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Azazel had never been good at control. His existence was a patchwork of anger, sorrow, and emptiness—a searing void that echoed louder than any scream. He sat in the corner of the basement room, knees drawn to his chest, wings draped limply over his small form like a shield. His horns scraped against the stone wall as he tried to make himself smaller, more invisible, less everything.
The others had long gone ahead, hunting for the exit to the next floor. He hadn’t followed, unable to keep up with the rhythm of movement, the constant shifts between fight and rest. His thoughts spun in dizzying circles, each more suffocating than the last.
Why did they even let you come? You’re just dead weight.
You’re disgusting. Broken.
They hate you. Everyone does. Even you.
The familiar ache of his own self-loathing settled in his chest like a parasite, gnawing at him from the inside. He wanted to scream, to rip his own wings off, to—
“Azazel?”
The voice was rough but gentle, the kind of voice that was accustomed to pain. Azazel’s crimson eyes flicked upward to see Samson standing in the doorway. Blood still streaked Samson’s knuckles from their last encounter with the monsters, but his gaze was soft, concerned.
Azazel didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on his knees, shaking his head. Maybe if he stayed silent, Samson would leave.
But Samson didn’t leave. He stepped closer, crouching down to Azazel’s level, giving him space but not abandoning him.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Samson said, voice low. “I know what it feels like. Like you’re at war with yourself.”
Azazel huffed out a bitter laugh. “At war? That doesn’t cover it.” His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. “I don’t even know who I am. I’m just—nothing. A mess. Something to be thrown away.”
Samson’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on Azazel’s shoulder. The demon flinched but didn’t pull away.
“You’re not nothing,” Samson said firmly. “You’re just hurting. And you don’t have to fight it alone.”
Azazel’s wings twitched, his walls cracking under the weight of Samson’s words. “But I’m broken. Every time I try to be better, I mess it up. I just… I don’t think I can fix this.”
“You don’t have to fix it all at once.” Samson’s grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, grounding. “And being ‘broken’ doesn’t make you worthless. You’ve survived everything this place throws at you, and that counts for something.”
For a long moment, Azazel just sat there, trembling. Samson stayed, a steady presence in the chaos of Azazel’s mind.
Finally, Azazel whispered, “Why do you care?”
Samson sighed, leaning back slightly but not letting go. “Because I’ve been there. Hating yourself so much it feels like the only way out. And because… no one should have to feel that alone.”
Azazel’s vision blurred as hot tears slid down his cheeks. He didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound, but the tears fell, and Samson didn’t comment on them. He just stayed, his warmth a quiet reassurance against the coldness of the basement.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Azazel didn’t feel completely alone.