12:12 AM — Outskirts of the City
The houses were clustered together.
Most of them were dark.
A few windows held a dim, orange light.
John stood still.
In his arms, Lloyd was unconscious.
His face was pale, his breathing calm and shallow.
His short black hair had fallen over his forehead.
The height and build of a sixteen-year-old boy.
John drew a deep breath.
His broken bone still ached, the wound hidden beneath his simple, worn jacket.
He held Lloyd firmly.
Calm.
Exhausted.
As if there was nowhere left to run.
There were no more horns on his forehead and no more wings.
He stopped in front of a house.
He rang the bell.
The sound echoed into the night.
A few seconds later, footsteps were heard behind the door.
The door opened.
Camila stood on the other side.
Her straight blonde hair was tied back.
A simple collared shirt, cuffed jeans.
Her green eyes went first to John’s face — to the stranger, in simple, scorched clothes, disheveled hair, tired eyes.
Then — to his arms.
To Lloyd.
To the limp, dangling hands.
Camila took a step back.
She placed her hand on the doorframe — not to close it, to steady herself.
Her voice rose, but not to a scream.
“W-Who… who are you?”
John tightened his grip with both hands — so Lloyd wouldn’t fall.
His voice was calm.
“Gary sent me.”
Gary’s name was like a key.
Camila lowered her eyebrows — not relieved, not convinced — but she didn’t shut down.
“I need your help. Lloyd is hurt. Please.”
Camila’s gaze fell on Lloyd.
Involuntarily.
Instinctively.
She had seen that face before.
The lonely little boy.
Her voice was no longer surprised — it was worried.
Human.
“Lloyd? What happened?”
John breathed.
Lighter.
“Can I come inside first?”
Camila looked at him for a moment.
The stranger.
The dark night.
The injured boy.
Every ounce of common sense said close the door, lock it, call the police.
But she couldn’t.
Because Lloyd was in his arms.
“No. I don’t know you.”
Her voice was firm.
She was clear with herself.
“But leave Lloyd here.”
John didn’t move.
“Please. Gary said you would help us. I need to stay with Lloyd.”
Camila clenched her teeth.
Closed her eyes.
For a few seconds.
She breathed.
And pulled the door open wider.
“Gary… that idiot…”
John didn’t enter without permission.
He waited.
“…betrayed me and now he asks for my help.”
Her voice was laced with bitterness and exhaustion.
As if she had rehearsed this line several times in her mind and the taste still lingered in her mouth.
“Alright… only for Lloyd. Not for Gary.”
Her gaze at John — not a threat, not a plea — a statement.
“He’d better go get drunk and propose to different women.”
John lowered his head.
Not shame, not agreement — just exhaustion.
“Thank you.”
He entered.
He walked past Camila.
The scent of the house — the smell of wood, the smell of books, the smell of freshly brewed tea — reached him.
For a moment, he felt something like safety.
But it didn’t last.
He laid Lloyd on the sofa.
Gently.
So that his head rested on the cushion and his legs didn’t hang off.
He placed Lloyd’s cold hands on his chest — right where the heart chain was.
He himself sat on the opposite sofa.
His shoulders slumped.
He drew a long, deep breath.
Camila watched them for a few seconds.
Then, without delay, she headed to the kitchen.
The sound of the refrigerator.
The sound of water.
The sound of a spoon and a glass.
“I’ll bring something to eat.”
Her voice came from the kitchen.
“Then… you explain everything. Or I’m calling the police.”
John nodded.
That same quiet, wordless confirmation.
The sound of the spoon stopped.
And silence returned.
A silence full of things unspoken.
FBI Headquarters — 12:36 AM
The command room.
It was large.
Larger than what the security cameras showed.
Monitors covered the wall — world maps, satellite images, statistical graphs, red and yellow and green lines, some of them turning black.
Cold white light fell on everything.
There were no shadows.
No place to hide.
Gary stood beside the main table.
His hands were clasped behind his back.
He was looking at a screen showing statistics of countries — countries that had revoked their “state of normalcy.” The number climbed every few minutes.
Daniel Cruz, Commander of Law Enforcement, sat behind the desk.
Salt-and-pepper hair, short.
A round face, but sharp.
His uniform was neat.
Lisa stood opposite Daniel.
Her hands on the table, palms open.
As if to say, “See, I’m hiding nothing.” But anyone who had worked with Lisa for years knew — hiding was her specialty. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Veronica stood against the wall.
A laptop in her hands, her eyes scanning the pages from behind her thin glasses.
No one knew how she processed so much information at once.
Perhaps she didn’t know either.
Early stood behind Gary — near the door, positioned so he could see both the maps and the escape route.
An old habit.
His coffee remained on the table by the door.
It had gone cold.
Daniel was speaking.
His voice was calm, but every word was like a blow.
“According to reports… half the countries in the world have declared martial law.”
Lisa shook her head.
“The exact number?”
Veronica answered.
Without looking up from the laptop:
“136 countries, sir.”
A brief pause.
Her hands stopped on the keyboard.
“…and perhaps the rest of the countries will declare soon.”
Early said from behind:
“What do we do now?”
Daniel stared at the table for a few seconds.
Then he lifted his eyes.
“We need to convene a global summit.”
His gaze went to Lisa.
“We must use all atomic bombs and non-prohibited weapons.”
Silence.
Veronica looked up from the laptop.
“But that demon… where is he?”
Her voice didn’t tremble.
“If he’s somewhere innocent humans are living… then we can’t use the weapons.”
Lisa, without taking her eyes off Daniel, said:
“If we don’t destroy him… then the human race goes extinct.”
Simple.
Blunt.
Daniel rose from his seat.
The chair slid back.
His shoes sounded on the floor — not loud, not soft.
The steps of someone who had made a decision.
“Then I’ll go speak with the Secretary and the other countries.”
Gary, who had said nothing until now, suddenly spoke.
“This… could this be Alice’s prophecy? Can she prophesy again?”
Lisa fixed her gaze on Gary.
Long.
For several seconds, her face was empty — there was nothing behind it.
Then she answered.
Short.
Dry.
“We don’t know. She can no longer prophesy.”
And she ended the subject.
Camila’s House — 1:09 AM
The middle of the night had already passed.
The light of the reading lamp, yellow and warm, fell on three shadows.
Camila sat on the sofa opposite John.
She had her hands clasped on her knees, and they were trembling — a tremble not from the cold.
A cup of tea sat before her, untouched, gone cold.
John looked at Lloyd — Lloyd was still lying unconscious on the sofa.
Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest showed he was alive.
His face held no emotion.
He was having no nightmares, no pleasant dreams.
Camila shook her head.
Not in disbelief — to gather the words.
“This is truly illogical… especially now…”
She breathed.
“…a demon is inside Lloyd’s body?!”
John didn’t answer — not to confirm, not to deny.
His eyes were on Lloyd.
Camila raised her voice — not a shout, not a scream — she was shaken.
“How on earth is a demon inside his body?”
John calmly turned toward her.
“I’m not a doctor. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to find out. I only know it’s there and I have to protect him.”
Camila fixed her gaze on John.
“Why do you care so much about Lloyd?”
John was silent for a few seconds.
He was thinking about how to answer without lying.
“I consider Thomas like my own son. I’ve known him for 30 years. He’s strict, he’s cold… but he’s alone.”
A pause.
“And Lloyd… is like my grandson.”
When he finished speaking, he lowered his gaze.
As if reviewing a memory.
And at that moment — Lloyd blinked.
Not a sudden opening of the eyes, not a shocked awakening.
Calm.
Like someone returning from a deep, dreamless sleep.
The muscles of his face twitched.
His breathing grew deeper.
And his eyes — those brown eyes that had once been full of anxiety, now empty — slowly opened.
He looked at the ceiling.
At the lamp.
At the warm, yellow light.
He blinked.
Looked again.
As if he couldn’t understand where he was.
Perhaps he didn’t want to understand.
He slowly sat up.
On the sofa.
He placed his hands on his legs.
His short black hair had fallen over his forehead.
His voice was hoarse.
Dry.
“Where… am I?”
John leaned forward.
His voice was calm — calmer than ever before.
“Lloyd… are you alright? What’s the last thing you remember?”
Lloyd looked at his hands — at his fingers, which had no tremor.
At the places where scars had once been, now gone.
“Nothing… I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what the last thing I remember is.”
John rose from his seat.
He went beside Lloyd.
Sat on the arm of the sofa.
“Do you remember me? Do you remember Camila? Gary?”
Lloyd lifted his gaze to John.
He looked for a few seconds.
Then nodded.
“Yeah…”
A pause.
He was searching for the word.
“…where’s my father?”
John glanced at Camila.
Camila had placed her hand over her mouth.
She was holding her breath.
John turned back to Lloyd.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s looking for you. I see you’re not afraid?”
“No… I don’t have anxiety like before.”
“Because your emotions have been sealed to some extent. It makes you calm and not overly emotional. But Lloyd…”
He sat better.
Placed his hand on Lloyd’s shoulder.
“…I have to tell you the whole truth. The first thing… about your father.”
Lloyd turned his head.
For the first time, his face showed something — not fear, not worry — curiosity.
“My father? Is he alright?”
John didn’t answer.
Direct.
Firm.
“Yes. But I have to tell you… your father is a kind of celestial being.”
The glass fell from Camila’s hand.
Onto the carpet.
Cold tea spilled everywhere.
Camila was looking at John, at Lloyd, at neither of them.
“A celestial being?!”
Lloyd didn’t flinch.
His face was the same.
Only his frown deepened slightly.
Like someone who had finally heard the answer to a question he had always known.
Lloyd pressed his hand on his knee.
John continued.
Without stopping.
“And do you know Sofia?”
Lloyd tilted his head.
“Sofia?… Wait… I remember.”
He looked at Camila.
“A few days ago, I met a fortune teller. She took my hand and closed her eyes and told me my future and my past. About the past… it was accurate.”
Camila’s voice was full of shock and confusion:
“Which fortune teller just takes your hand and closes their eyes? That’s not how they work.”
Lloyd looked at Camila.
He shrugged.
Honest and unpretentious.
“Well… I’d never met a fortune teller before. I don’t know how their work works.”
He picked up the coffee cup.
Took a sip.
Looked at John.
Waiting.
John drew a deep breath.
“She’s your aunt.”
Lloyd lowered the cup.
His eyes went wide.
Not fear — astonishment.
“And she placed the Prince of Hell… inside your body.”
Lloyd’s mouth hung open.
The words wouldn’t come.
“What… aunt?… Prince of Hell?”
Camila jumped up.
Her voice rose.
“But why would that woman do that?”
John looked at Camila.
Calm.
“No one knows what her goal is. But… she’s ruthless.”
Lloyd sat.
On the sofa.
He set the cup on the table.
He looked at the coffee.
At the steam that was no longer there.
He didn’t speak.
John continued.
His voice was no longer calm.
It was heavy.
Like someone laying down the last card.
“And Heaven… wants to erase your existence. Heaven doesn’t want you. Neither does Hell. After death… I don’t know what awaits you.”
The coffee cup fell from Lloyd’s hand.
Coffee spilled onto the carpet.
Beside the cold tea.
The cup rolled and went under the sofa.
Lloyd stared at his empty hand.
Then at John.
His eyes were no longer wide.
They were dilated.
Full of something that resembled fear — but it wasn’t fear.
Something else.
The dread of non-being.
“Meaning… what?”
John answered.
A single word.
Cold.
Real.
“Oblivion.”
Lloyd put his hands on his head.
His fingers dug into his black hair.
He pressed.
Tears dripped from his eyes — but there was no sound.
He wasn’t crying.
He was just shedding tears.
Like rain no one sees.
“I don’t want to die…”
His voice trembled.
Broke.
“I don’t want to.”
John knelt beside Lloyd.
He took his hand off Lloyd’s head.
Held it tight.
“I won’t allow it either. But you have to stay calm… so the Prince of Hell isn’t set free.”
Lloyd looked at John.
His eyes red and wet.
“If you get angry… if fear takes hold of you… he will be set free.”
Lloyd didn’t wipe his tears.
He just watched.
For a few seconds.
Then — his voice came.
It no longer trembled.
It was firm.
Like a clenched fist.
“I don’t care if Heaven accepts me or not.”
John released his hand.
Lloyd sat up straight.
He placed his hands on his knees.
He looked like himself — not a hero, not a coward.
Just a boy who had decided to survive.
“For my own survival… I’ll do whatever it takes.”
John looked at Camila.
Camila had no tears.
But you could see the fear in her eyes.
Fear of the future.
Fear of not knowing.
Fear of the sixteen-year-old boy who, in her living room, was making a decision — to fight alone.
To be continued…