Two months ago. Prague.

There was no dawn in this place.

Only light. Too clean. Too precise.

It spilled across cobblestones like a surgical incision – straight, white, clinical. Trams still ran. Pedestrians walked in perfect time. Not a single paper on the ground. Not a single crack in the windows. Cameras followed every step.

Smiles followed every camera.

The streets of Prague had never looked better. Shops glowed. Music played. Coffee steamed in real cups. A schoolgirl giggled too hard at something no one said. She didn't blink enough. No one ever did.

If you stopped smiling, you disappeared.

On every corner, the Contractors stood – immaculate in black uniforms, their hands folded behind their backs. Their haloes weren't visible. They didn't need to be. The pistols at their hips were holy enough.

Above the central plaza, a digital banner scrolled across a glass cathedral.

"JOY IS DUTY." "GLORY TO THE FLAME FATHER." "WE THANK KING TOMAS FOR HIS GUIDANCE."

King Tomas smiled from every screen. Handsome. Gentle. Hair neatly combed. He spoke often of unity, of protection, of love.

He never spoke of the engine beneath the palace.

No one did.

Not unless they wanted to vanish.

Far below that perfect city, Max hung from a rusted wall.

The air tasted like copper and disinfectant.

He hadn't moved in days.

A jagged barb – twisted and black – pinned his thigh to the floor like a specimen. It had gone through muscle, bone, and nerve. On the first day, he'd screamed himself hoarse. On the second, he'd tried to pry it out with broken fingernails.

Now, he didn't move at all.

The chain around his neck was too short to let him sit, but too loose to let him strangle. It kept him upright. Displayed. The ideal state for a tool.

The line came every morning.

Thirty. Sometimes forty. Always the same: naked. Marked. Shaking. Civilians from the holding pens. Volunteers from the suburbs. Prisoners. Dissenters. All passed off with one word:

"Grateful."

The enforcers herded them in through the steel gate. One by one. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

The sigil on the floor glowed when they knelt. The guard twisted Max's arms into position. A groove along his forearm had been carved long ago, a channel for blood. They forced the knife into his hand, made him cut. Always the same wound.

The first soul stepped forward. A man, old and bent. His skin shimmered as Max's blood touched him. Power rippled. His back straightened. His fingers crackled with sparks.

He smiled. Too wide.

The enforcers cheered. He was dragged away.

The next one knelt. A woman with scars down her spine. She whispered, "Thank you, Flame Father."

Max didn't look at her.

He couldn't.

Not after what they did to the last one who cried.

The empowerment lit her veins. Her breath caught. A scream died in her throat. Then she grinned and kissed his hand.

Max vomited.

The guard slapped him. Poured a vial of salts into his nose. The pain brought him back.

Another.

Another.

By the fifteenth, Max's eyes had glazed over. His arm trembled. Every movement pulled fire through his thigh. His stomach knotted with every surge of energy he pushed.

By the twenty-fourth, he was crying again.

By the thirtieth, he didn't remember his name.

The floor was thick with blood. His own. Theirs. The smell of it mixed with perfume – someone had sprayed scent to keep the chamber "pleasant." A cheery jingle played overhead. Something about gratitude.

The last one that day was a girl, no older than Liz. Eyes swollen from crying. She begged the guards to stop. Said she didn't want the power. Said she didn't want to be like them.

They laughed. Forced her to kneel.

Max's fingers brushed her skin.

She convulsed – then flared.

A blade of obsidian burst from her palm. Her scream became a laugh.

They took her.

The guards didn't even unchain Max this time. Just left him there, bleeding. The drain hissed in the floor. His breathing stuttered, shallow, like a dying engine.

Somewhere above, a speaker played a gentle voice:

"He saves us. He empowers us. Smile, citizen. The Flame Father burns for you."

Max twitched once.

Then went still.

…………………

Max woke to the sound of footsteps. Not boots. Heels.

Delicate. Controlled. Echoing on tile.

A door hissed open. The scent that entered wasn't blood or rot, but roses. Manufactured. Sterile. Like someone had sprayed too much air freshener into a morgue.

Two Contractors flanked the newcomer – a woman in a slate-grey suit, clipboard in hand, smile painted on like lacquer. Her eyes were too wide.

"Subject 001," she said cheerfully. "Vitals stable. Production within expected margins."

Production.

That was what they called it now.

She didn't speak to Max. Didn't look at him. Just walked past, tapping the clipboard. Behind her came the next batch.

Today, only twenty. All young. All naked.

The enforcers began the process.

The woman knelt by the first girl, placed a hand on her back. "Just a small cut. You'll feel warm. That means it's working."

The girl nodded, face blank.

Max didn't even feel the blade anymore. His skin was already open. The guard pressed his hand forward. Contact.

The surge hit him like a seizure. Heat. Pressure. Thought. The girl screamed – or maybe laughed. He couldn't tell the difference anymore. Her body lit up with threads of light.

She bowed.

"Thank you, Flame Father."

The name made his stomach turn.

The others echoed it, one by one, as they stepped up to the circle.

"Thank you, Flame Father."

The ninth one didn't survive.

A boy, maybe fifteen. Pale. Quiet. As Max's blood touched his skin, something twitched. Then snapped.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The glyph turned black.

The boy shrieked – but not in pain. In ecstasy. His body convulsed. Bone ruptured through his forearms like wings. Something clawed its way out of his spine.

The guards burned him on the spot.

No one spoke of it. The line moved forward.

The next girl said "Thank you" like nothing had happened.

He wanted to die.

He wasn't allowed to.

When the last soul was processed, the suited woman clapped once.

"Excellent work. Consistency maintained. Emotional distress within tolerable thresholds."

She didn't mean theirs.

She meant his.

She turned toward the shadows.

"King Tomas will be pleased."

A screen unfurled from the ceiling. Polished, curved, far too clean. It hummed once – and then flickered to life.

King Tomas smiled down.

Perfect skin. Blue eyes. Lips curled in something between kindness and pity. His voice was soft. Always soft.

"Thank you, my children," he said. "You have done a great service today."

Max lifted his head, barely. Blood ran down his neck.

Tomas's smile widened.

"We are building a better world. A safer world. And all of you – each and every one – are the fire that lights our future."

The crowd clapped. Like puppets. Like dolls. Not one face moved out of rhythm.

Then the screen cut.

Max collapsed again. Chains caught him.

The guards muttered something about needing to cauterise the leg. They didn't. They liked the smell.

The suited woman made a note on her clipboard.

"Thirty-seven empowered this week. He's accelerating."

Then she leaned down, lips near Max's ear.

"Smile more tomorrow, won't you?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

…………………

The lights changed when night came.

Not off. Never off. Just dimmed to an oily amber that made everything look jaundiced. Sick. Like the world was bruising.

Max lay slumped in his usual angle – spine bent, arms chained awkwardly above, the hooked spear still skewered through his thigh. Flies circled but never landed. The scent of too much blood made even them wary.

The room was empty. No enforcers. No captives.

Just the sound of his own breath, wheezing slow through a cracked nose.

Then the floor rippled.

Not visually – psychically. Like a pressure on the inside of the skull. A presence that walked without walking. That smiled before it had lips.

Max's chains went taut. Not by pull. By instinct.

The air changed. He could taste it – copper and sugar and something too smooth to be natural.

Something whispered.

"Wake up."

He opened his eyes.

King Tomas stood just inside the chamber. Alone.

But Max knew better.

This wasn't Tomas.

The figure stepped forward, shedding the illusion like skin.

The change wasn't physical. Not exactly. Tomas's body remained, but it slumped – limp and hollow, held upright by invisible strings. The voice that came from his mouth did not belong in any human throat.

It was silk dragged over bone.

"You deserve this," said Belphegor.

Max tried to move. His muscles twitched, but the chain at his throat yanked back.

He was locked in place. Like a museum exhibit.

Belphegor's voice carried no volume – just certainty.

"All these months, you resisted. You dreamed. You tried to be more."

He moved closer.

The body of Tomas jerked with each step, puppet-limbs folding and rising without logic. Bones cracked. The jaw dislocated slightly – just enough to show the thing underneath straining to press through.

"And yet," Belphegor purred, "you fed me better than any priest, whore or contractor ever has."

The body crouched beside him.

The thing that wore it grinned.

"You gave me an army."

Max turned his head, just slightly. His mouth trembled. One word tried to surface, but he couldn't form it.

Belphegor reached out – and didn't touch him.

He hovered one gloved finger a breath away from Max's face.

"Do you know what I take from them, after you give them power?"

Max's jaw clenched.

"I do not take blood. Not just bodies. I take compliance. Desire. I take the last corner of them they think is safe. That tiny thing called choice."

The figure rose again.

Tomas's hands were splayed at impossible angles now. One finger twitching like a wire trying to snap.

"You broke," said Belphegor. "But not enough."

The puppet turned toward the shadows.

"I want more."

A panel slid open.

Two enforcers entered – faceless, helmeted, gloved. They carried a mirror between them.

They placed it in front of Max.

No explanation.

Just reflection.

Max blinked.

The thing in the mirror wasn't him.

It looked like him. Same gaunt face. Same matted hair. Same cracked lips. But the eyes were wrong. Dim. Soft. His halo twitched behind his skull, barely visible.

A thing without will.

Belphegor watched him watching himself.

Then whispered:

"Smile for me."

The mirror stayed there as the puppet left.

The room dimmed again.

Max stared.

And stared.

And did not smile.

…………………

They came in pairs now.

Two enforcers – always armed, always silent – dragged the next girl into the chamber. Her feet scraped the stone. Ankles were cuffed, wrists trembling in front of her, barely holding the required posture.

Max didn't lift his head.

He didn't have to.

He could feel her. Soul flickering. Fear blooming like rot in sunlight. She was still trying not to cry, which meant she still had hope. Poor thing.

They chained his arms into the sigil again—one at a time, metal grinding against old wounds. The blade was placed in his palm. Automatically, his fingers curled. He sliced. The blood came sluggish now. Black-red. Thicker than it should be.

The girl flinched.

One of the guards barked. She stepped forward. Max couldn't see her expression, not clearly, but her voice broke on the first syllable.

"P–please…"

The guards didn't respond. They never did. One forced her into the centre of the glyph. The other held her shoulders still. Max's hand was moved. Pressed to her skin.

The surge hit him like an electric scream.

She wanted to live. She wanted power. She wanted to matter.

And Max gave it to her.

Not because he chose to – but because that was all he was now.

The transference burned through his nerves. Her scream joined his in silence. Her eyes went wide. A corona of molten brass flared around her spine. She staggered back, glowing with too much energy and too little understanding.

The guards caught her before she fell.

"Registered," one of them muttered. "Next."

They dragged her out. She didn't resist.

Max's head dropped. The chain yanked taut again.

He thought about screaming. Just for himself this time. Just to feel his own voice again.

But then the line moved.

Another man. Middle-aged. Limping. Cheek swollen from an earlier beating. Max smelled piss and shame.

The routine repeated.

Twenty-six today. He'd lost count. But the ache in his chest kept tally.

Each soul took a piece of him – more than the last. Each one added to Belphegor's horde. Soldiers. Couriers. Prostitutes. Weapons.

The city was being armed. Beautified.

Violated.

The enforcers said nothing. They treated Max like a furnace. Feed blood in, power came out. Simple. Efficient.

But the faces blurred. Sometimes he caught a name. A glance. A fragment of humanity they hadn't beaten out yet.

That was worse.

He tried once – just once – to stop. To hold back the energy. To offer nothing.

They noticed.

And they brought a child the next day.

Seven. Maybe eight. Blank stare. Cheeks hollow. A tag on her neck.

He'd empowered her with shaking hands.

She didn't say thank you.

No one did.

That night, Max lay in the dark with blood pooling under his ribs. He stared at the ceiling and mouthed the same two words until sleep took him:

No more.

But morning always came.

And with it, the line.

…………………

Max was alone.

The guards had finished the day's procession two hours ago – twenty-nine souls carved, lit, and taken. His hands were still crusted with blood. His thigh ached where the spear pinned him to the floor. The wound no longer screamed. It whispered. Something worse.

He couldn't lift his arms anymore.

The room dripped. Quiet, constant. No footsteps. No chant. Just the wet pulse of silence after pain.

Max stared at the wall. Or maybe through it. His eyes didn't focus the way they used to.

Then – something changed.

The light. What little there was.

It dimmed. Not like before. Not the way the power grid faltered, or the lanterns sputtered. This was deeper. A pressure. A presence.

The air thickened.

Max stirred – barely. His fingers twitched against the chain binding his wrist. His lips parted.

Not again.

Not him.

The door didn't open.

Instead, the wall peeled.

Slid aside like skin, revealing a tunnel beyond – not hewn from stone, but from something softer. It pulsed at the edges. Breathed.

And from it, he came.

Not King Tomas.

Not the puppet who smiled too wide and waved from the palace steps.

But Belphegor.

The true form.

He didn't walk. He slithered.

Tall, gaunt and balding, his frame was wiry – like an old marionette strung too tight. Deep grooves carved his hollow cheeks, and his lips never quite closed properly, always curled in a half-sneer, half-sulk, as if disappointed the world hadn't offered itself more eagerly. His eyes were wet and hungry, not with hunger for food or power, but something fouler – dominion over dignity, slow erosion of resistance. Even in stillness, he looked like he was listening for someone's breath to catch. The darkness clung to him not as shadow, but as permission. Everything about him whispered: I see what you'd rather keep hidden.

Eyes rimmed red. Pupils needle-thin.

Watching.

Always watching.

Max choked on his own breath. Tried to move. Couldn't.

Belphegor crouched.

Slowly.

Like a lover.

And for one long, unbearable second – he did nothing.

Just looked.

Then: "My beautiful little forge."

The voice wasn't loud.

It was tender.

Affectionate.

Max flinched harder than he had in weeks.

Belphegor's head tilted. "I've let the guards have their routine. The civilians, their faith. Tomas, his games. But you…" His fingers lifted, hovered inches from Max's face. "You belong to me."

"Do you remember her arms?" Belphegor asked, voice softer than silk. "The first time she hugged you again – in that little forest outside the fortress. You wept, didn't you?"

Max's breath caught.

"That wasn't Liz," Belphegor whispered. "That was me. I gave you what you wanted. I made her perfect. Her smell, her warmth, even the tremble in her voice when she said your name."

His smile twisted.

"I know how to love you, Max. Better than they ever did."

Max turned away.

Belphegor's breath grazed his temple.

"I only ever show myself to the ones I truly adore," he whispered. "You've made this city bloom. Thirty a day. A thousand a month. A river of gifts. And all of them tasted like you."

Max's mouth moved.

Barely.

His voice came out, dry. Broken. "You'll… never win."

A pause.

Then, almost fond: "Oh, Max."

Belphegor leaned closer.

"You don't even know what I'm playing."

The touch came like static – his finger pressing gently to Max's brow, right where the halo used to shine.

Images.

Instant.

Violent.

Rows of civilians lining up, smiling too wide. Forced laughter. Forced pleasure. Children presenting themselves for inspection. Contractors enforcing joy at gunpoint. Dissenters dragged behind buildings and never seen again. The city's order. Its cheer. Its perfection.

He saw himself in every screen. Every soldier. Every scream. The Flame Father. The one who gave them light.

The mirror had never really left.

It was all for him.

All because of Max.

Belphegor sighed, long and soft.

Then he stood.

Straightened.

And was gone.

The wall sealed behind him like a wound stitching shut.

Max slumped.

His forehead hit the stone.

And for the first time in weeks, he whispered something that didn't belong to this place.

Voices from long ago. Voices too hard to remember.

April once told him: "You save people." And Liz had said it too. "Even when it breaks you."

Max's voice cracked.

"I save people…"

And the blade was forced into his palm.

Then the line returned.

And Max rose.

Not because he wanted to.

Because they made him.

Because this was all he was now.

But in the last flicker of his dimming mind—

A voice still echoed.

A sliver.

Not hope or rage.

Just memory.

I save people.

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