Ezekiel
I step forward, electricity crawling up my arms like it's trying to tell me to run. The corridor stinks of burnt sulfur and cold stone, and the blue-eyed demon stands perfectly still in the center of it—hands behind his back, posture straight, expression calm.
He looks like he's waiting for a train.
Not a fight.
Not me.
I exhale, tighten my grip around the crowbar, and let the lightning surge.
"Alright," I mutter, "let's see you dodge this."
The world flickers white-blue and I launch forward, lightning screaming off my skin. I swing once—miss. Twice—miss again. I circle him, becoming a streak of blue light, trying to catch any angle that breaks his rhythm. But he doesn't have a rhythm. He just tilts, leans, steps back with the smallest movements imaginable. Every strike feels like I'm hitting reflections.
He's not dodging…
He's ghosting me.
I drag my feet across the ground, electricity bursting out in sparks.
"Why aren't you fighting back?" I snap. "You just keep slipping around like some—some shadow!"
The demon turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at me from the corner of his eye.
"You wouldn't enjoy it," he says calmly.
His voice is even. Soft. Like he's explaining weather patterns.
"It would be… discouraging."
He blinks, slow. "And you seem quite motivated. I'd hate to take that away from you."
I grit my teeth. "Are you mocking me?"
"I don't mock," he replies. "Mockery requires malice. I only observe. And at the moment—" he gestures vaguely toward me with his chin, "—you are trying very hard not to panic."
I feel a spike of heat crawl up my neck.
He can see it.
He can feel it.
"No," I growl, "I'm trying very hard to punch your face in."
"Ah," he nods lightly, "so you admit you find faces important."
Before he finishes the sentence, I dash.
He doesn't react.
Good.
I yank off my jacket mid-sprint and hurl it straight at his eyes. He doesn't expect that—his expression twitches. That single hesitation is all I need. Electricity flares through my legs as I run up the wall—then jump.
My feet hit the ceiling. I push off hard, lightning exploding downward with me. Gravity + force + Spirit Energy. Everything converges in one strike aimed straight for his skull.
"Got you—!"
The crowbar's tip grazes his cheek.
A thin, shallow cut.
That's all.
He tilts his head aside just in time and my blow annihilates the ground instead.
BOOM!
The stone floor caves inward, sending a shockwave blaring through the corridor. Blue lightning bursts through the dust like wild veins. The air shakes. Rubble rains down.
The demon freezes for half a second, hand touching the cut on his cheek.
I step forward, ready to strike while he's stunned—
Then I see it.
A hand.
A blur.
Shooting toward my throat.
I abort the attack, twist, and leap back by instinct. His fingers miss my neck by less than an inch.
He doesn't chase me.
He returns to his original stance like nothing happened.
The silence afterward is worse than any roar.
He brushes his thumb against the thin cut on his cheek. "…How unexpected," he says, sounding almost confused. "You're faster when you stop thinking."
I breathe hard, shoulders rising and falling. "You gonna keep dodging, or…?"
He folds his hands behind his back again.
"Tell me, Ezekiel," he says, "do you believe you're using your full power right now?"
I frown. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," he tilts his head, "you're afraid to go all out. Afraid of what it might cost you. Afraid of what you might become."
I feel something tighten in my chest.
I step forward.
"Shut up."
"Afraid," he repeats gently, "that if you release everything—your power, your fear, your potential—you might discover you are still not enough."
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. "I said shut UP!"
I launch myself again, lightning detonating under my feet. I attack once—he blocks with the palm of his hand. I attack again—he parries the crowbar sideways. He moves so efficiently it pisses me off: tiny palm movements redirecting my entire momentum. Like he's guiding a child.
He shoves me back with a single, effortless push of his palm.
I skid across the stone, sparks trailing behind me.
"You're predictable," he says. "You fight with admirable resolve, but little clarity. Emotion over intention. Fear over strategy. Everything you do is shaped by your refusal to accept your limitations."
He takes one step toward me.
Just one.
My entire body goes cold.
"You think you're fighting me," he says softly. "But you're fighting yourself."
"Oh yeah?" I spit blood. "Then come fight me for real. Stop talking like some—some therapist demon."
He almost smiles.
"As you wish."
I charge and he doesn't dodge this time.
He catches my wrist.
His grip feels like iron hooked under my skin, unbreakable. I try pulling. Nothing.
"Let go—!"
He draws a single finger across my wrist. It's so fast I almost don't see it.
A line of agony blooms across my skin and warm blood pours down my forearm.
"Ah— shit—!"
I yank back, but he doesn't release me. His fingers keep me locked in place as the wound burns and throbs.
"Pain," he says calmly, "clarifies. It interrupts delusion. It forces the truth to surface."
I feel nausea twist in my stomach. His voice is too calm. Too knowing.
"I am helping you understand."
He throws me.
My body slams into the ground, rolling across the cracked stone. Electricity sputters around me uncontrollably. I clutch my bleeding wrist and struggle to get up.
He watches me like he's studying an animal.
"You must use your full power, Ezekiel," he says. "Not the fragments shaped by fear."
"Go to hell," I hiss.
"I already live there."
My breathing speeds up. My chest tightens. He's right—I am scared. Terrified.
But I don't back down.
I force myself to stand. Lightning flickers violently around me, uncontrolled and panicked, just like my heartbeat.
"I'm not afraid of you," I lie.
He tilts his head.
"You should be."
The corridor hums with my electricity. My hands shake. My wounded wrist drips blood onto the broken floor.
I swallow hard.
He hasn't even tried yet.
And I'm barely staying alive.
But I'm not running.
I refuse to.
I raise the crowbar, point it at his throat, and force strength into my voice even though it trembles.
"Round two," I whisper. "Let's go."
The blue-eyed demon's expression barely changes.
But his eyes—Those cold, ancient eyes—Narrow, just slightly.
"As you wish," he murmurs.
And when he moves this time— I finally understand what he meant when he said I wouldn't like it.