[Michael – Age 12 | Dr. Halloway's Office]
The room smelled like peppermint and leather. A soft breeze hummed through the vent above, blending with the quiet ticking of a wall clock. Michael sat cross-legged on the couch, watching the therapist with a patient, unreadable expression.
Dr. Halloway adjusted her glasses, clipboard resting on her lap.
"You said you don't remember your parents' names?"
Michael nodded slowly. "No… I don't."
"And how long had you been living in that house?"
He paused, pretending to think. "I… don't know. It all feels blurry."
She wrote something down with a quiet scratch of her pen. "And the night it happened? What's the last thing you remember before the police arrived?"
He looked down at his hands. "I heard… screams. I remember hiding. There were claws… or something. I didn't see much."
Dr. Halloway nodded thoughtfully. "You seem very calm, Michael. Do you ever feel angry about what happened?"
He looked her in the eyes. "Sometimes."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.
[Later – Dr. Halloway with Officer Baines]
They stood just outside the office, a few feet from the door.
"He's composed," she said. "Too composed, for a child who went through that. He may have repressed more than he lets on."
Baines frowned slightly. "You think he's lying?"
"I think he's protecting himself." She flipped a page on her clipboard. "We'll need at least four more sessions over the next two months before I can give a full report. He's intelligent… and guarded."
Baines nodded. "Alright. I'll make sure he gets here."
[Four Years Later – Age 16 | Sunday Service]
The wooden pews creaked beneath the weight of silence. Dust danced in the light bleeding through stained-glass windows. Michael sat beside Baines, straight-backed and still, eyes forward.
The priest's voice filled the chapel, firm and passionate as he read from scripture:
"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour."
—1 Peter 5:8
Michael's gaze didn't waver. But deep inside, something curled quietly in his chest.
A devil.
A destroyer.
Slain.
He didn't move. He didn't blink. He just sat in silence while Baines crossed himself beside him.
[One Year Later – Age 17 | Tattoo Parlor]
Michael leaned back in the worn leather chair as the buzzing needle came to life. The artist—a guy in his twenties with too many rings—gave him a nod before starting the linework on his forearm.
Baines stood nearby, arms crossed.
"You sure about this?" he asked, for the fifth time.
Michael smirked faintly. "Yeah. It's just ink."
The design was simple: a single black wing, stylized and sharp, stretched from wrist to elbow. A reminder. A mark of what he really was.
He had played the role for five years. The quiet kid. The survivor. The foster son. The ordinary teen.
But Michael had never forgotten who he was.
And this world?
It didn't know what it had let in.