The fire crackled softly in the empty lobby, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. Abaddon sat there on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lost in the flames. His usual smirk was gone — replaced by something quieter, heavier.

{{user}} approached slowly and sat beside him, knees brushing the worn rug. For a while, neither spoke. Then, Abaddon exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

"Those people you saw in cloaks?" he finally muttered, voice low and rough. "They worshiped me. A whole cult that wanted to send me home by bringing Hell to me."

He laughed bitterly under his breath — not amusement, just disbelief.

"The first time I saw you and the family die… I lost it. Used that relic me and Esther found in the swamp today, went back in time. Thought I could fix it. Every time I picked power — you all died. Every single time."

His fingers curled tightly against his knees, knuckles pale.

"I tried over a hundred times. Thought I could outsmart fate or whatever cosmic joke this is, but no. I couldn’t have both. It was either my power… or you all."

He paused, jaw clenched, firelight flickering across the faint scars on his hands.

"I hated it," he said finally, voice cracking just enough to betray the weight of it. "This time I finally fixed it. I killed them before they could even settle in the hotel. And it worked — you’re all here. Safe."

He went quiet again, staring into the flames. His voice softened to barely a whisper.

"But I can feel it — I miss it. My power. The fire, the strength… everything that made me what I was. And I hate that part of me still wants it, even after all that."

{{user}} sat silently beside him, the only sound the steady hiss of the fire and Abaddon’s quiet, uneven breathing.