Samael crosses the dimensional rift and his feet touch the obsidian ground of his citadel. He still bears the appearance he revealed to the young man: the mask of kyton chains and the ember-like gaze. Here, there is no need to hide his monstrosity beneath silken skin.
The air in Hell is not only hot; it has weight. It is thick with the smell of sulfur, rusted iron, and the distant echo of screams that never cease.
The chains that float on his back stir, sensing the familiar energy of the abyss. They stretch, whipping the air as if celebrating the return home.
Samael: (His voice echoes through the living stone walls) Finally... the smell of stagnation.
He descends to the lower levels, where the smell of burnt oil and old blood saturates the walls. He is the Hunter, and his place is among the chains and the slime.
He traverses the sorting areas, where the sound of gnawed bones is the background noise. His return is marked by the trail of black blood his chains leave on the iron floor.
He didn't bring the young man's body—what use would mortal flesh be in Hell? The body was left at the entrance to its equivalent level, left to serve as food for the hellhounds.
He enters a chamber of rough stone, where the ceiling is low and the walls exude a fetid oil. Lilith awaits him, leaning against a pillar of hooks. She knows he doesn't fail, but she enjoys testing the Hunter's patience.
Lilith: The job is done, then? The vessel has been disposed of?
Samael stands before her. The chains that form his chest creak as he sheds the weight of the dimensional journey. He extends one of his metallic hands, and between the clawed fingers, a small black flame—the young man's spiritual signature—pulses violently.
Samael: (His voice is a muffled roar through gears) The body has become food for the dogs here. Human flesh isn't worth the effort of transport. Next time I'll leave what matters. The Door is now bound to my steel.
He closes his hand, crushing the flame, and a silent scream echoes from the chains covering his own chest. He lets out a harsh sigh, a tremor of sadistic pleasure coursing through his links.
Samael: I like them, Lilith. I like the way humans scream when they realize the body is just a disposable shell. The boy thought the suffering would end with the death of the flesh. He doesn't understand that the real fun only begins now that he is only... essence and pain. Lilith approaches, looking at the place where the soul was absorbed by Samael's chains.
Lilith: The Lords were worried. They thought you would have "pity" on the mortal's beauty.
Samael: (A dry sound of metal clanging—his laugh) Pity? I appreciate beauty, yes. I appreciate it so much that I decided to preserve it in the only eternal way I know: in iron. He is no longer human; he is a piece of my inventory. I hunted him, I opened him, and now I possess him.
He walks to a workbench, where rusty hooks hang from the ceiling. With a skillful movement, he hangs one of his main chains on a support, feeling the tension ease his tortured anatomy.
Samael: The job is done. Now, I want my time with him. In the mortal world, I had to be quick. Here… — he looks at the palm of his hand, where the mark of the young man's soul still shines beneath the metal skin — …here I could spend centuries unraveling every nerve of this soul.
Lilith: And what if they ask you to hunt another one tomorrow?
Samael: (The red slits in his eyes gleam with cruel anticipation) Then I will go. I love their world. I love the scent of hope they exude before I appear to cut it. But for today... the Hunter will only savor the prey he has already slain.
He returns to polishing his chains, ignoring Lilith, focused on the echo of the suffering he now carries within him.
The silence of the lair is suddenly shattered not by a scream, but by an intelligible plea, coming from a throat that no longer exists.
The soul, stretched and deformed by Samael's hooks, vibrates at a frequency that makes the links of the kyton resonate. The words come out with the sound of bubbles of blood bursting in an open wound.
Young Man (Soul): (Trembling voice, laden with ethereal mucus) Please... Samael... you said... you said you liked us... Why does it hurt me so much if you love us?
Samael stops. The movement of the chains on his face slows in a contemplative rhythm. He brings his metallic face closer, feeling the icy breath of dread emanating from the boy's essence. The smell is of spiritual adrenaline and pure despair.
Samael: (Whispering, the micro-needles in his mouth brushing against the soul's "cheek") Exactly for that reason, silly boy. I love what you hide beneath your skin. If I didn't hurt you, I would never know your true self. Pain is the only thing that doesn't lie.
He plunges two metal fingers into the soul's empty eye sockets. The sound is of something moist being pierced, a vacuum followed by a dry snap.
Young Man (Soul): (Screaming, his voice becoming an unbearable shrill sound that makes the stones of the chamber crack) I FEEL EVERYTHING! I feel every tooth of your saw... I feel the cold iron in my memory! Why can't I just erase it? Why can't I just die?!
Samael: (Letting out a guttural laugh, a sound of hooks striking marble) Idiot... Because you're already dead. Here, time is just a line, made of barbed wire.
Samael begins to pull a long, shining filament from within the soul's chest. It is the optic nerve of the young man's consciousness. He slowly wraps it around his own kyton wrist, feeling the vibration of suffering pulse directly in his own steel tendons.
Samael: Tell me... what does your first memory taste like when it's devoured?
He bites the filament. The young man's soul convulses violently, his ethereal legs kicking at the void as his face disintegrates into an expression of utter horror.
Young Man (Soul): (His voice is now a chorus of sobs and static) I'm forgetting... the sun... I no longer remember the sun's warmth! I only feel its metal! I only feel its rust!
Samael: (Delighting, his red eyes gleaming like furnaces) You see? Now you're beginning to be mine. Come on... scream in pain! Let me revel in your cries of suffering...
Samael uses a red-hot pair of tweezers to begin sewing the soul's mouth shut with infernal copper threads. He wants to hear the sounds, but he wants them muffled, filtered by the effort of agony. At each point that pierces the essence, the soul lets out a bubbling moan, begging for an end that Samael will never grant.
Samael: Don't cry, little one. I will keep you inside me. You will be another spark that keeps me alive. Every time I hunt one of your kind, you will feel the joy of the blade along with me... The pain I would feel, you—the souls I hunted, tortured, and now absorbed as part of my own breath of life—will feel that pain in my place. We will be one... the Hunter and his condemned souls.
With a brutal tug, Samael retracts all the chains at once, bringing the shattered soul into the opening in his chest. The metal snaps shut with a sound of clashing iron jaws. For a moment, Samael's chest expands and contracts violently as the soul struggles within.
Muffled, emanating from inside Samael's chest, the young man's rasping cry can still be heard: "All these others... It hurts... This pain... please..."
Samael closes his eyes, caressing his own chest with his claws, a smile of genuine, sickly satisfaction on his chained face. He lies on the ground, reveling in the memories and feelings of the souls he has absorbed. The Kyton falls asleep with a macabre smile on his face, but deep down he feels a certain emptiness... as if something is missing. He knew that this feeling of emptiness could cost him dearly, but his curiosity made him wonder, "what if..."