Dreyl's ribs still ached.
Even after the adrenaline wore off, even after Viper helped sweep up the shattered glass, the phantom pressure of that serpent grip lingered like bruises on his soul.
They sat opposite each other now—on the floor of Dreyl's wrecked apartment. A flickering lamp cast long shadows across the walls, illuminating blood, cracked furniture, and the silent tension between them.
Viper was grinning again. Of course he was.
"Not bad," he said, flexing his shoulder. "For someone who almost choked to death five minutes ago."
Dreyl glared, eyes half-lidded. "You broke my damn window."
"Could've broken your neck," Viper said, stretching out with a yawn. "So I'd call it even."
The room fell quiet. Just the soft hum of the Fatebreaker die on the desk and the distant sounds of city nightlife bleeding through the cracks.
"So…" Dreyl muttered. "You gonna tell me who sent you?"
Viper didn't answer right away. His slit-pupiled eyes studied Dreyl like a coiled cobra sizing up another predator.
Then, casually—too casually—he said, "You've got bigger problems than me, devil-boy. That die of yours? It's not just cursed. It's being watched."
Dreyl stiffened.
"What do you mean—watched?"
Viper leaned backward, now lying on the floor.
"By someone you know very well"
Dreyl stood up tall after hearing this. His legs shaking slightly. He realized who Viper meant.
"No... It can't be..."
Viper looked Dreyl up and down, slightly confused.
"What's so terrifying about your father?"
"I mean... He's your own flesh and blood right?"
Dreyl now sat back down on the floor. His head in his hands.
"You don't understand... He may be my father, but..."
Viper stood up. Looking down at Dreyl.
"But what?"
"He's the reason I ran away from hell."
"Everyone just seen me as the 'heir' to the throne."
"I don't want the throne. It's too muh work."
"I don't even think they'd agree with my methods anyway."
Viper adjusted his gloves, walking slowly toward the door like he'd heard enough.
"Where are you going?" Dreyl asked, his voice low.
Viper paused with one hand on the frame, turning just enough to show his fanged smirk. "Relax. Not ditching you. Just… need air."
Dreyl stood slowly, ribs still sore. "You break in, try to kill me, then ask to crash here—and now you're taking a stroll?"
"Better than taking your head," Viper said with a shrug. "I told you. I'm not here to finish the job anymore."
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"I'm here because someone out there really wants to see what you do with that dice. And trust me... they're not rooting for you."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Dreyl stood in the silence, staring at the still-glowing Fatebreaker die on the table. The room felt colder now, emptier, despite the wreckage still littering the floor. Glass crunched beneath his shoes as he moved, picking up the die with slow, cautious fingers.
Watched.
The word repeated itself in his mind like an echo from the deep.
By someone you know very well.
His jaw tightened. His pulse thudded in his ears.
No. Not him. Not yet.
He turned and dropped onto his mattress—a barely-standing thing of springs and curses. He let the dice rest on his chest, watching it flicker faintly in the dim light.
For the first time in a long while, he thought about Hell. About the throne that cast shadows too long for even demons to stand in.
And about the man who sat on it.
Father.
He hated calling him that. As if the title meant anything. As if blood ever counted in the underworld.
The Devil didn't raise him.
He used him.
Groomed him.
Marked him.
And Dreyl had run.
The memory of fire and chains crept in uninvited. Of the whispers that said he was born to rule. Of the way they all looked at him with fear, not respect.
He shut his eyes tight.
I'm not him. I never was.
The next morning came reluctantly.
Sunlight fought to pour through the dusty curtains, casting pale rays across Dreyl's worn-out carpet. His ribs still hurt, and every muscle in his body reminded him of the fight.
He sat up slowly, groaning.
Across the room, Viper sat on the windowsill like a gargoyle—legs up, back leaned against the frame, playing with a throwing knife.
"How long have you been there?" Dreyl asked, voice scratchy.
Viper didn't look up. "Long enough to hear you snore like a chainsaw."
Dreyl rubbed his eyes. "I don't snore."
"You do," Viper replied. "Like an old truck on its last breath."
Dreyl shook his head, smirking faintly despite himself.
A moment of silence passed before Viper finally asked, "So... what now?"
Dreyl leaned forward, elbows on knees, thinking.
"We need to figure out who's watching the die," he said. "And why."
Viper flipped the knife and caught it by the blade.
"I already have a guess. There's a group. Cult-like. Obsessed with balance and fate. They're not fans of the dice being in your hands."
"You mean the same ones who cursed it?"
Viper nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe someone worse picked up where they left off."
Dreyl narrowed his eyes.
"Names. Give me one."
Viper gave a toothy grin. "Ever heard of The Coils of Kaen?"
Dreyl froze.
He had.
Old demon cult. Pre-hell. Believers that fate should be pure—unbent, unrolled. And anyone who wielded a tool like the Fatebreaker was considered a cosmic criminal.
"They're real?" he asked.
"Oh, they're real," Viper said, hopping off the windowsill. "And they're close. If they're watching you, it means they're planning something big."
Dreyl's stomach turned.
"I guess that means we've got work to do."
Viper stretched his arms, letting the scales on his neck shimmer in the sunlight. "Yeah. And judging by the bruises I've got… you're gonna need me."
Dreyl snorted. "So this is you sticking around?"
"For now," Viper said. "You're fun. And you punch hard."
Dreyl stood, slipping on his hoodie.
"You sure you can handle being seen with me in public?" he teased. "Might ruin your mysterious hitman vibe."
Viper flicked his forked tongue out. "Please. You make me look normal."
They stepped out of the apartment together, broken glass crunching underfoot.
The world beyond the hallway buzzed with life. Students, sirens, smells of food carts outside the block. Normal.
But nothing was normal anymore.
Not with a demon cult watching.
Not with the Devil possibly stirring.
Not with a viper at his side.
And as Dreyl pocketed the Fatebreaker die, still glowing faintly red, one thing burned in his chest like an ember—
No more running.