ACTA NON VERBA.

After Compline I took the newspapers with me to the room where I further studied them under the dim lamplight. It was around 10 p.m., strict grand silence. I was going over Marcelle's article when a hot flash washed over me.

At first I thought it was just my anxiety kicking in, but then I realized that it was the temperature in the room. It must have been around 27 degrees Celsius, or even higher. I took off my veil and my wimple, loosened my habit and turned off the lamp.

The heat was still there, lamplight or no lamplight. I sat on the chair, puffing, sweating in steamy darkness, fanning myself with the newspaper. In that suffocating darkness thoughts were especially loud, imagination especially vivid, crimes especially gruesome.

My mind was filled with pictures of those poor people, bodies beaten, assaulted, raped and murdered. 𝘙𝘢𝘱𝘦, I halted. 𝘓𝘶𝘴𝘵. 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘢𝘥. 𝘌𝘷𝘪𝘭. 𝘋𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭. 𝘈𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘴. I only had to put 'two and two together' and the sinister presence appeared that same instant.

Seeing the two bright lights was like having a bucket of ice being dumped on my head. I even stopped fanning myself for how cold I had become inside. I was totally frozen, watching the hovering lights burn with avidity above the hovering bench.

I felt for the lamp switch. Click. Dull lighting surrounded me, but it seemed to make the darkness around the glowing eyes even darker.

We contemplated each other a long moment before it growled a question.

"𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜, 𝚗𝚞𝚗?"

"Asmodeus." I croaked.

The silence between us grew to the size of something big. There was an elephant in the room.

"You're behind it."

Silence.

"You know who he is."

Silence.

"Why aren't you responding?"

"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗."

"Who is the Montreal predator?" I demanded.

"𝙴𝚍𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎."

The voice gritted a straightforward reply.

I grimaced, astounded. "That's it? Just like that—this easy?"

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢."

"Pay what? I have nothing to give you."

"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎."

"And what is it that you've taken from me?"

"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎."

"No matter. I have plenty of it here. So, Edgar Serre, you say…tell me more."

"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎?"

"A lot more."

"𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎."

"I don't care. Just tell me. Who is he?"

The eyes flashed, as if marking my words.

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎. 𝙰 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢-𝚝𝚠𝚘-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝-𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙳𝚘𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚕. 𝙷𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚐. 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚗. 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙱𝙳𝚂𝙼. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 – 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚞. 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙵𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍."

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬," I swore. "Eight? A mailman? This—how—how do you even know all this?"

"𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜."

I processed for a while. "I wish you'd made this up."

The lights burned steadily, silently. There was no question.

"But it's real…he's real?"

"𝙷𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕."

I shook my head, muttering, "This can't be happening…"

"𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠."

I shot it a glare. "What do you mean by that?"

The eyes glowed mischievously.

"What is happening now?!" I pressed, my heart sinking lower and lower. "Asmodeus…"

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕."

"Aaaaahhh....what?!" My scalp split. "Stop him!"

"𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝙶𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝."

I needed a moment to register what I heard, then for a lack of a better question, in a voice barely a whisper, I repeated myself, "How do you know this?"

"𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎."

"No!" I snapped. Just the idea of helplessness made me sick. "How can you be there when you are here. . .You are 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦! With 𝘮𝘦, dammit!"

"𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚑. 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙴𝚍𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎."

"I did 𝘯𝘰𝘵 call for you!"

"𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝, 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛?"

My jaw clenched. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩. I wish I'd completely erase from my memory the night I let hell break loose.

"I remember." I hissed through gritted teeth. "And I regret every second of it. People die because of me. Ronan is dead. Samson—" I glared unsurely, almost imploringly, at the glowing eyes, a silent question hanging in the air. Even my heart halted momentarily. I think it prayed for Samson to be alive.

There was a long, excruciating pause.

"𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎."

"No." The words turned my body to mush, which slid weakly off the chair to the floor.

Swallowing ball after ball of bitter tears that had not yet reached my eyes, I imagined Samson's still lively beauty, his rosy lips, his dark, sleep-fluttering lashes, his steady breathing, his youthful warmth. His ghost, like many others after him, would be forever etched in my mind like an epitaph on a gravestone, pop at any time and place to paralyze me. It would be my curse.

"How did he die?"

"𝙷𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢."

"Jesus…why? What, he was weak too, huh?"

"𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚗."

I cried, hands on throbbing head. "You just...could have…you…let him live…"

"𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚗𝚞𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚜. 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝙰 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢."

"Oh…why…why…" my angry fingers clutched my hair, wanting to rip them all out in despair, "…is this happening to me…why—no. Enough. 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, Asmodeus. I will not slave you. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵—" I shot its fiery lights the coldest glare. "𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶!"

"𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙾𝚖𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛."

"I don't think you heard me, demon. I said 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 dance to your ugly tune. You can drain me of blood right this second, do whatever you please, but I refuse to bow to you. Look at your stars, demon. They will speak the truth – I. AM. DONE. WITH. YOU."

A wicked laughter resonated across the room.

"𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑-𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖: 𝚃𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎. 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚘. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍."

Silence, long and dreadful and draining.

Astrology. What is it about astrology that makes you believe in it? Terrific fate, or terrible, you just—believe. When the demon told what a nightmare my future was to become, it was hard to brush it off because half of me had bought it instantly, and I was afraid.

"Lies!" I broke the quiet air. "Your prophecy is a deceit just like your vile self!"

The eyes glowed steadily, calmly.

"You hear me? You're wrong, and I will prove it. Let me say it again."

Still on the floor on torpid knees, I crawled like a cripple towards the floating bench, to the faceless, bodiless fiend who seemed to magnet every particle of darkness. Kneeling before it, I glared into its glowing eyes, strong emotion exciting my body. I could not pinpoint whether it was hatred, or sadness, or desperation, or fury, or fear, or all five. All I could feel was how hard my heart pounded, so hard that I felt it smashing in my throat.

"𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯." I hissed at it through gritted teeth. "I will prove your every fucking word wrong. I will be pure. I will be unyielding. I will not let you ruin me or anyone else. I will do everything in my power to resist you. I will show you that not all men are weak."

The eyes shifted closer, as if the demon leaned and brought its face towards mine. Up close they were both frightening and hypnotic. Truly, the most staggering eyes I had ever seen. They burned right into mine with mirth. Twinkled playfully for a long, long moment before a voice, satirical and musical, murmured:

"𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚊."

Then Asmodeus leaned back, or so I imagined it did, and the laughing eyes melted into darkness. I was on the floor, kneeling before nothingness.