Michael didn't let him speak. Didn't care that the eighteen-year-old boy in front of him had nearly died.
He just stared, face locked in that uncaring mask.
"The problem is—your second part of the test didn't happen. The one in charge of opening your mark… was found dead. While you were sleeping. Half a day."
Red's eyes widened.
Dead? Then… he's not the voice?
That voice that called itself Seven—said he didn't work for them. So was that another one? Another player in the game? It would make sense… Seven said he was different. Not with them.
Red almost asked Michael, but Seven's warning slammed back into his head:
"If anyone asks about me, don't say a word. Or you'll lose the memory of this talk."
He shut his mouth.
Michael's voice carried on, cold as stone.
"We're out of time. Half a day wasted. No one to replace the examiner. And I don't have the luxury to babysit you. So figure it out yourself… or we'll find a better candidate."
Red gave a small, unreasonable smile. Maybe because he was still alive. But Michael's words left no room for relief.
First test—thrown to face a devil alone.
Second test—no teacher, no help.
What a way to say we don't care.
Red looked down at his arm. No bleeding. No scar.
He wasn't that surprised if they can control Devils they can heal to
He finally spoke, throat raw from screaming.
"And where are we going?"
Michael smirked
"I didn't say we're going anywhere, did I?"
Michael inhaled, exhaled—cigar smoke bleeding across Red's face.
Can't he stop smoking for one damn minute? I'm dying here, and he's filling an ER room with smoke, before red can finish his thought.
Michael pulled the blue curtain aside. Two beds. Two bodies. Pale, unconscious.
The closest one—ghost-white, draped in a sheet.
The farthest—not as bad. Still breathing, but limp.
Blood rushed to Red's feet as he stood, dizzy like he hadn't moved in years. Sandals scraped the floor as he followed.
Michael tapped the nearest bed.
"This is the one we found. They'll examine the body later, but for now—it stays here. Not your concern. Let's move."
Red muttered under his breath.
So I was sleeping next to a corpse? That's some fed-up shit. Even with all their tech, they can't respect life or death.
They stopped at the second bed. The man inside didn't wear hospital blues, or even a patient's gown. Security uniform. Still breathing, but out cold.
Michael's voice sharpened.
"This one is your test. You're going to burn his memories. Precisely—one hour. He's been out since you fought the devil. That's all you need to know. Don't overthink it. Don't read deeper. Just burn it."
Red's chest tightened. Burn a man's memories?
The voice told me he opened my mark and I faced my own memories… but I don't know how to burn someone else's. And what does it mean, one hour? Why only that?
Still, he forced himself to ask:
"And… how can I burn it boss?"
Michael flicked his cigar to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
"The same way you sealed that devil in the first test. You'll do it in your own way. And for some reason your mark is open—that saves me the trouble. I didn't have time to open it myself."
Red's eyes widened
"So you mean… use my blood, boss?" he asked
Michael clicked his teeth in irritation.
"No. You need to use your mark. Not your filthy, normal blood. There are different ways to do it. Some put their hand to the face, some to the belly. I don't care how. Don't waste my time. I need to get you to Blade by 8 p.m. That gives us two hours. No more. If you fail—like I said—I'll find another."
Michael shoved him forward, toward the bed.
Red staggered, flustered. He bit back a reply. Anger would get him nowhere.
He raised his hand, placed it against the man's face. Nothing. The man didn't stir, still trapped in slumber.
Focus. I need to do it right. What did I do before? My memory's fuzzy… but I remember the desire. Even when I was knocked out inside the memory, I still wanted it. That push.
His hand went numb. Darkness swallowed his vision.
In the void—he stood alone.
Chains, dripping blood, uncoiled from his chest. They stretched into the darkness without pain, only pressure. They tightened, clenched—and pulled. Something invisible was dragged toward him.
A blur of light. Condensed. Whispering. Like memory itself, packed into a sphere.
He reached.
And in the instant he touched it—he glimpsed flashes.
Michael's hand on the man's shoulder.
A woman with white hair, stepping through a door.
Then—nothing. Less than a heartbeat.
The light cracked.
Red grit his teeth. The chains buckled, writhing as if asking him what to do. He could feel it—control, barely his, but real.
Destroy it.
And with that thought, the sphere shattered.
Glass breaking. Darkness collapsing.
Red's eyes snapped open. His hand, still pressed against the man's face, throbbed with numbness.
The test was done.