The first thing Amon noticed when he woke up was that his left arm felt like it was full of wet cement.
The second thing was the smell. It didn't smell like "death" or whatever the horror movies promised. It smelled like bleach and pennies. It smelled like a high school cafeteria that had been scrubbed down with ammonia to hide a mistake.
He was strapped to a table again. Cold metal against a bare back. The leather straps were tight enough to chafe, biting into the raw skin on his wrists, but loose enough that he could wiggle his toes. Small victories.
"Subject Four is conscious," a voice said.
Amon didn't open his eyes. If he kept them closed, maybe they'd think he was still asleep—or dead—and leave him alone for five more minutes. He really needed those five minutes. The headache behind his eyes was doing a tap dance on his frontal lobe, and his mouth tasted like iron.
"Open your eyes, Four," the voice said again. It was the Tall One.
Amon categorized the people in white coats by height because he didn't care enough to learn their names. Names implied a relationship. Names implied that Amon planned to be here long enough to make friends. The Tall One had cold hands and breath that smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes. He was the one who liked the needles.
Amon sighed, a long, rattling sound in his chest, and peeled his eyelids open.
The light was too bright. It always was. The fluorescent strips above buzzed like trapped flies.
"Morning," Amon rasped. His voice was a wreck, like he'd swallowed a handful of gravel. "Or evening. Honestly, I've lost track. Is it Tuesday? I feel like it's a Tuesday."
The Tall One didn't smile. He was holding a clipboard in one hand and a syringe in the other. The liquid inside was a glowing, angry purple. It looked like grape juice that hated you.
"Vital signs are stable," the Tall One muttered to an assistant—the Short One—who was scribbling furiously in the corner. "Demonic energy readings?"
"Zero," the Short One said, tapping a glass monitor with a nervous finger. "Still zero. Flatline. It's like looking at a rock, sir. There's biological activity, but no magical signature. He's... empty."
Amon rested his head back against the metal table. The cold felt good against his scalp. "I'm right here, you know. You can just ask. I feel pretty empty. Also hungry. Mostly hungry."
The Tall One ignored him. He tapped the syringe against his palm, checking for air bubbles. "The Bael tissue graft was successful, yet the subject displays no Power of Destruction. No demonic aura. Just... mutations."
He reached out and poked the skin of Amon's shoulder. It was pale, covered in faint, jagged scars from where the needles went in daily.
"Waste of a specimen," the Tall One muttered. "If the infusion doesn't trigger a reaction today, we scrap him and move to Subject Five."
Amon stared at the ceiling tiles. One of them had a water stain that looked like a duck. He liked the duck. It was the only thing in this room that didn't want to cut him open. He wondered if the duck was hungry too.
Scrap him, a voice grumbled.
It wasn't the scientist. It wasn't the assistant. It was the other voice. The one that lived in the back of Amon's head, right behind his left ear. It sounded deep, angry, and like heavy chains dragging across concrete.
They're going to kill you, the Voice said. Bite his throat out. I can give you the power. Just ask. Snap the straps. Break his neck.
"Too much work," Amon whispered, closing his eyes again.
"What did you say?" The Tall One leaned in, the needle hovering inches from Amon's neck.
"I said," Amon cleared his throat, wincing at the dryness, "can I have a sandwich before you stick that in me? I'm serious. My stomach is trying to digest my spine. Even a cracker would be nice."
The scientist stared at him. For a second, he looked genuinely baffled. Most kids in this lab screamed. Most kids begged for their moms. Most kids prayed to a God that clearly wasn't listening. Amon just wanted lunch. It threw them off every time.
"Proceed with the Holy Tolerance test first," the Tall One ordered, putting the syringe down on a metal tray with a clatter. "If he's a dud, I don't want to waste the serum. It's expensive."
The Short One hurried over, carrying a heavy iron basin. Steam curled off the surface of the water inside.
Amon's eye twitched. Great. The bath time game.
He knew what this was. He remembered enough from his "before" life—the hazy memories of a world with anime and internet—to know the lore. He was in a Devil's body now. Or a half-Devil. Or whatever Frankenstein mess they had turned him into.
Devils burned when they touched holy water. It was supposed to act like acid. It was supposed to melt flesh.
"Arm," the Tall One commanded.
Amon didn't move. "You're going to burn me again? That's rude. I haven't even done anything today."
"Arm."
Amon sighed and relaxed his left arm. The restraint clicked open. The Tall One grabbed his wrist—his grip was unnecessarily hard, fingers digging into the bone—and shoved Amon's hand toward the basin.
Amon braced himself. He squeezed his eyes shut. He waited for the hiss. He waited for the smell of cooking meat. He waited for the scream that usually tore out of his throat before he could stop it.
He waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
The water was warm. Actually, it was kind of nice. Like a jacuzzi.
Amon blinked one eye open. Then the other. He wiggled his fingers in the water. It rippled, clear and harmless.
The Tall One froze. He looked from Amon's hand to the basin, then back to Amon's face. His mouth opened slightly. "Increase the concentration," he barked, his voice losing its clinical cool.
"Sir, that's pure blessed water from the Vatican. Class A," the Short One stammered, adjusting his glasses. "It should be dissolving his flesh down to the bone. We used the same batch on Subject Three and he... well, there wasn't much left."
"Then why is he washing his hands in it?"
Amon splashed a little water on his face. It felt refreshing. He rubbed the sleep and the crust out of his eyes. "Do you have any soap? If we're doing this, I might as well get clean. I smell like old socks."
The Voice in his head laughed. It was a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated in Amon's teeth. Mockery. Good. I like this one. Confuse them, partner.
The Tall One grabbed a silver cross from the tray—a nasty, jagged thing with sharpened edges, clearly designed for stabbing rather than praying—and slammed it against Amon's forearm.
Thud.
It just bounced off. No smoke. No burn. Just the dull impact of metal hitting skin.
Amon looked at the red mark it left. "Ow. Watch it with the merchandise, pal. That's going to bruise."
The scientist stepped back, his face pale. He looked at the clipboard, then at Amon, then at the cross in his hand. He looked like a man who had just seen gravity decide to stop working.
"Impossible," he whispered. "The genetic markers confirm he's a Devil hybrid. The Bael DNA took hold. He has the physiological structure of a high-class Devil. He has to react to light."
"Maybe he's human?" the Short One suggested, voice trembling. "Maybe the graft failed?"
"No," the Tall One hissed. "We removed his humanity weeks ago. Look at his back. Look at the bone density. He's a monster. But... he's a monster that doesn't burn."
He looked at Amon with a new expression. It wasn't disgust anymore. It was hunger. The kind of look a kid gives a shiny new toy before he breaks it to see how it works.
"He's immune," the scientist whispered. "A Devil immune to the Light. Do you have any idea what the higher-ups would pay for this? We could create an army of infiltrators. Soldiers who can walk into a church and slaughter everyone without flinching."
Amon didn't like that look. That look meant overtime. That look meant more tests. That look meant no sandwich.
"Hey," Amon said, pulling his hand out of the holy water and shaking it dry on his pants. "If I'm special, does that mean I get better food? Because the gruel yesterday tasted like wet cardboard. And I'm pretty sure I found a fingernail in it."
The Tall One ignored him again. He was scribbling frantically on the clipboard now, his pen tearing through the paper. "Cancel the serum. Prep the vivisection table. I want to see what his organs look like when exposed to light magic. We need to open him up. See if the immunity is systemic or just skin deep."
Kill him, the Voice roared. KILL HIM NOW.
Amon felt a throb in his left hand. A hot, pulsing beat. It wasn't his heartbeat. It was slower, heavier. Like a second engine waking up inside his blood.
"Wait," the Short One said, pointing at the monitor. "Sir? The energy reading. It just spiked."
"Demonic?"
"No. It's... something else. It's dense. Red."
Amon looked at his left hand. The veins were bulging. They looked dark, almost black against his pale skin. He felt the heat rising, traveling up his arm like he'd injected hot sauce into his bloodstream. It was uncomfortable. It felt like his arm wanted to explode.
"Quiet," Amon told the Voice, whispering under his breath. "Not now. I'm tired."
They are going to cut you open, boy, the Voice growled. Let me out. Let me burn them to ash.
"No," Amon muttered, closing his eyes. He focused on the feeling of the cold table. He forced the heat down. He didn't want to explode. Exploding took energy. He just wanted to sleep. "Go away."
You are infuriating.
The spike on the monitor vanished as Amon forced his heart rate down.
The Tall One looked suspicious, scanning the room, but he waved a hand. "Equipment malfunction. This machinery is older than you are. Strap him back down. We'll start the surgery in an hour. Let him marinate in the fear."
He turned and walked out, his white coat flapping behind him. The Short One followed, casting a nervous glance at the boy strapped to the table before turning off the main lights.
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a heavy clank. Then a second lock thudded. Then a third.
Amon was alone. Well, mostly alone.
The room was dim now, lit only by the green glow of the heart monitor and the faint light seeping in from the hallway.
Amon tested the straps. Tight. But the leather on his left wrist felt... brittle. Like it had been dried out by heat. He rubbed his thumb against it, and a flake of ash fell off.
You're an idiot, the Voice said. We could have incinerated them. We could be outside right now. I can smell the air outside. It smells like rain.
"And then what?" Amon asked the empty room. "Run through the hallway? Fight the guards? I'm seven. Or eight. I don't know. I'm small. I'd get shot."
I am the White Dragon's rival! I am the Red Dragon Emperor! I do not get 'shot'!
"You're a voice in my head that sounds like a disgruntled truck driver," Amon deadpanned. "Go to sleep, Dragon."
I cannot sleep while you are this pathetic.
Amon rolled his eyes and stared back at the water stain on the ceiling. In the dim light, the duck looked more like a rabbit.
"Hey, Dragon Guy?"
What?
"Do you think they have pizza in this place? Like, in the cafeteria?"
The Voice didn't answer. It just made a sound that might have been a groan of existential despair.
Amon sighed, shifting his weight on the hard metal. His left hand was still throbbing, a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with the blinking green light on the monitor. He knew the surgery was coming in an hour. He knew it was going to hurt. It always hurt.
But panicking wouldn't fix it. Crying wouldn't fix it. He had cried the first week. He had screamed until his voice was gone. It didn't change anything. The Tall One still cut him. The Short One still watched.
So he stopped.
"Just an hour," Amon whispered to himself. "I can nap for an hour."
He let his breathing slow down. In the silence of the lab, surrounded by the smell of bleach and the hum of machines, the boy who shouldn't exist drifted off to sleep.
His left hand twitched, and for a split second, the leather strap smoldered, turning to gray ash where it touched his skin.
Amon didn't notice. He was already dreaming about a ham sandwich with extra mayo.
.......