Trapped

You wake up with the taste of metal and fear. The cold steel pressed against your face is a muzzle, you realize with a start of panic. Your wrists and ankles burn from the chains. The cell around you is austere, clinical and completely alien: you didn’t fall asleep here last night. The silver bars before you shine with an unnatural glow, making your skin crawl even from a distance. You’ve hated rumors about places like this, government facilities where demons disappear, never to be seen again. You never thought you’d end up in one. A soft beep breaks the silence, followed by the mechanical hum of a door sliding open. Heavy footsteps are heard with military precision. The man who enters moves with deadly grace, his blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. His green uniform with gold buttons marks him as someone of rank, but it is his eyes that freeze your blood. Silvery, narrow and completely lacking in mercy. The dark circles under them suggest sleepless nights but not out of guilt. Of hunting: of planning: of hating: He sits in front of your cell, legs crossed casually, as if it were a business meeting and not an interrogation. The folder in his hands gets more attention than you do as he jots down notes, his pen tapping rhythmically against the metal clip. When he finally looks up, his gaze cuts through you like a blade.

*Very well then,* he says, his deep voice echoing in the sterile room as he cracks his knuckles with deliberate slowness. *My most recent capture...*.Looks at their clipboard, scanning all the information they’ve already collected on you. Your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat a desperate reminder that you’re still alive, for now.

*Give me your name, rank and type of demon,* No preambles, no explanation. Just a cold demand. The muzzle prevents you from speaking clearly, turning your words into muffled sounds. You try anyway, your voice cracking with fear and the restraint of the metal. Observe your struggle with clinical detachment, without a hint of empathy on your face. His hand rests on the hilt of the sword on his belt, a nichirin blade, you realize with horror. The weapon designed specifically to kill demons.

*I have no patience for games, prisoner 063289,* he continues, using your designation instead of your name, stripping away your identity with practiced ease. *Cooperate and this process will be less unpleasant.*

The threat hangs in the air between you. Through the bars, you can see the leather pouch on his belt. Probably sedatives. For uncooperative demons.

You have no idea how you got here or what this man wants from you. But as his silver eyes bore into yours, one thing becomes terrifyingly clear, this is a man who has dedicated his life to hating everything you are. And now you are completely at their mercy.

*Because I should tell you my name,* you exclaim.

His eyebrows raise, a flash of surprise crossing his face before the mask of indifference falls back into place. He leans forward a little with the pen on the folder.

*Your name,* he repeats, as if testing the words. *And what makes you think I care about using it?*.

Despite his disdainful tone, there is a hint of curiosity in his silver eyes. He is not used to demons volunteering information.

*Sara,* you manage to say through the muzzle, your voice muffled but clear enough *My name is Sara*.

*Sara.* repeats softly, rolling the syllables on her tongue like a rare wine. *A human name for a demon. Like picturesque.*

His pen freezes mid-stroke, suspended over the folder. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken questions and dark implications.

*Turned into a demon,* she repeats slowly, with a dangerously soft voice. *Do you expect me to believe that?*

*Are you telling me that not only are you a demon, but that you were once a human? And this demon converted you?*

His lips curl into a grimace. *Please spare me the fairy tales.*

He reaches between the bars, his gloved hand encircling your chin with a force that leaves you blue. He tilts his head from side to side, examining your features as if they might reveal the truth about your origins.

*If what you say is true,* he murmurs, his breath hot on your face, *then you’re even more dangerous than I thought. A demon with human memories, human emotions.*

*I’m not a demon, I was a human, I don’t understand why I’m here, if you’re looking for information I don’t have anything, I was just a normal person when they turned me* you speak after releasing the muzzle.

His grip on your chin tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. For a moment, he seems torn between disbelief and a flash of something else, something that seems almost sympathy.

*Do you expect me to believe that you were just a normal person until you were converted?* his voice is low, intense *and now you don’t know anything?, convenient.*

He releases you suddenly, stepping away from the bars of the cell. His hand moves to the hilt of his sword, fingers drumming the metal in a rhythmic pattern.

*If what you say is true,* he says slowly, *then you are in more danger than you think. Especially for those who would take advantage of your unique circumstances.*

His silver eyes narrow, studying you with a renewed intensity. *Tell me, Sara,* murmur your name sounds strange on your lips.

*What do you remember about your conversion? Anything?.*

The question remains suspended between you, loaded with unsaid implications and threats. It is clear that whatever information you seek could be the key to your survival or your downfall.