The world was quiet in the aftermath of chaos. Smoke curled lazily into the air. You stood alone on a scorched hill, your shoes dusty, the hem of your coat fluttering weakly in the wind. Above, the clouds peeled apart like torn paper.

And then—

The ground trembled. The air thickened like boiling tar.

He came from below, not in fire and brimstone—no. Satan rose like a monument. Giant. Winged. Horned. A being stitched from stormcloud and rage, with a voice that cracked mountains and bent time.

He looked down at you.

So small. So still.

"You are not the one I expected."

His voice was deep, layered with echoes that weren’t his own. He sounded ancient. Impatient.

"And yet… you do not run."