He could feel the familiar, thudding, animal panic kick-starting in his chest, his old heart, his real heart, hammering against his ribs.
The voice, her voice, chimed again, a bright, melodic, impatient sound.
"It's rude not to answer, you know."
She waited a beat. He could feel her, standing there, her presence a cold, sharp, perfume-scented thing just at the edge of his vision.
"Hmph. Well. I'll just take that as a 'no,' then."
There was a soft, feminine rustle of movement. A shadow, a shape, moved past his locked gaze.
She was just as he remembered. Not the monster from the alley. Not the corpse from the apartment. The lie.
It was her younger form. She looked normal. She looked like a girl. Long, dark, auburn hair cascaded, a perfect, glossy, red-brown sheet down her back and over her shoulders. She wore simple clothes. A dark, unremarkable sweater. Jeans.
She pulled the chair—the one directly opposite him—out from the table, the sound of its legs scraping, loud and obscene, against the silent, polished floor.
She sat down.
And then she opened her book.
The silence that descended was absolute.
It was no longer the quiet, ambient, respectful hush of a library. It was an encroaching, heavy, sentient silence. It was a blanket being pressed down on his face, suffocating him.
He watched her. He had no choice.
She was... reading.
Her head was tilted down, her cool, grey, impossible eyes fixed on the pages of her own, perfectly normal book.
He was a man pinned to a chair, in a manufactured nightmare, being held captive by the... the ghost... of the monster who had murdered him.
And she was ignoring him.
She was reading a book.
The sheer, arrogant, insulting banality of it was a fresh, exquisite, and perfectly crafted torment.
'This... this is a game.'
His mind, the only part of him that could still move, began to race, grabbing at the pieces, trying to build a new framework, a new profile.
'This is... her. This is her. The performance. The setup. It's just like our old games, but... inside my head. She... she...'
He looked past her. The other figures, the blurred, ghostly, looping students... they were still there. Still moving. Still silent. They were props. Set dressing.
'She... she controls this. This is... her space. She's invaded my sleep, my mind. She... is... in... my head.'
The realisation was a new, cold, and different kind of violation.
The infirmary... that was real. The boy, the small, freezing body... that was real.
This was a private, shared space—a new, psychological leash.
He watched her. He watched the slow, steady, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. He watched the way her long, pale fingers, her real fingers, not the black, bloody, gloved ones, idly traced the edge of a page.
She was... bored.
No. Not bored. Patient. She was waiting.
Waiting for him.
The initial, primal, animal terror... it was fading. It was being replaced by something else—the old, familiar, weary numbness.
'Okay.'
He thought, the word a solid, heavy, and grounding thing in his own mind.
He forced his mind to go still. He forced his panic down, locking it in the same, dark, iron-bound box where he kept the rest of her.
She sighed.
It was a loud, dramatic, and bored sound. It ripped through the heavy, suffocating, library silence.
She snapped her book shut.
The BAM of the heavy tome, the sound of its thick, cloth-bound covers colliding... it was like a gunshot.
He flinched, a violent, full-body, internal jerk, even as his physical form remained pinned, frozen, and useless in the chair.
Her head came up. Her cool, grey eyes, no longer fixed on the page, locked with his.
And she smiled.
"It was about time," she said, her voice a low, melodic, and condescending purr.
The blood in his veins, which he had just... just... managed to get flowing, turned, instantly, back to ice.
'She... she knew. She knew... I... I was...'
'Cal-'
"Calm? Centered? Cold?" she finished his thought, her voice laced with a pure, unadulterated, mocking amusement.
She leaned forward, her smile widening, her grey eyes glittering with a genuine, terrible, intimate... pleasure.
'You... you can... read... my mind?'
"Ugh." She rolled her eyes, a perfect, theatrical gesture of profound annoyance.
"Such useless, wasted questions, Thomas. Really? I've literally invaded your mind... while your new, ice-block body is sleeping... and sat your consciousness here, in this... this nightmare... and that... that is the question you're stuck on? 'Can she read my mind?'"
She scoffed, a short, sharp, ugly sound. "Yes. Yes, I can. Now... can we please... move on? We don't have a lot of time."
His mind, reeling, snagged on the last, sharp word.
'Time? What... what do you mean, time?'
"I mean," she said, her voice dripping with the exaggerated patience of a teacher explaining a simple, obvious concept to a particularly stupid child... "you're going to wake up soon. Your... new... body... it's... distressingly... weak. And this..."
She gestured, a wide, sweeping, elegant motion of her hand, encompassing the library, the blurred ghosts, the table, the lie...
"...is... tiring. Immensely. So you should probably consider this a reward. A little... prize... for having... 'survived.' You did exceptionally well, by the way... with the... 'not dying of drowning'... thing. I was... impressed."
A reward.
She had murdered him. She had stolen him. She had thrown his soul, his mind, his self, into the cold, wet, dying body of a child.
And this... this interrogation... this new torment... this... was his... reward.
A hot, acidic, and wonderfully alive... rage... began to burn away the ice.
He found his voice.
He realised he could speak.
The presence—the heavy, crushing weight—was still there, still pinning his body, his old, familiar, stronger body, to the chair.
But his jaw… his voice… that, she had apparently unlocked.
His voice was a low, hoarse, and shaking rasp.
"What... are you?"
She smiled. "Oh, good. A better question. An actual... question."
"Are you... a... a... demon?" he forced the word out, his throat tight, his voice cracking. "A devil? Some... some... evil... entity?"
He needed a box. A label. A name.
Lilith... laughed.
It was not a giggle. It was not a chime. It was a genuine, full, throaty... laugh—a sound of pure, unadulterated, human... mirth.
She laughed, for a full, long, five seconds, her head thrown back, her grey eyes sparkling.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started... she stopped.
She brought her hand, her pale, slender, artist's hand, up to her mouth. She... mimed.
She mimed zipping her perfect, red, smiling lips shut. She mimed... locking them... with a small, invisible key. And... she mimed throwing the key, hard, over her left shoulder.
Her grey eyes, still glittering, still full of that terrible, awful laughter... locked back on his.
"Everyone has secrets, Thomas."
Her voice was a soft, cold purr.
"And that one... that one's mine."
She leaned forward, her chin resting in her hand, her expression one of pure, innocent, helpful... thought.
"But..." she mused, tapping a single, elegant finger against her temple. "If 'demon'... helps you? If it... works... for your... 'profile'? If it... makes this... all... 'easier'... for you to... understand?"
Her smile returned—a bright, helpful, generous... smile.
"Sure."
"For all I care... you can call me a demon."
He stared at her. Utterly, completely, awe-struck.
It was the only word. It was the only label. It was the only... thing... that explained her.
Her cruelty. Her... art. Her... performances. Her... impossible... genius. Her... persistence...
'She... she... she was never... human.'
'All of it... all... all of... her... it... it... makes... sense... now.'
"Oh, for gods' sake."
Her voice, sharp, loud, and furious, shattered his revelation.
She was glaring at him. Genuinely annoyed. She tapped, hard, on her temple.
"I can still hear you! Remember? And... would you... try... to be... nice? Honestly. I... literally... just... saved... your life. Again."
"You... you... ended... my life!" he roared, the sound a ragged, desperate, furious... bark.
"Semantics," she waved a lazy, dismissive hand. "And, really... you should be grateful. You get a... fresh start."
'Grateful? A fresh start?'
The words were a spark, hitting the dry, saturated tinder of his rage. A hot, acidic, and wonderfully alive fury burned away the last of his cold, paralytic shock. This demon, this monster, had shattered his life, ended his world, and yet she was calling it a gift.
"Why?" he snarled, the sound a low, guttural, animalistic rasp—his old voice.
He strained, pouring every ounce of his will into the simple act of moving. He tried to lean forward, to stand, to lunge. Nothing.
The presence, that cold, crushing, metaphysical weight he felt over him, held him fast. He was a statue of fury, pinned to his chair, his muscles screaming, his joints locked.
"Why me?" he roared, his voice cracking, the sound echoing, dead, in the silent, sunlit room. "What was the objective? What makes me so special to you?"
He was trembling, his entire, old, familiar body vibrating with the sheer, impotent, and desperate need to act.
Lilith... just laughed.
It was the same sound. The same, full, throaty, human laugh. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated, genuine amusement. She laughed at his rage. She fed on his struggle.
"Oh, Thomas," she sighed, wiping a delicate, invisible tear from the corner of her eye. "The answer? The 'objective'? It would just... bore you. Truly. It's so very complicated."
She leaned forward, her smile vanishing, replaced by a flat, simple, conversational tone. "And anyway, you're asking the wrong questions. You shouldn't be asking about that world when you should be asking about this one."
His breath caught. 'This... one.'
"You confirmed it," he whispered, the rage momentarily forgotten, replaced by the cold, sharp need of the profiler. "This isn't Earth. Is it?"
"Of course not," she scoffed, as if he'd just stated the sky was blue. "And I, for one, think you're going to have a surprisingly good time here."
He stared at her—the absurdity of the statement.
"Why?" he growled, the word a low, dangerous, and broken thing. "Why would I ever have a 'good time'?"
Her smile bloomed. It was a slow, deliberate, and radiant expression. The smile of a teacher, a performer, a demon, about to unveil her masterpiece. She held up her hand, slender, pale, and perfect.
She raised three fingers: index, middle, and ring.
"Three reasons," her voice was a melodic, conspiratorial, and seductive purr. "First," she said, her fingers held high, "it's a fresh start. That thing I said on the platform about 'honesty'? I meant it. That whole life you had was a lie. You were suffocating, Thomas. A 'consultant.' A 'tool.' A good, polite, broken man... pretending. Hiding."
She tapped her own chest, over her heart. "Here? You don't have to. This world is brutal. It's honest. Its rules are sharp. But they're flexible for people like us. People who dare."
Her ring finger, slowly, deliberately, folded down.
"Second," she continued, her voice soft. "...I'm here."
She gestured, a small, elegant, lazy wave, to herself. "Oh, I know," she added, raising her other hand, a placating motion, as if he'd actually spoken. "You don't 'appreciate' me. Not yet. But you will. Because my game, our game, isn't over. Not by a long shot. And let's be honest... you were so boring without me. And this... this is a treat. Even for me."
Her middle finger folded down, leaving only the index finger. She pointed that last, accusing finger directly at his heart.
"Third," she whispered, her voice losing all its amusement, becoming something else. Something hungry. "...this world... has magic."
'What?'
"Oh, yes," she hissed, her eyes glittering with a new, strange, ecstatic light. "Not just 'stories.' Not just 'tricks.' Real. Raw. Power. Individuals who can reinforce their bodies. Make them stronger and faster than anything your old, boring world ever dreamed of—others who can launch fire from their hands. Control the wind. Shape the earth. Real magic, Thomas."
She sighed, a small, sad, theatrical sound. "And the beasts, Thomas. The monsters. The things that lurk in this world..."
Her smile returned, cold and clinical. "I'll be fascinated to see how you go up against them."
She clicked her tongue, a sharp, tsk-ing sound. "Speaking of which... you're going to need an early start. Consider this... help... from me."
She lifted her right hand and snapped her fingers.
The sound was loud, a sharp, clean crack, like a dry branch breaking.
The instant she did, he felt it. A new, crushing, inward pressure. It was not her presence. This was physical, as if the very space around his body was condensing. He looked down, his eyes wide. A faint, shimmering, wavering light was forming, a barrier, a thin, translucent shell erupting from his skin.
As the shimmering, translucent barrier engulfed him, he felt it. The presence, the weight, the crushing, metaphysical hand that held him pinned...
It was gone.
He... he could move.
He looked down. He looked at his hands. They were on the table. They were... small.
They were not his.
They were the child's hands.
He was in the boy's body. Here. In the nightmare.
'I...' He didn't think, he just acted. He swore he wouldn't freeze.
He lunged.
He threw himself, with all the force his new, small, weak, and clumsy body could muster, across the polished, wooden table.
The movement was awkward, his new centre of balance all wrong. He was light. He was small. He stumbled, his knee skidding on the polished wood, crashing into her book.
She didn't move. She just watched him. Her smile, her terrible, awful, amused smile, only grew. It was wider. It was ecstatic. It was entertained.
He landed on her. He fell into her lap, a tangle of small, weak, furious limbs. His hands, his childish hands, found her. They wrapped around her throat. He was on top of her. He was strangling her.
He was killing the demon.
"I'm ending this!" he screamed, his voice a high-pitched, childish, unfamiliar shriek. "To hell with your games! To hell with you!"
He squeezed, his small fingers digging uselessly, into her warm, soft, living flesh.
"You are going to die!"
Her hands moved. They didn't fight. They didn't push him. They cupped his face. They were soft. They were gentle. They were... warm. Like a parent. Reassuring a child.
She spoke. Her voice was not strangled. It was not choked. It was a calm, gentle, soothing whisper.
"Look."
Her hands turned his head.
"Look at the book."
He couldn't help it. His gaze followed. He looked to the side, at the polished wooden floor where his own book, the one with the unreadable text, had been knocked during his clumsy lunge. It had fallen open.
The nightmare ended.