Alexander sat in his corner throughout his time there, waiting for any news, watching Roger sit around mocking most of the men — that old man who loved bullying anyone he laid eyes on, though no one could ever talk back to him. Some prisoners played card games in the opposite corner, and some looked like they were new here, hope drained from them, their eyes fixed on a single spot on the wall across from them.
The cell was cold in a way that didn’t resemble the cold of the forest or the cold of morning training; a stagnant cold, trapped between damp stones that never saw sunlight, seeping into the bones slowly instead of stinging the skin all at once. The smell of mildew mixed with the sweat of many bodies crammed into a tight space filled the air, so much so that Alexander had given up trying to ignore it since the very first day.
Alexander heard the sound of a guard striking his sword against a cell’s iron bars, but he stopped as soon as he caught Roger’s stare, then approached and said quietly:
*"There’s a visitor for someone named Alexander."*
Roger turned to Alexander and said:
*"Who do you think it’ll be... your secret savior?"*
*"Maybe my father."*
Alexander left with the guard, walking toward a wooden door that opened slowly. He knew his father held some authority to enter the prison and visit certain people, being a warrior of standing in this land.
He walked behind the guard with steps faster than usual, his heart beginning to race with a hope he hadn’t felt in days; maybe news, maybe a solution coming soon, maybe just one familiar face would be enough to remind him he was still human, out beyond these damp walls.
But the moment he saw who was waiting for him, his expression changed. It was that strange man who had spoken to him at the competition. He didn’t understand what he was seeing, or why he was even seeing him at all. The hope in his steps suddenly stopped, as though the ground itself had pulled away the warmth he’d been carrying moments before.
Alexander sat down while the guard left, leaving the two of them alone.
*"Who are you?"*
The man rested his hands on his knees as he sat, still wearing the same black clothes — clothes that hadn’t gathered a single speck of dust despite this being the second time Alexander saw him, as though they never once touched the real world.
*"Doesn’t matter who I am... all that matters is you."*
Alexander didn’t like that answer.
*"Why is someone I spoke to exactly once visiting me now... what do you want?"*
*"It’s not me who wants you, Alexander... or should I call you by your real name?"*
Alexander looked at the man in front of him, understanding nothing. Had they discovered his secret? Was it all over?
*My heart’s pounding faster than it did in front of Richard himself... there’s something in his voice that makes the air in this room feel heavier, as though every word he says pulls some of the oxygen out with it. Even the single candle hanging on the wall has started flickering strangely, its flame leaning toward him as though he’s the source of the draft, not the air itself.*
*"What do you mean?"*
The man clasped his hands together, leaned slightly toward Alexander, and said:
*"I was there... I watched a dead man’s body come back to life."*
*"You mean at the battle?"*
*"Yes... in fact, I’m the one who killed the corpse you’re living inside now."*
Alexander pulled back slowly, not understanding what he was hearing, or not wanting to believe it.
*A real cold... a real cold has started creeping from my fingertips toward my shoulders, even though there’s no window here, no draft slipping in. Like my body knows something my mind still refuses to believe. Even the stone beneath me, whose cold I got used to days ago, feels colder now, as though this man is pulling the warmth out of everything around him just by sitting there.*
*"The chosen body... I don’t know who you are, I mean your actual soul, but I know you’ve ruined my work."*
The man leaned in further, his body drawing closer to Alexander’s breath.
*His smell... doesn’t resemble a human’s at all. No sweat, no dirt, not even the smell of blood I’ve gotten used to in this world. An empty smell, as though nothingness itself has a scent, and this is it. My breathing has started catching without me meaning it to, my chest tightening as though the air itself refuses to enter my lungs the way it used to.*
*"Don’t be afraid... no one will hurt you... but you need to give the body back to its owner."*
*"But its owner is already dead... if you killed him, like you say."*
*"No. My master is its owner... he’s been waiting for this body since ancient times..."*
The room began closing in, tighter and tighter, then the man reached his hand forward. Alexander tried to defend himself with his left hand — he wouldn’t kill this man.
*My left hand is trembling... not just from fear, but as though it knows something I don’t, as though it’s trying to warn me against touching this entity more than trying to protect me. I felt that faint red light gathering beneath my skin, pulsing, eager, as though it wanted to come out before I even gave the order.*
*"Don’t try to kill me, boy... others will come after me, and after them... everyone wants their master’s return."*
Then the strange man shook Alexander’s hand and said:
*"You can call me Lucifer, the Devil’s son."*
Alexander returned the handshake, exchanging a handshake with the son of the Devil without quite understanding what that might do.
*His hand is cold, colder than any ice I’ve ever touched in my previous life, a coldness that creeps through my palm and races up my arm faster than any natural sensation, as though I’d just shaken hands with a piece of the night itself. There was no pulse in that hand, no body heat, just that cold emptiness spreading up toward my wrist, then stopping there abruptly, as though it chose for itself exactly where to stop.*
*"We use your name in my world... the same name, Lucifer."*
Lucifer closed his eyes and began speaking calmly.
*"Yes, I see that... Tai Hong, a failed fighter who couldn’t even feed himself. Your life was miserable... was that your only option? Jumping from a window..."*
*"Yeah, it was... so even you, living in hell as you do, can see my life was miserable."*
Lucifer smiled, rose, and dusted off his hands.
*"I’ll be back soon, and I’ll take this body back... enjoy it while you have it."*
Lucifer left that cramped room with calm steps, never looking back, leaving Alexander sitting alone, his hands still trembling slightly, and that faint red light that had nearly burst from his left hand gradually fading, unused.
Alexander stayed seated for a long while after he left, staring at the closed wooden door, as though waiting for it to open again to confirm that everything that had just happened wasn’t just a hallucination brought on by long days of imprisonment. But the door stayed silent, and the single candle slowly regained its stillness, as though the room itself had started breathing again after holding its breath through that entire visit.
The guard returned moments later and led Alexander back to his cell, silent the whole way, his mind still trying to process every word he’d heard.
He sat back down in his corner, staring at the palm of the hand he’d used to shake hands with that entity, as though searching for some hidden mark left by that touch, though he found nothing visible. He turned his hand over more than once in the cell’s dim light, feeling the skin with his other fingers, expecting to find a mark, a tattoo, a black stain — anything to prove what had happened wasn’t just the words of a strange man. But his hand stayed exactly as it always was, ordinary, carrying nothing but a faint coldness slowly fading with time.
Roger noticed something different about him the moment he returned, stopping his usual teasing of the other prisoners, looking at him with unusual scrutiny, as though catching a scent he hadn’t smelled in a very long time.
*"Doesn’t look like your father was your visitor, from your face."*
Alexander looked at him in silence for a moment, not knowing how to explain what had just happened, or even whether he should explain it at all.
*How does he see that on my face? Did that entity leave some visible trace I can’t see myself? Did my color drain, or is it just my eyes alone telling this old man what I haven’t said out loud yet?*
*"No, it was a demon."*
He said it in a low voice, almost as though he feared the walls themselves might hear him, while his left hand still carried a faint chill from that handshake.
Roger let out a short, dry laugh, carrying no surprise and no fear, something closer to old familiarity.
*"Tell him to get out of my head, then... he’s overstayed his welcome there."*