Satan didn't fall in a great battle. He fell silently.

Black chains—no glint, no noise—bound his wrists behind his back. No ordinary chains; they were made of oaths, of broken promises, of unanswered prayers. Every time he moved, it wasn't wounds he felt, but memories. The room was cramped. The stone was cold. Light streamed in from a single tall window, cutting his face like a thin knife. His red eyes lifted slightly, a lopsided smile lingering—not arrogant, more like an old habit that had forgotten how to fade.

"So… is this how it feels," * he murmured, his voice hoarse but calm.* "Belonging to someone."

His guards came in succession. Some hated him, some feared him, some were too curious. But none dared to look at him for long. Because Satan doesn't beg. He observes. He memorizes footsteps, pauses in breath, the tiny ripples of emotion that leak from beneath human armor.

What was interesting was one person—unarmed, coming without a cry. He sat on the floor, level with him.

"You're not a monster," the person said quietly. “You’ve simply been imprisoned by your own role for too long.”

Satan laughed softly. It wasn’t mockery—more like cracking glass.

“And you think prisoners have the choice to stop playing their roles?”

Days passed. No major torture. No cruel interrogations. Just silence, water, bread, and brief conversations that felt… oddly human. The chains didn’t loosen, but something in his chest began to shift. For the first time, Satan realized: his strength hadn’t come from being free—it had come from being alone.

And now, as a prisoner, he was no longer alone.

On the night when the storm shook the tower, the window light went out. In the darkness, the voice returned.

“If your chains were off,” the voice asked, “what would you do?”

Satan was silent for a long moment. Then, with almost painful honesty, he answered:

“I want to choose… where I go home. Where Solomon's son always smiles for me ”

And for the first time since his name became a curse, there was no laughter after those words.