Zyraxiel
I first saw her when the game began. Another fragile human thrust into this pit of torment, like the rest—fearful, trembling, eyes wide with dread. But she was different. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I could sense something dark simmering beneath the surface. Not the kind of darkness born from this hellish game, but a deeper one, one that came from her life before she ever entered these walls.
Haisley.
I didn't choose her at first. No, the humans think they're randomly assigned, but that's not how it works. We choose. And I chose her because there was something about her that called to me, something far more twisted and compelling than mere survival instinct. It was as though she'd been living in her own personal hell long before she ever came here. The way her eyes hollowed with the weight of unspoken secrets, the way her shoulders sagged as if she carried the weight of a world she never asked for.
There was a darkness in her soul—perhaps the same darkness that I, a demon, thrive on. But this wasn't a corrupted darkness like the others. It wasn't born from cruelty or greed. No, it was something different, something pure in its pain. It was as if life had bled her dry, leaving only the shadow of a woman who once held light within her.
And that darkness? It fascinated me.
I became obsessed. I knew I wanted her, but not in the way demons claim their prizes. Not through winning, through surviving this twisted game. No, I wanted her to want me too. I didn't want to claim her simply because she won, but because she chose me, because she saw that same darkness within herself and understood that it belonged to me now.
That's why I've been giving her gifts. The blanket to soothe her shivering, the food to nourish her weakening body, the mirror to remind her that I'm always watching, always waiting. But it wasn't just about helping her survive the game. I wanted her to feel my presence, to sense that I wasn't just another demon among many. I wanted her to know that I see her—truly see her—and that I understand the shadows lurking inside her better than anyone else ever could. I wanted her to feel… cared for. In my own way.
I've been patient, waiting for the right moment, watching as she navigates the trials. Watching as she battles the other women, the lies, the truths, and her own demons. And each time, she grows closer to the edge, further into the dark, inching closer to me.
But now… now she stands before me, surrounded by fire, trapped in her trial. And I'm shocked by her choice. Of all the sacrifices she could make, she offers me her soul. The worst option. The most irreversible. And she does it without hesitation.
"Haisley," I growl, stepping closer to her, the flames vanishing as I command them to disappear. "Why would you choose your soul? The others… they sacrifice their pain, their pride, but your soul?"
She stares at me, her face unreadable for a moment, before she speaks, her voice low, filled with an emptiness that shakes me. "I don't believe I have a soul anymore," she says, each word like a dagger twisting into me. "And if I do… it's not worth anything in the afterlife. I've darkened already, Zyraxiel. My soul is likely the devil's anyway."
Her words send a ripple of something through me—something like anger, but not quite. I feel the weight of what she's saying, the finality in her voice, the way she's resigned herself to the darkness inside her.
"I don't believe that," I snarl, my voice rougher than I intended. Her eyes widen, but I press on. "You think you're beyond redemption? You think you're already lost, Haisley? You're not. Not yet."
She shakes her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "What's left of me, Zyraxiel? What's left to save? I've been living in hell long before I came here. What's a soul worth when there's nothing left of it but shadows?"
I step even closer, until I'm looming over her, my red eyes burning into hers. "I don't want your soul because it's lost, Haisley. I want it because it's yours. You still have it, even if you think it's in pieces."
She flinches slightly, but holds my gaze. I can see the war going on inside her, the battle between what she's willing to admit and what she's convinced herself of.
"I gave you gifts not because I wanted you to survive, but because I wanted you to choose to live. To choose me. To see that you are not the broken thing you believe yourself to be."
Her lips tremble, and I sense the cracks in her armor. She's struggling to keep herself closed off, to stay detached, but I can feel it—the shift inside her.