1
— Lucian —
I awoke still chained to the same wall, unable to move.
The cold iron pressed into my neck, cutting off my air.
My wrists were bloodied, split open from whatever that thing had done to me.
My thoughts drifted to Victor and Isaac — where were they?
Were they still alive?
***
By the time they moved us, Victor and I had been thrown into the same cell.
I assumed the authorities had finally linked Marcus's murder to me and pegged Victor as an accomplice — which might explain why we were sharing a cell rather than being separated.
Victor had learned how to force himself to stay awake for long periods.
He claimed the demon stalked him through his dreams — that it was here, in this prison, waiting for him to drop his guard.
I didn't doubt it.
***
It can shapeshift.
We both knew that.
But I couldn't believe it would just wait around for an opportunity to strike — it's likely already planning something worse.
That's why Victor refuses to sleep.
He says its true attacks happen in his nightmares... though it can strike physically too, if cornered.
***
I didn't realize Victor was awake until he spoke about escaping.
He stared toward the guard at the far end of the corridor.
I followed his gaze and froze.
The guard looked like my father.
That was impossible — he was dead.
Had been for years.
Yet there he was, staring right at me.
He approached the cell slowly.
***
"It's been a while, Lucian," he said, smiling like a serpent. "I haven't seen you or Isaac since you killed me. How have you two been?"
He turned to Victor, studying him.
"His last name's Norwood, isn't it?"
I nodded cautiously.
"I knew his parents. Never met their children... until now. The elder Norwood, if I'm not mistaken. Do you know why he knows so much about this thing you keep calling a demon?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
He pulled out a small knife and sliced open Victor's shirt.
I wanted to stop him, but something in me froze.
With clinical precision, he peeled back Victor's skin and yanked me forward.
***
"There," he said, pointing. "That's why it's targeting him."
Beneath the open flesh was a cross necklace wrapped tightly around Victor's blackened, sluggishly beating heart.
"You're wondering why he didn't wake from the pain?" he smirked, pulling out a needle. "Because I drugged him, of course. He hates needles, but I'm persistent."
Before I could respond, I felt something crack against the back of my skull.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
***
— Victor —
I came to with Lucian lying motionless on his bed.
One of the guards stood silently outside our cell, unmoving.
It was odd.
I didn't think guards were assigned to monitor cells like this.
And yet he remained, eyes never leaving us.
***
I noticed the familiar scent of blood — sharp, coppery, suffocating.
The guard's hands were soaked in fresh, blackened blood.
I turned to Lucian.
"Where's the cross?" I asked.
Lucian stirred beside me.
"Look at your chest."
***
I lifted my shirt.
A long, deep wound ran across my torso.
I pulled the flesh apart and saw it — wrapped around my heart, embedded like a noose — the cross necklace, soaked in black blood.
I tugged at it, trying to untangle it, but the pain was unbearable.
Lucian groaned and moved toward me.
"Hold still, Norwood," he muttered.
I winced.
I hated when people called me that.
My brother and I always did.
Still, Lucian managed to loosen the cross.
The wound began healing unnaturally fast.
I was used to that by now.
***
But Lucian wasn't looking at me anymore.
His attention shifted.
The guard was still there — only now, he was drenched in blood from head to toe.
He looked like he'd slaughtered half the prison.
Screams echoed through the hallways.
That wasn't unusual here, but something in Lucian's expression told me this time was different.
***
He hadn't slept in days.
I realized he was avoiding that guard... no, not avoiding — fearing him.
I'd never seen Lucian afraid of anything.
Their interactions were always brief, and every time they spoke, Lucian seemed... diminished.
***
When Leon finally regained some fragment of sanity, he collapsed almost immediately.
I wasn't doing much better — covered in fresh and dried blood, stitched together by madness and memory.
