Standing behind him is Obinai, but...
...those eyes...
Blackened...irises glowing a pulsing golden color.
It's expression remains unreadable as he withdraws its blackened hand from Santos's chest, the slick sound of it sliding free echoing softly. The wound left behind is a raw gap, blood welling up and spilling over Santos's uniform. The figure tilts its head slightly, and steps back one slow, deliberate pace.
Santos, sprawled on the cold floor, tries to pull in air but every breath rasps against his lungs. His limbs feel leaden, his vision spotty. Above him, the figure watches. It crouches down, pressing a hand lightly on Santos's shoulder, fingers tapping almost playfully.
A strange, muttered phrase escapes the figure's lips—just a few odd syllables that seem to buzz in the back of Santos's mind. With that, a faint shimmer envelops Santos for a moment before fading like a mirage. The figure straightens, folding its arms. "Just enough to keep you on the edge," it remarks. "You'll bleed out, sure, but you'll hover there for a while. Consider it a little gift."
The creature takes a long sniff of the air, nose wrinkling. "Mmm," it hums softly. "This scent of blood—there's something honest about it, don't you think? It's the story of life and death told all at once, like a riddle you'll never solve. Isn't it… stimulating?" A casual shrug follows.
Santos tries to speak, but his voice breaks into a gasp. He can't move much, only lift his gaze weakly. The figure rummages through his pockets, pulling out a photograph—crumpled and stained. Cici and Lydia beam up from the snapshot. The figure rolls the photo between its fingers, smearing blood across their bright faces.
"Ah, family," it says airily, lifting the photo between thumb and forefinger. "So warm, so comforting. So far removed from all this." It lets the picture flutter from its grasp, sending it drifting just out of Santos's reach. As Santos tries, feebly, to snag it, the figure's foot nudges it away.
"I know you tried," it says almost kindly. "You wanted to be the hero, wipe your slate clean, right? But intentions—" it laughs lightly, "they're just quiet little whispers in the storm, aren't they?"
Santos's fingers twitch toward the photo again, barely brushing the edge. He chokes out a question, voice no stronger than a breath: "Who… who are you?"
The figure leans in, a grin quirking at the corner of its mouth. When it speaks, the words roll out with a casual, almost playful lilt. "Some call me Baʿal Zebub, others prefer Beelzebub," it says. "But that's hardly the end of my résumé. I've collected quite the lineup—Lord of the Flies, Prince of Demons, Abyzou… so many masks for one perpetual hunger."
He taps a finger thoughtfully against its chin. "Think of it as a buffet of titles," he continues, "each one a little taste of what I am. Gluttony, you see, isn't just a sin. It's a state of being, an endless hollow demanding to be filled. A proper feast of light, life, and every trembling scrap of hope."
Beelzebub continues, "I'm the eternal consumer, always nibbling at the edges of existence. It's adorable, really, how you mortals believe you can hold onto anything permanent."
Santos's vision wavers, outlines blurring into smudges. With a casual motion, the creature nudges him over and sits on his stomach, placing a hand atop his head. Its grip increases, slow and steady. "Oh dear," Beelzebub says, "Running out of time, are we? Let's think of your family, shall we? Those smiling faces captured on that little photograph." He lets go and pokes Santos's cheek pushing his head just a bit to see the blood-stained picture just a few inches from his fingers. He still tries to reach...
A playful pout forms on Beelzebub's lips as it watches. "Look at you, still trying," he says softly. "Does that make it better, knowing you tried so hard? Or worse, since it changed nothing?"
Santos's breath rasps, chest hitching with each shallow inhale, as the figure presses down harder, its fingertips tangling through his hair.
"Your wife, hmm?" Beelzebub muses lightly. "What if I… employed her services?" His head tilts, and it lets out a high, tinkling laugh. "She seems so strong, wouldn't you say? But strength is such a fickle concept. Under the right… persuasion, even the mightiest oaks crack like brittle twigs."
The creature's grin widens, showing teeth. "And those daughters of yours—young, vibrant, brimming with the kind of innocence that's just begging to be molded. Oh, imagine how they'd serve in the underworld's courts," he says, pronouncing 'underworld' with a theatrical hush. "Their bright little souls twisted into graceful attendants, dancing to tunes only the darkest lords hum. Doesn't that spark a certain grim artistry?"
Santos's eyes, half-lidded with pain, still manage to glare up at the creature. A flicker of something in that stare catches Beelzebub's attention. He responds with a delighted chuckle, tapping the tip of its tongue thoughtfully against the roof of his mouth.
"Now, now," he soothes, voice dropping to a whisper, leaning closer. "Don't be cross. I'm only speculating." There's a brightness to its tone. "We're just passing the time, you and I. Surely you can't blame me for a bit of curiosity, can you?"
With a gentle, almost affectionate tilt, Beelzebub tips Santos's head back, forcing him to look directly directly in its eyes. "Picture it: your family's devotion tested, reshaped into something… more pliable," he says lightly. "All done with such care. An elegant tragedy, really."
His grin widens...
"Yes, perhaps there's something far more tantalizing than mere servitude—something with a bit more bite. Revenge." The word drips from its lips. "Consider it: vengeance offers far more intricate flavors than a simple, mindless following."
He lifts a finger, wagging it playfully. "Imagine your daughters, Santos," he says. "Not as a broken puppet or a crushed spirit, but as something fiercer—their souls sparked by hatred and aimed straight at me." Beelzebub pauses. "They wouldn't just bend to darkness. No no no...they'd harness it, forging it into a blade of pure fury."
Santos manages a strangled "No," half-choking on the syllable.
"No?" Beelzebub echoes lightly, tsking under its breath. "Think carefully. The havoc—entire worlds swept up in it all. How vibrant that would be, how full of color!"
A faint hum escapes the figure's throat. "All for you, Santos." Beelzebub spreads his hands in a gesture that seems to indicate fireworks bursting. "Glorious, wouldn't you say?"
Santos's vision begins to blur, the edges fading into a gray haze. Blood spills from his mouth in heavy rivulets, dribbling down his chin and onto the floor.
Beelzebub exhales a long sigh, shaking his head. "Tsk, tsk," he muses. "It seems even this preservation spell has its limits. Such a shame. I was really starting to enjoy our little tête-à-tête."
His voice then changes slightly...lower. "Look into my eyes," he coos. "Let them be the final vision burned into your soul. Let them haunt you in the void—a reminder of all you failed to protect."
Beelzebub leans closer, his breath cool against Santos's fevered skin. "Feel it, Santos. The weight of your inadequacy, the sting of your futile struggle. Let it crush you, bit by bit."
Santos's lips tremble. His breaths come slower, each more labored than the last. His lips part, and with his final ounce of strength, he rasps out, barely audible, "You… underestimate them… My girls… will send you… straight to hell."
Beelzebub's golden eyes widen momentarily. It's grin grows impossibly wide. "Oh," It breathes, "what a dramatic little declaration! Straight to hell, you say? How deliciously poetic."
With that, Beelzebub's hand shifts, his fingers curling around Santos's skull. The pressure begins subtly, almost teasing, before it grows with deliberate, agonizing slowness. A faint crack echoes in the silence—sharp, brittle, like the sound of ice splintering beneath a heavy foot.
Santos's body convulses weakly, his final gasp stuttering as the cracking intensifies. The sounds grow louder, grotesque and wet, each snap and pop of bone a macabre symphony. Beelzebub hums a jaunty tune as he works, his grip tightening, the bones giving way.
And then, the crescendo: a wet, visceral crunch that reverberates through the corridor, final and absolute. Beelzebub releases what remains of Santos, letting his lifeless body slump to the floor.
With a grunt Beelzebub stands up. He surveys the blood coating its hand before lifting a finger to his lips. With a deliberate motion he sucks the blood off, savoring the taste. The metallic tang fills his senses.
"Mmm," it murmurs, pulling the finger from his mouth. "Delightful, really. So raw. So… honest." Beelzebub examines his hand, turning it this way and that, the blood catching in the dim light. "But, oh, how dreadfully primitive. Flesh and blood? Such a transient pleasure though."
Beelzebub's gaze then shifts to a small piece of brain matter on the floor near Santos's body. He stoops gracefully, plucking it up. "Once I have recovered a bit more power," he continues, rolling the gray matter between his fingers, "I will not need to subsist on such crude sustenance. Consuming souls—now that is a feast."
Without hesitation, Beelzebub pops the brain matter into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes momentarily roll back, savoring the rush of energy and memories that flood through...
...a glimpse into Santos's life and fears flashing through his mind. As Beelzebub swallows, his gaze sharpens, and he straightens, wiping his hand on his hospital gown with a satisfied sigh.
Turning towards the door at the end of the walkway he murmurs to himself...
"So many souls, so ripe for the harvest."
Beelzebub strides down the corridor, wet steps echoing in the silent space. After a few paces, he pauses, turning his attention to the rows of cells that line the hallway. Each cell, marked by a number and a name.
He approaches cell #12, his eyes narrowing as he studies the name displayed above the keypad. "Jasmine," Beelzebub reads aloud. A cruel smile curls the edges of his lips.
At this moment Beelzebub's gaze drops, catching sight of a crumpled piece of paper on the floor near the trail of blood behind it. Curiosity alights in his expression while stooping to pick it up. The paper is smeared with blood, its edges crinkled. Beelzebub smooths it out. A laugh bubbles up from his throat, light and airy.
"Oh, Santos," he says, almost fondly. "Even in death, you try so hard to play the hero."
Without a second thought, Beelzebub slips the note through the vent in Jasmine's door. Chuckling, it straightens up. "Let's see what they make of that," he muses, spinning on his heel and continuing down the corridor, his laughter echoing off the walls...