The boards across the window groaned as Marisol jammed her fingers beneath the rotted wood, trying to pry them loose. Her nails were split and dirty, fingertips raw, but she couldn't stop. Not now.
I have to get out before they come back.
The thought pulsed like a heartbeat behind her temples. Sweat trickled down her spine despite the cold, and her breath came faster each time the wooden slats resisted her grip.
Carlos had locked the door from the outside. Not to keep enemies out—to keep her in. She wasn't stupid. She'd seen the way he smiled when she questioned the next phase of the plan. The way he bowed out like it was only a matter of time before she gave in.
If that's what he thought he had another thing comin. She wouldn't be used by anyone no matter what. This power was hers and hers alone.
Her fingers slipped. She hissed in frustration, blinking back the sting of tears. She could feel it—the boards would give away, eventually, but what to do when she finally escaped.
That was the question.
She leaned her forehead against the window frame, eyes closed. Just for a second. Just long enough to find another option. There is always another option.
She dug her fingers back beneath the same warped edge, refusing to give up. A sliver of damp air kissed the back of her neck.
She froze.
Behind her, the door's old lock clicked—slow, deliberate.
A breath later, the door creaked open, inch by inch.
Marisol stepped toward it, muscles tensed. She was halfway there when a warm hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
She spun.
"Mephisto," she breathed, stunned.
The name cracked the silence like a whip.
Without thinking, she threw her arms around him. For a second, it wasn't about plans or taking sides—it was just relief, raw and trembling.
Mephisto chuckled, low and tired. He pulled back slightly, tilting her chin up between two fingers. His crimson eyes gleamed as they scanned her face, lingering on the golden flare of her new eye.
"Beautiful," he murmured, voice like velvet slipping off a blade.
Marisol smiled, embarrassed—but the moment shattered as Mephisto winced, staggering forward.
She caught him by the shoulders. "You're hurt."
He waved her concern away with a swipe, shadows billowing from his coat like smoke. "I'm fine. Eri and I… we came to get you out, little seed."
A thousand questions clawed at the back of her mind—what happened after she was taken, where Eri was, what the plan had become—but her thoughts narrowed to one. The only one that mattered.
Her hands tightened on his sleeves. "Where's Garrison?"
Mephisto's grin faltered. For a heartbeat, his mask cracked.
Marisol's stomach dropped. "Mephisto," she demanded, "where is he?"
A long pause.
Then—
"Gone."
The word hit harder than any weapon. Marisol stumbled back a step, her breath catching in her throat. "No. No, you're lying—"
Mephisto's voice cracked as he tried to steady himself. "He died… trying to save you. He managed to get a shot off—trying to stop Carlos from—"
A shotgun blast tore the moment apart.
Mephisto gasped, dropping to one knee. Smoke curled from the doorway where Carlos stood, grinning, shotgun still smoking in his hands.
"Checkmate," Carlos said, stepping inside.
Behind him, Sophie and a swarm of their familia spilled into the room, armed and grinning like vultures circling a dying animal.
Mephisto tried to stand, but another blow—this time a steel pipe across the back—sent him sprawling. Smoke coiled from his mouth as the familia swarmed, kicking, striking, breaking.
Marisol lunged forward, but Sophie caught her by the arm, wrenching her back hard enough to bruise.
Carlos let it play out for a moment, the savage dance of fists and boots, before raising a hand.
The beatings slowed.
Mephisto was a wreck—kneeling, barely breathing. His coat was torn to shreds, shadows pooling at his knees.
He coughed, voice raw and wet, but there was still venom behind it.
"You... soulless dolls," he spat, the words barely audible. "You think this sets you free? You're nothing but extras to me. Side characters. You'll be lucky if I forgive any of you after this."
Carlos tilted his head, smile cool and unbothered.
"You brought this on yourself, old man," he said, casually wiping soot from his sleeve. "We didn't ask to be made into this. Nor did we ask to make our torture your source of entertainment."
Mephisto's glare flickered, but he didn't look away.
Carlos stepped forward, shotgun still in hand. "Still… I'm not a monster. I'll give you a final line. One last word before curtain call."
Mephisto wavered—then looked up dragging his gaze to Marisol.
With the last of his strength, he stumbled toward her, collapsing into a hug against her chest. His breath ghosted against her ear.
"It's yours now," he whispered.
"The ending. The story. Make it a good one, little seed."
Tears stung her eyes.
Carlos smirked and stepped forward, pressing the shotgun barrel against Mephisto's head.
"Goodnight, Director," he whispered mockingly.
The shot echoed like a hammer blow.
Mephisto's body crumpled—then shimmered into mist, vanishing without a trace.
All that remained was a glowing red orb hovering where his heart had been, pulsing like a dying star.
Carlos reached out, plucking the orb from the air. Without hesitation, shoved Mephisto's essense into his mouth.
The room seemed to shudder.
The familia watched, breathless, as Carlos swallowed, his body convulsing once, twice—before stilling.
When he straightened, his grin was sharper.
Hungrier.
A ripple of power rolled off him, distorting the air like heatwaves.
Carlos opened his eyes.
They gleamed a deeper, bloodier red.
He spread his arms wide, basking in the stunned awe of his followers. "Witness," he said, voice low and hungry, "the birth of your true leader."
Marisol clutched at her chest, the weight of Mephisto's final words burning into her soul.
The story was hers now.
But the first question she had wasn't how to survive. It was why.