didn’t sit. He rested his hands on the back of the chair, took a deep breath. Behind him, Brad approached. He could feel it. Hear it without hearing. The whole office went still. The whole world held its breath. He was calm. Stone calm. On the TV mounted near the kitchenette, a shaky live stream flickered. A massive figure stood in Times Square—skin pale as alabaster, wings outstretched like cathedral sails. Cars lay overturned, store windows shattered. Flames danced in the reflection of glass towers. The feed stuttered. Froze. And then—the world shattered. A roar behind him. Splintering drywall. A desk hurtled past, tumbling end over end before slamming through a wall. Screams rang out. Ceiling tiles collapsed like snow. The building groaned. Dust filled the air. Sirius turned deliberately. Placid. Content. Like a Hindu cow led through chaos, unbothered by the storm. The Serpent had arrived. Azazel had come for him at last. It felt almost like peace. Its massive head loomed over him, eyes burning like twin suns. Its coiled red body stretched down the aisles, flattening cubicles, devouring desks. Filing cabinets twisted like foil. Inspirational posters drifted in the wake of its destruction: "Hang in there." "I hate Mondays." His coworkers stood frozen, slack-jawed, or scrambled for the exits, shoes slipping on debris. Brad backed into a wall, face pale as bone. "Mea es!" "Tu es à moi!" "Ty moy!" "Omae wa ore no mono da!" "Anta li!" They echoed through his mind—overlapping, shrieking, crashing like waves against his skull. A thousand voices. A thousand tongues. Some not spoken in millennia. Some never spoken by anything human at all. But all meant the same thing: “You are mine.” And now—face to face with Azazel—he felt it settle into him like gravity. Relief. It was all real. He hadn’t been mad. The visions, the whispers, the dreams… they were never sickness. It was truth. And it was almost over. He almost wanted it. But then—a tiny crack appeared in his calm. A hairline fracture. A sliver of red. Charlie... The serpent’s lips peeled back into a hideous, mocking grin. Not hunger—amusement. Like a cat playing with food it knew would never escape again. The crack widened. Anger began to ooze out. His calm, once sacred, began to bleed. He shook his head violently. Memories poured through the breach—sharp, hot, unbearable. A lifetime of mocking torment. The endless silence of not being believed. The deep, festering loneliness. But these weren’t just his. They were Brad’s, Heaher’s ,Silvia’s They were Charlie’s. That flicker—just for an instant—flashed in Azazel’s eyes. Recognition. A crack of his own. Then the serpent lunged. Fangs bared, head turned sideways to swallow— It moved like a god’s execution: slow, certain, cruel. But he didn’t want this. He would not allow this. He had brushed something once—at Coney Island. A whisper of power. A light touch that had turned to ruin. Now he seized it. With a hand that was not his own. And white light poured into him— Not unlike light, but like molten steel, living and furious. His arm—his true arm—snapped forward. Glowing. Elongated. Sharpened. He drove it upward— Through Azazel’s lower jaw, bursting from the top of the demon’s skull— Snapping the great head back, suspending it in a frozen arc held implaled on a spear of light that was once his arm. He was angry. The serpent’s body thrashed in agony, crushing what remained of the office. Cubicles splintered. Wires sparked. Dust and fire and screams filled the air. But the head was stuck. Held in place by him. Where his arm touched, the flesh sizzled and spat like boiling fat. And then the voices returned. A thousand howling tongues— Mocking, always mocking— But now they shrieked. Not with hunger. Not with triumph. But with shock. With pain. With surprise. With… fear. The spear of light twisted in his hand—becoming jagged, barbed… cruel. It had entered beneath Azazel’s jaw at an angle, and now erupted from behind the demon’s left eye in a spray of flame and rot. The body thrashed harder. Wild. Animal. Divine. It began to coil inward,pushing the office aside, a true constrictor preparing to crush. Sirius pushed it back— But it cost him. The power sang in his veins, and it screamed, it roared it bellowed a reflection of his growing anger. His hand trembled as he gripped the impaled skull, dragging it downward—slowly, deliberately—until he was eye to massive eye with the beast. Into that burning, swirling core of hatred, he stared. "You," Sirius whispered, hoarsely, his arm shaking now under the strain. "Are..." His voice rose like thunder cracking stone. "MINE!" The bellow ripped through the building like a hurricane. Desks and cubicles exploded outward. Office chairs embedded themselves into walls. Shattered glass cascaded from every window on the 23rd floor like a storm of razors. And at the last second—he remembered Brad. He shielded brad with a desperate costly motion of his mind ..like a man catching a glass falling off a table, like he had done with the coffe pot..with coney island. Brad gasped in his arms—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned. Speechless. Above them, the spear still burned in Azazel’s skull. And now… the blood came. Black, thick, and foul. It flowed down the glowing blade, hissing where it touched, steaming with corruption. Sirius felt it enter him—not physically, but in essence. A sickness. A poison. Not just pain—but Azazel, pushing back. "GO!" Sirius roared. Brad flinched, eyes wide with primal terror. But beneath it, just for a breath, was something else. Not bravery, exactly. But not cowardice either. A flicker—the urge to stay. To stand beside him. Stupid but admiral. "GO NOW!" like a thunder clap. That broke it. Brad stumbled through a jagged hole in the wall, tripping on shattered drywall and fallen debris, disappearing toward the stairwell. Pain lanced through Sirius’s shoulder as Azazel thrashed harder, its massive body convulsing with fury. But Sirius rose—still holding the spear, still keeping the demon’s head impaled. Azazel's composure returned in waves. Smugness. Certainty. That damnable smile curling in flame-slick lips. Sirius could feel it: he couldn’t hold him forever. And God, the rage beat at his mind dwarfing his own. It poured through him like lava—bitter, generational, earned. He hated this thing. Hated it with a clarity so sharp it sang. This monster that had haunted his dreams, twisted his mind, destroyed his bloodline. He reached into Azazel’s mind, battering against its defenses, peeling back layers of arrogance and rot. The visions came in strobe flashes—Judgment Day. Humanity scoured from the earth. The skies torn open. A new world built on ash, with demons enthroned. And Sirius? Just the beginning. His knees nearly buckled. The fatigue was crushing now. Holding Azazel in place was eating him alive. His arm trembled, soaked in ichor. The blade was darkening, drowning in filth. But it wasn’t just rot flowing down the spear anymore. It was power. And in a moment that startled even him, Sirius lunged— Pulled the demon's head sideways, bared its throat— And sank his teeth into the corrupted flesh. The connection snapped into place like a bear trap. Azazel shrieked—not in pain, but in shock. Sirius drank deeply of blood. Of poison. of power. He drew in all of it. The rage. The torment. The thousand sins that gave the fallen angel weight. He pulled them into himself, choking on them, devouring them, until there was no line between hunger and hatred. He had moved beyond caring. What had made him the ideal vessel now made him something else. He was possessing the demon. For now. The serpent's body shifted, twisted—becoming more dragon than snake. It sprouted clawed limbs and began tearing at Sirius in a frenzy. Fear poured from it like a river. Denial. This couldn't be happening. The line between them blurred. Fluid. Fading. Where the demon ended and Sirius began no longer mattered. And then the demon was gone—consumed, swallowed, bound. The wounds it left behind sealed over, leaving streaks of red like war paint across his skin. Reality twitched. Shuddered. He was. He is. Sirius's head was full of shrieking demon. He felt as if he held the light of creation in one hand, the endless darkness of evil in the other—and he hung between them, the fulcrum of a ruined world. He understood now. The divine plan. The figure in Times Square. The bargain made. The wager lost by humanity. He was panting. The strain of holding Azazel was unbearable, even as he wrapped the demon in its own power. His grip on the light slipped, just slightly. It didn’t matter. He knew what had to be done. Times Square was miles away—but he was beyond such things as distance. He reached into the demon. Into the light. Into the weave of the universe itself—and tore. His body convulsed like a broken marionette. The building around him disintegrated, blown apart by the backlash—and he snapped out of existence. And reappeared in Times Square. He stumbled and fell to his knees, vomiting blood again and again. This was tearing him apart. Mortal flesh wasn’t meant to contain this. It didn’t matter. The Angel stood before him. Beautiful. Flawless. Cold as carved marble. Above its head floated three interlocked golden rings, spinning in slow, perfect rhythm. Each was covered in eyes—watching everything. Knowing everything. It wore a white tabard cinched with a silver belt, pristine despite the chaos blooming around it. It held a glowing sword with both hands, point down...the weapon of the apocalypse. Azazel gibbered in terror. It struggled. Fought. The angel terrified it. Sirius bound it tighter. He suddenly saw angels arrival in his mind....The instant it had appeared, the world bent. A boom like a choir screaming in unison had cracked through the sky—sound and silence layered together until glass shattered inwards and windows burst like soap bubbles. Cars lifted off the pavement, flipping mid-air before smashing down, their alarms howling briefly before shorting out. Flames burst from streetlights. Electronic billboards exploded, vomiting sparks into the gray sky as scripture in an unknown language burned itself into the digital remnants. Concrete buckled. Buildings cracked at the seams—not from impact, but as if they’d aged a thousand years in a heartbeat. Street signs peeled, rusting instantly. The air itself hummed, and the hum crawled into people's teeth and bones. People screamed, or couldn’t. Many just fell to their knees, weeping or vomiting or silent, staring at beings that made mockery of comprehension. Above it all—floating like judgment incarnate—the angel stood, towering 25ft tall, untouched. Eyes within eyes spinning across golden rings, white robes unstained amidst the ruin. It hadn’t moved. It didn’t need to. Its very being was an act of war. There were survivors among the wreckage, huddled at the feet of the angel—Uriel. Sirius dragged the name from Azazel, who was nearly hysterical, raving inside him like a caged animal. But Uriel never looked down. His face was the picture of cold boredom, untouched by the carnage at his feet. The broken bodies of children lay among the wreckage. Sirius rose, unsteady. Every part of him screamed agony. His skin was blistering and begginging to char from within... but he didn’t care. He needed more. He needed that sword. The battle inside him shifted. There were no physical bodies anymore—just will against will, light against darkness—and the light was losing, dimming under the weight of the struggle. He reached into the demon, and its power poured into him. He reached into the light, and creation wept. Above Uriel’s head, the three golden rings stopped spinning. All the eyes turned. Fixed on him. The weight of their gaze was like a hand pressing down on his very soul. Uriel looked down at last. A thin crack of concern appeared on his flawless brow, right between his eyes. His head tilted slightly. “Abomination,” he whispered. Their eyes met. And Sirius staggered back, breath stolen from him. He reached toward the titan’s mind—only to find a wall of polished stone, smooth and cold and a thousand miles high. No cracks. No handholds. No mercy. He pulled harder from the demon. The air crackled, spat, shimmered with distortion like the air above a volcano as he caught himself under the weight of Uriel’s gaze. He needed more. He dragged from the light—tore it from his very soul. His skin blistered with red streaks like molten scars. His clothes burned away in shreds, vaporized by the fury pouring through him. He recognized it now. The pain. The power. Himself. The line between Uriel’s brows deepened into an actual frown. Bloated with stolen power, swollen like a week-dead corpse surging with raw energy, Sirius snapped out of existence with a concussive detonation—and reappeared on the titan’s wrist, reaching for the sword. The hilt was massive, forged of heaven-wrought steel. As his red-streaked hand touched it— The world came undone. Air warped. The sky bent. Light erupted at the point of contact, but it was swallowed instantly by black flame. Reality rippled like fabric stretched too tight. Then came the blast. Sirius was flung hundreds of feet backward. Uriel was hurled the other way, crashing like a comet through steel and stone. Sirius slammed into the concrete shell of a shattered wall. Rebar punctured his chest and leg with a sickening crunch. Blood filled his throat. His vision went red. The demon surged. It took advantage of his distraction, claws of darkness shredding from within, scrabbling for control. Sirius grimaced, teeth gritted in agony, and fought back. Rebinding it was like trying to bathe a Bengal tiger—ferocious, impossible, and punishing. The cost was high. The rebar glowed red hot then white and sagged away dropping him two stories to the ground...his wounds closed but slowly now. The sword had been torn free from Uriel’s grip in the blast—a miracle in itself. It lay embedded in the cracked pavement, half-buried, glowing faintly as if offended to touch such a world. Holy steel, untouched by rust or ash, humming with divine intent. And Sirius… Sirius could see it. Even through the haze of blood in his eyes. Even as pain raked through his shattered body and Azazel clawed at the inside of his ribcage like a starving animal. He knew. All he had to do was pick it up. But he also knew what he was now. A thing neither man nor angel. Filled with stolen light, soaked in demon-fire, dragging a damned soul behind him like a broken wing. The sword pulsed. It recognized what he was. And it recoiled. The holy light flared—white-hot, searing—and Sirius felt it before he even moved. It wanted to reject him. To unmake him. To burn the corruption from his bones until there was nothing left. Still, he pushed himself upright—shaking, limping, bleeding. The sword stood alone. Waiting. Judging. Azazel shrieked inside him. And Sirius took a step toward it. A building across the square collapsed as Uriel rose from its base...His golden wings igniting in white flame, anger contorted his face making it bestial. "Azazel!" he roared "ABOMINATION!"...his tabard filthy…it began striding towrard him the ground shaking with every step. Uriel thrust his massive hand skyward palm up and a pillar of white fire anserwed from the sky above pouring down apon Siruis, The fire scorched the broken pavement around as he was driving to his knees. He tried to push it away as he burned to deflect the roaring torrent of holy flame. Azazel rose within him no longer fighting him. His survival was Azazles at this point. The fallen angel boosted him, poured his own dark strenght into Siruis as he got to his feet once again. The sword was steps away...the flame intesified as Uriel focused and advanced.Azazel's presence surged up from the marrow of his bones, no longer fighting him, no longer mocking him.For the first time in Sirius’s cursed life, the demon’s power came willingly — terrifying in its intensity.

  Their fates were bound now.If Sirius fell, Azazel would be dragged down into the firestorm with him.Not as master and pawn.But as one beast, stitched together by desperation.

  Move, the demon snarled inside him, but there was no malice behind it — only naked fear.Take it, vessel. Take the sword, or we both die screaming.

  Sirius gritted his teeth, tasting blood and ash.The sword flickered before him, still impossibly far through the blistering air.

  Uriel’s fire poured down like a second sun.The ground trembled with each of the angel’s wrathful steps.There would be no second chance.

  Inside Siruis’s white light, his soul was so soaked in the demons dark power, so drenched with it that it was almost unrecognizable. Siruis lunged for the sword as it hummed in protest. The torrent of fire thundered down apon him. Mortal flesh could never wield the weapon of the devine ….but Azazel could. His right arm and hand burst into dark flame as he grabbed the sword. It spat white sparks and resisted his grasp but he poured Azazel into it like an ocean of putrescence.The Pain was unbeleivable for them both... The blade darkened and twisted the light fading from it rapidly becoming hideos, jagged and barbed… Siruis/Azazel rose. The Holy torrent countinued to flow from the sky. Ureil was a step away. He raised the sword above his head...

  The heavens recoiled.The wound in the sky, from which the torrent had poured, snapped shut with a deafening crack, like a great door slammed against them.

  Uriel staggered, disbelief breaking across his fierce, bestial face.He had seen corruption before.He had smitten abominations before.But he had never seen a mortal soul and a fallen one meld so wholly, so willingly — and live.

  "Blasphemy," the archangel hissed, his wings faltering, sputtering golden embers across the broken earth.

  Sirius — or what remained of him — took a slow step forward, dragging the sword behind him like a broken star.The blade shrieked against the ground, hungry, leeching the light from the very air. The black flames that had engulfed his arm spread to Siruis’s chest and half his face now..The perfect trinity was formed. Demon , heaven and human.

  From deep within Sirius, Azazel spoke again a voice layered with a thousand howls and a million whispers now Siruis’s voice added as well. “strike! Strike my brother down vessel!”.

  And Siruis struck. Leaping of the ground high into the air he brought the blade cleaving down into holy flesh. Light more then blood poured as it sank into Ureils neck down thru his chest finally imbedding in his hip. Azazel roared with approval.

  The world and creation wept as something eternal was unmade…

  Siruis no longer breathed or felt...he hung on by a fingernail to his life.

  He touched the dying angelsweakened mind. Pushing thru endless memories of servitude and obediance its mind was far more alien the Azazles...IT wanted nothing but to obey...and now for the first time if felt confusion ...and fear.

  Uriel wasnt here alone. There were hundreds of Angels here all connected via a thread for the end of days all aware as their brother in arms since creation fell...

  The dying angel's mind lay open before Sirius like a torn scroll, words bleeding into the void.Hundreds.Maybe more.Their souls braided together — golden cords strung across the sky, singing a song of endings.Each angel a hammer, each thread a signal.Uriel's death was no secret.They felt it.They knew.

  And they were coming.

  From every ruined corner of the heavens they would descend, to finish what had been written.To cleanse, to erase, to start anew.No quarter. No forgiveness. No hesitation.

  Azazel stirred inside him, still laughing, but there was no true joy in it — only hunger and hate."Break them," he whispered, a black caress across Sirius’s mind."Shatter their song before they shatter you."

  Sirius wrenched the corrupted blade free from Uriel's body with a sickening, wet crack. It pulsed like a living thing, Heaven and hell twisted together.The light that was Uriel spilled out into the air, guttering like the last breath of a dying star.

  For a moment, Sirius staggered —caught between exhaustion, agony, and something deeper:a terrible clarity.

  He could see the threads now.Stretching across the heavens.Tightening.Burning.Leading him from one enemy to the next.

  He was no longer just surviving.He was hunting.

  One last time he pulled from his light. It flared brightly becoming a raging bonfire then expanding as he dragged from it , pulled on it like a man trying to swallow the ocean with a straw, It became huge like the sun. Azazel quaked before it cowering inside him. Not yet

  He dragged from Azazel as well, Truly consumimng him , every bit power and corruption flowed into him as Azazel struggles became weaker and weaker...He needed it all as the Demon ceased to be, Azazel nearly seemed releaved.

  And finally the sword crumble to dust that scattered to the growing wind. All of it.

  A maelstom formed over head as a powerful wind grew rapidly to hurricane force and beyond.

  He took it all in and fell to his knees...and convulsed as he poured every drop of into those golden threads conenecting them all with a thunder clap….

  The golden threads shuddered as he touched them.They tried to recoil, to pull away — but it was too late.

  Sirius — who was no longer Sirius, who was more and less and something entirely new —poured the stolen light, the stolen dark, the entirety of his annihilated soul into the web.

  The sky split open with a scream that had no voice, only force.The golden cords ignited.One by one, and then all at once.

  Across the world, unseen by mortal eyes, the angels fell.Torn from the sky like burning leaves.Cast down, unwoven from existence itself.

  The maelstrom roared overhead, the shattered sword’s ashes spiraling higher, higher —until they joined the screaming winds,until they became part of the broken firmament itself.

  Sirius knelt in the ruins,body ruined,soul in tatters,the murderer of heaven.

  The defiler of hell.

  For a moment — he felt Charlie again...Abadon was gone..burning with the other angels...an uninteded consquence leaving her scarred and empty inside..she was so far away but flickers of sorrow and gratitiude touched him.

  His fingers crumbled to ash as he slumped over.just a moment —there was silence.

  The universe held its breath.

  And then something else stirred.Something far older than angels.Something that had been watching.

  He collapsed onto the shattered earth, his broken form barely clinging to existence.The winds howled around him, carrying the ashes of angels into the void.His heart fluttered, weak.His breath was ragged, torn.

  Above him —in the black wound where the heavens had torn open —something moved.

  A great lidless eye, vast beyond understanding,unfurled from the darkness like the slow blooming of a monstrous flower.Its surface was pitted and cracked, like the face of a dead moon,yet alive — pulsing with an ancient, awful awareness.

  It turned.It rolled.It found him.

  And as it settled its gaze upon the ruin that was Sirius,he felt something deeper than fear.Something colder than death.Recognition.

  The eye blinked once — a slow, terrible closing —and Sirius, broken vessel of light and dark,finally slipped into silence.

  The world turned, forgotten for a moment,held under the gaze of something far older than gods.

  He floated in the black sea again...

  The black water closed around him, silent and absolute.He sank slowly, carried by his own broken weight.

  He laughed once — a ragged, ugly sound —a laugh that tore itself from his throat like rusted wire.Blood bubbled from his lips, drifting like petals into the dark.

  Everything Azazel had ever touched in him was broken open now —his right arm ablaze with invisible fire,the old scars ripped wide,the places where demon claws and rebar had torn him screaming apart —all bleeding freely.The corruption could not save him anymore.There was nothing left to bargain with.Nothing left to fight for.

  Except—

  Charlie.The way she smiled even when the darkness was eating her alive.His mother — hands trembling as she packed his lunch, trying so hard to be brave for him.Brad — that idiot — standing his ground when Sirius told him to run, finally believing him.

  Their faces rose in the black waters around him, pale as moonlight.Not blaming him.Not afraid of him.

  Just there.With him.

  He coughed again, more blood than breath now.The laugh faded into a harsh, wheezing gasp.His ruined body convulsed once —then went still.

  The current took him deeper.The lightless sea swallowed him whole.

  He was the broken king of a broken world.