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Cold metal seeped into his bones. HIs cheek pressed against the floor.
Somehow, it was comfortable. In a twisted sense.
Darkness surrounded him, and for a second Alastor could pretend he didn’t exist anymore. Could pretend he wasn’t in pain.
He closed his eyes, the distant echo of jazz music ringing in his ears. His mother’s soft words whispering comforting nothingness into his heart.
A reminder of why he did all of this.
Something that brought burning tears to his eyes, because if he could, he would have done it all over again.
Alastor knew he wasn’t a good man. He always wanted to be, for his Maman, but he wasn’t. Couldn’t. The goodness that seemed to come so easy to some people, had been ripped away from him, the moment his father had laid hands on his mother again.
Alastor didn’t think about himself then. He didn’t care if he hurt. It didn’t matter if his father hurt him in his drunkenness. Alastor never cared about that. But when he heard the slaps echoing through the house, his mother’s cries and pleas of mercy. Alastor could feel the anger burn inside of him, burning like fire, hot and fast through his veins. He wanted to hurt him, hurt him so bad, but his mother’s words had kept him back.
You don’t want to be like your Father. Don’t become him. Don’t let him win.
What good had it brought him? What good did morality bring him, when death came and ripped her away from him? When pain became worse and worse and worse and nothing stopped it?
Alastor had snapped when his father had gone to far. He still remembered the smell of blood in his nose, as he held his mother’s limb body in his arms, screaming, crying, pleading for her to get up, please just get up again, please!
But she didn’t. She never would.
Alastor’s father had just stood there, knife in hand, scoffing at his son and dead wife, drinking another beer, talking about how he could just fuck another one.
That’s when Alastor had snapped. His mother had been too good for death. She should have lived longer, lived her life in peace and fulfillment, full of laughter and joy and happiness. Instead she had suffered under the hands of an abusive man who thought he could take anything and not get punished for it. The smugness, the arrogance. It all had crated on Alastor’s nerves. It had made him snap. He wanted him to realize that his actions had consequences. That you couldn’t just hurt someone without retaliation! And so Alastor had done it, let his dark side win, despite what his mother had told him, had sworn to himself, that if he could prevent it from happening, he would do something about it.
He had made his father suffer, made him regret everything, made him learn, before he had finally set his soul free, sent it to hell, where he belonged and should suffer more.
Alastor had felt it then. He knew he was destined to go to hell then and there as well. He had done an evil deed and he would be punished for it. But not before he took as many evil man down the burning pits of with him as he could.
He had become a serial killer. Celebrated by some and feared by others in the media. He didn’t regret doing it. Every freed woman, every saved child had been worth dooming his soul for.
At first he had tried to live by his mother’s words. He had tried collecting evidence, tried giving the police hints, tried to do it the good way. But it hadn’t carried any fruits. It had been for nothing. The police didn’t do anything, and it often made the lives even more horrible for the victims.
And if no one did anything against it, Alastor must. At least someone has to. All these souls crying and pleading for help? Where was god then? Where was justice? There was only one life to live and why live it in virtue if it took everything else from you? What would it leave you with in the end?
Alastor had made a decision. He knew he would end up in hell for it, he just as the others needed to be punished for the sins, but at least his sins had come with something good. As long as he had been successful he had watched the families he had saved from afar, watched their happiness return, watched the shadows leave them.
He had killed with a moral code. He had killed those he deemed unworthy of life, those that brought more suffering alive than dead. The only thing he regretted was dooming his soul to hell, knowing he would probably never see his mother again, regretting, that he disappointed her so much.
When Alastor had died, he had saved thousands of women and children. Radio host by day, getting first hand information for the news, cooperating with the police, bringing joy through music and narrations, murderer by night, killing those the police failed to arrest. His death had been ironically stupid. Sometimes he caught himself laughing because of the ridiculousness of the situation. Killed confused with a deer, ripped to shreds by dogs, shot in the head by a hunter, while he had buried his recent kill. Very elegant.
Alastor snorted, then coughed when the air didn’t want to leave him as he wanted it too, the muzzle pressing cold and harsh against his face, clamping his mouth shut and bringing him back to the present situation rather unpleasantly.
Ah yes. Rather unwelcoming.
The chains rattled around him as he moved, shifted to get a better position. The cold metal floor pressing against his battered body, old wounds stinging.
Alastor had just respawned in hell, confused, walking around like a toddler just getting accustomed to his new body. Had felt the tail, the fur, the ears! His legs like jelly, hooves as his feet that he could barely stand on. His arms were longer now. His fingers ended in dull claws. His skin - no, not skin anymore - was streaked with patches of soft, dark fur.
The antlers had been the worst. He couldn’t turn his head without bumping into things. They ached - like they had burst from his skull too fast, tearing muscle on their way out.
Everything smelled too sharp. Too real. Too much. Too loud! He had felt his ears twitching! Twitching!
Panic seizing him.
What was going on?!
He had tried to get his bearings, tried to understand what had happened, where he was, what he was, when the net had come.
His body had been thrown to the ground by the sheer weight. Voices hollering, yelling. Too loud! Way too loud. Alastor had felt panic inside of him, the bites of the dogs still fresh in his mind, he had struggled, fought desperately. Hooves scraping, antlers catching the ground.
Then came the voices.
“Shit - he’s strong!”
“Watch the antlers - watch the damn antlers!”
“Ooh, feisty little thing!”
“This one’s perfect. Look at him - real exotic. Never seen one like him before.”
“Still got his soul-burn on him. Fresh catch.”
Were they… talking about him?
Alastor had frozen, just for a moment. Dazed. His chest heaved. His heart pounded against the bars of his ribs.
Then the collar.
Click.
Hot metal against his throat, locking tight.
Then the muzzle.
Arms grabbed at his face, yanking his head back. A strap looped around his jaw, buckled at the nape of his neck. His mouth sealed shut. No sound. No scream. No name.
“There we go. That’s better.”
“You’re gonna make us so much money, sweetheart.”
He remembered trying to scream, remembered biting down on the leather, remembered his eyes burning with panic and hatred and confusion.
But they didn’t care. They never even looked him in the eyes.
Just at his antlers.
Just at his body.
Just at the potential.
He was a prize. A beast.
A thing.
That was the day he stopped being a person. His world becoming an endless void of suffering and pain.
He didn’t know how much time had already passed ever since he had been caught, he only knew that he had changed masters so often now, still seen as something ‘exotic’, something ‘rare’. Alastor didn’t know what that meant. Couldn’t know. He had seen hell only ever from inside his prison, the only knowledge he gained was what he had overheard from his master’s talking.
Prey animals were rare in hell. A deer had never been seen before. The claws and sharp teeth making him not entirely prey but something else. His coloring ‘exotic’. The red seeped with brown and black across his body a combination that most thought enticing, alluring. His deer tail and ears fluffy and cute, the freckles covering his fur giving him something innocent and sweet.
Alastor hated when he was talked about like that.
It was hard to not forget his self.
He deserved it for what he had done. He knew, but by Satan he wished it would stop, just for a moment, just so he could catch his breath.
It never did.
–
The door hissed open.
Light - blinding, searing white - poured into the cell like floodwater.
Alastor whimpered before he could stop himself, instinct dragging his arms over his face as he buried his head in the crook of his elbow.
Too bright. Too loud. Too sudden.
His ears flattened back as the echo of clicking heels filled the hallway.
A silhouette blocked the light. Long-limbed. Sharp-shouldered. The sound of static followed him, a faint hum beneath his words.
“There’s my favorite creature.”
Vox.
His new master.
The one who never touched him without smirking. The one who always looked at him as if he was an otherworldly being.
Fascination danced in his voice every time he spoke - twisted, greedy fascination that made Alastor’s stomach twist.
Vox didn’t beat him… often. Didn’t scream.
He admired him.
That was worse.
“Come now, don’t hide that pretty face.” Vox’s tone was honeyed, cruel. “You’ve got fans waiting.”
Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
He didn’t fight anymore.
Fighting meant hope.
And there was no hope here.
This was Hell.
His punishment.
All he had left was the last shred of dignity clutched in his bloodied hands, and he’d hold onto it with what little strength remained.
Even if it meant crawling out of this cell on shaking legs.
Even if it meant being paraded like a prize again.
The leash clipped onto the ring at the front of Alastor’s collar with a click.
Vox tugged it once - not harshly, but firmly, like one would guide an obedient pet.
“Up you get, darling,” he cooed. “Let’s not keep our admirers waiting.”
Alastor moved.
Slowly. Mechanically. His limbs creaked in protest as he pushed himself off the floor. Muscles ached from disuse. One knee buckled slightly, but he caught himself. He did not want to fall in front of Vox.
Dignity. The last thing he had.
Vox made a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Alastor’s ears twitched - shame and rage briefly flashing behind his dull eyes. But he didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
The hallway outside was lined in deep red velvet and cold marble. Ornate. Extravagant. Like a palace made of rot. Vox’s domain.
The leash stayed taut as Vox walked, and Alastor followed - hooves echoing softly on the stone floor.
The door to the grooming room slid open with a soft hiss.
The space inside was gleaming. Sterile. Lit by harsh white lights overhead. Brass fixtures, a drain in the center of the floor, wall-mounted restraints.
The room wasn’t for comfort.
It was for control.
Vox guided Alastor in, then tugged the leash upward. “There. Stand still for me, sweetheart.”
A second later, a hook descended from the ceiling, and the ring on the collar locked into place with a magnetic snap, forcing Alastor’s neck upright. His muzzle tilted slightly skyward. His bound wrists where next. Another chain locking them to the ring on the wall as well.
Vox hummed, circling him like a buyer inspecting livestock. “You’re always such a sight. The others never appreciated you like I do. Always too rough with you. Didn’t know how to care for such a rare creature.”
A low mechanical whir signaled the wall restraints adjusting automatically, holding Alastor in a perfectly upright position. Presentable.
Alastor didn’t resist.
Vox ran a hand over Alastor’s shoulder, across the fur along his spine. “There’s that tension again. You always try so hard to seem composed.”
He leaned in close, voice tickling against the base of Alastor’s ear.
“But I can feel the way you tremble, my darling stag.”
A gloved hand dipped into a nearby cabinet and returned with a soft brush - large and oval-shaped, meant for smoothing fur. He began at Alastor’s chest, where his fur was thickest, brushing slowly, deliberately.
The strokes were practiced. Too practiced.
“You know,” Vox said conversationally, “when I was a child, I always wanted a pony.”
The brush passed over Alastor’s ribs, down toward his flank.
“But they told me no. ‘Too dangerous,’ they said. ‘Too wild.’ And yet here you are.”
He chuckled to himself. “You’re much prettier than a pony.”
The brush trailed up over his side, and then Vox reached for a cloth, wet and warm, and began wiping away dried blood near a half-healed wound along Alastor’s shoulder.
Alastor winced.
Vox noticed. “Ah, don’t be dramatic. I know you can withstand way more. That’s whats making you so fascinating.”
He took a comb next. Moved to the antlers. Began cleaning between the ridges with delicate cloth strips. making Alastor shudder. “You have no idea how valuable you are, do you? The other masters used to parade you around like some sideshow act. But I? I showcase you. I refine you.”
Alastor’s breathing had quickened, nostrils flaring against the muzzle.
Vox paused, one hand curling around the back of Alastor’s neck, thumb pressing gently beneath the collar.
“You’re lucky I found you,” he whispered. “Others break things they don’t understand. I prefer to… preserve.”
The gloved hand dropped again, smoothing over Alastor’s side. “Almost ready. Your fans are going to lose their minds tonight.”
Vox took a moment to adjust the angle of Alastor’s head via the collar chain. Just slightly.
“Head high, love. You’re a star.”
Alastor closed his eyes.
He pretended he was somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Vox wasn’t finished.
He never rushed this part.
To him, this was art. A performance. A ritual.
“Let’s not forget your hooves,” he said brightly, setting the brush aside.
Alastor kept his eyes forward, jaw tight beneath the muzzle, as Vox crouched beside him, taking one hoof in his hand, placing it on his legs.
“Tsk,” Vox muttered. “Chipped again. Honestly, what do they feed you between matches?”
He retrieved a small hoof file, a bottle of dark polish, and a cloth. He cradled Alastor’s leg like a farrier would a horse’s - impersonal, practiced, oddly gentle. The scrape of the file filled the room, sharp and rhythmic.
“You know,” he mused, “when I first got you, I considered declawing you. Defanging, too. For safety. But…”
Vox looked up at him, smiling.
“I like the illusion of danger. It excites the crowd.”
He buffed the hooves next, polishing them until they gleamed under the white lights. Then he straightened and moved to Alastor’s ears, plucking a soft cloth from a brass hook.
“Hold still.”
Alastor flinched when Vox’s fingers brushed the inside of his ear - sensitive, humiliating. But the grip was firm. The cloth cleaned away dust, grime, dried blood.
“There’s that twitch. You always do that when I touch here,” Vox said, amused. “Like a horse shivering under the brush.”
He paused, then added with dark affection:
“Adorable.”
He moved next to the muzzle. “Now, behave. I’m taking this off, just for a moment. Don’t make me regret it.”
Alastor didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Vox unbuckled the muzzle slowly, fingers dragging along the leather as he worked each strap loose. When the final one fell away, Alastor gasped - more out of reflex than rebellion, his jaw aching as it opened slightly for the first time in… hours? Days?
“Don’t try anything,” Vox warned, tapping him lightly under the chin.
Alastor stayed still. Breathing ragged. Muzzle lines pressed deep into his face.
Vox took a small instrument from the tray beside him - a dental scraper. He tilted Alastor’s jaw up with one hand and began cleaning his teeth like one would a show dog or stallion.
“Tsk. You’ve been grinding again.”
Alastor’s lips curled back instinctively, ears pinned. He hated this part. The closeness. The vulnerability.
But he didn’t move.
When Vox finished, he cleaned the muzzle itself - polishing it, sanitizing it, checking the straps. Like it was precious. Then he replaced it. Slow, snug, final.
The click of the buckle echoed.
The silence returned.
Vox’s last step was the oil.
A small bottle, clear and amber-hued. He poured a few drops into his hands, rubbed them together, and began running them through Alastor’s fur. Down the arms. Across the chest. Over the haunches.
“There,” he said softly. “Now you shine.”
Alastor stood still, chained and silenced, jaw locked under leather, vision swimming.
He felt… unreal. Like a prop. A mannequin. A painted prize being polished for auction.
Vox stepped back to admire his work. “Perfect.”
“You’ll look magnificent under the lights.”
–
The muzzle had been removed again.
Not out of mercy - never mercy - but because Vox liked him pretty when he entered the arena, and because he actually wanted him to have a chance to win. “Let them see that face,” he’d said with a grin. “That sharp little smile. You know how the crowd loves a predator in prey’s clothing.”
Alastor didn’t smile.
He hadn’t smiled in a long time. In the beginning he had held to the thought that if he smiled, no one would be able to see through him. He would have the upper hand, no one could see his pain. It had worked for a while, until it didn’t anymore. Until the punishment had been so grave, Alastor hadn’t been able to lift his lips ever since.
He sat in a cage just off the main arena floor, bars wrapped in gold and black steel, like the bars of a circus wagon. Decorated. Displayed. His collar was still locked, and would forever be. He can’t remember the last time he hadn’t worn a collar. His arms were unshackled for the fight, but that didn’t make him free.
From here, he could see the blood.
The arena was circular, deep, and surrounded by plush velvet seats in rising tiers. A ring of fire lit the perimeter. Shadows danced along the walls like drunken phantoms.
The crowd roared above him. Hell’s elite. Demons in masks and sinners in chains, all screaming for blood.
The fight currently in progress was a mess of limbs and snarling teeth. Two sinners - both malformed, both exhausted - grappled in the sand like animals, their bodies already torn open in too many places.
One had antlers.
Not like his. Sharpened. Jagged. Broken halfway.
Alastor stared through the bars, ears pinned, chest tight. His claws flexed unconsciously.
“High bets on you tonight,” Vox had said, smiling as he drove the strange gilded cart that carried Alastor to the staging area. “I’d hate to lose face if my prize pony falls flat.”
Alastor didn’t respond. He hadn’t met Vox’s eyes once. But his stomach had twisted, acid pooling beneath his ribs.
What’s waiting out there tonight?
He shifted slightly, trying not to tremble.
His mouth ached where it had been kept stiff for days. His hooves were scuffed from pacing in circles earlier. His breathing had started to pick up - quietly, slowly, barely noticeable unless you were watching.
He was afraid.
He hated that he was afraid.
It didn’t matter how often he did it, it was always horrible.
In the arena, one of the fighters went down with a sickening crack. The crowd exploded with cheers.
Alastor flinched.
His fingers curled into fists. His tail flicked once, tight with tension.
Then the lights shifted.
The announcer’s voice boomed out, warped and crackling with reverb.
“AND NOW—”
A spotlight swept toward the cages. Alastor’s cage.
“Hell’s favorite! The Wendigo! The Bloody Stag! Our undefeated marvel - VOX’S PRIZED MONSTER - ”
A pause.
“THE RED DEEEAAAAATH!”
The crowd howled.
His cage door creaked open with a hydraulic hiss.
The wall behind him started moving forward, shoving him from behind.
Alastor stumbled forward, hooves slipping slightly in the sand as the firelit arena opened wide before him.
The noise was deafening.
He raised his head because that’s what they expected. Shoulders square, steps even, not too fast, not too slow. Like a show horse trotting into the ring.
He didn’t know who - or what - he was fighting tonight.
He only knew one thing:
He had to survive.
–
The blueprint sat across Lucifer’s knees, half-folded, marked with smudged pencil and old blood.
They were close now. Less than ten minutes out.
The club glimmered in the distance like some gilded temple of vice - gold lights, velvet curtains, a stage built on bones.
Vaggie was in the front seat, tense, eyes scanning the street as they approached. Charlie sat beside Lucifer, double-checking her notes, her jaw clenched so hard it trembled.
“The back entrance should be clear,” Vaggie said, not looking back. “I paid off the bouncer. He thinks we’re here for a private show.”
“We are,” Charlie muttered. “Just not the one he thinks.”
Lucifer almost smiled at that. Almost.
His hands tightened around the blueprint. He had failed so hard as a king. Failed his people. Failed as a father. He had let so much suffering in his kingdom, punished himself and his people. Before Charlie.
Before he started caring again.
For centuries, he had watched Hell rot from the inside. He had let it.
Because it was easier not to feel anything.
After the Fall… after Lilith…
He had told himself that sinners deserved it.
That Hell was meant to be suffering.
That helping them was like trying to fix broken glass with your hands - just more blood, more scars, more futility.
He had believed that.
Until Charlie.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly, glancing at him.
“Just thinking.”
“Wanna tell me what about?”
He was silent for a long moment. Then:
“How wrong I’ve been.”
She blinked, surprised.
“For so long,” he said slowly, “I thought the people down here… weren’t worth saving. That they’d made their beds. That eternal torment was just the cost of sin.”
He looked at her now, really looked.
“But you - you reminded me that a lot of them didn’t end up here because they were evil. Some of them made stupid choices. Desperate ones. Some of them just… fell through the cracks.”
His voice cracked.
“I let Hell become a machine. Cold. Unfeeling. I convinced myself that mercy was weakness. But you - Charlie - you made me remember they’re people. And people can be guided. Not all of them. But enough.”
Her hand found his. No words. Just warmth.
Vaggie glanced back briefly, her voice softer now. “Angel and Husk are in their positions. Niffty is … well … Niffty. The agents from Ozzie are ready to move as well. This is one of the biggest crime networks in hell right now. Success in this operation could change the foundations of hell.”
Lucifer exhaled. “Let’s make it count.”
For years now Charlie, Lucifer and Vaggie worked on reorganizing hell, making it a place for redemption after Charlie had managed to wake him up. But there was so many things still wrong. So many people who had thrived under the chaos, chosen to continue their curelity. Slavery, Rape, Torture.
Higher demons had started targeting new demons or lower demons and enslaved them. Sold them like animals, worth nothing anymore.
This would end today. They had been trying to track them down for months now after they found out what was happening right beneath their noses, and now they had finally gathered enough intel to make a move.
He slid the blueprint back into his coat. Adjusted his cuffs. His voice hardened again, the steel returning.
“We go in quiet. We find the prisoners. We free them. And if anyone tries to stop us - ”
His eyes burned gold.
“We remind them that Hell still answers to me.”
The car rolled to a stop. Outside, the club loomed - laughing lights, hidden screams.
Lucifer opened the door.
Charlie followed.
The moment Lucifer stepped into the club, the scent hit him.
Smoke. Perfume. Blood beneath velvet.
The interior was lush - red silk walls, gold trim, a ceiling that glimmered with crystal lights. Guests in masks lounged in booths, laughing into their glasses. A slow jazz melody hummed beneath the murmurs.
It would’ve been beautiful - if not for the weight pressing beneath it all.
Lucifer could feel it.
The stink of suffering, masked in wealth.
A server escorted them up a private staircase to a viewing box. It overlooked the arena below - a perfect vantage point. Too perfect.
The sand in the pit was dark with blood. Chains hung from posts at its corners. And two figures circled each other beneath the lights, the crowd’s murmur rising around them like a tide.
Charlie stepped to the railing first.
She froze.
Vaggie moved up beside her - and her mouth opened slightly, but no words came.
Lucifer followed.
His eyes locked on the figure in the pit.
A deer. Or… not quite.
A sinner with antlers. Slender. Bruised. Covered in short, red-brown fur, fiery red hair flowing in waves around him with every move he did. One leg trembled with exhaustion. His ears were pinned back. His breath came in shallow bursts, but he was standing. The freckles on his body a beautiful pattern. Slender, wild, like fire. And for a second Lucifer was caught in his grasp, before the horror crashed down on him of what he saw.
Opposite the deer sinner, another fighter - hulking, snarling, nearly feral - closed in. Like an animal. Broken beyond recognition. Body covered in scars, patches of fur missing.
Lucifer’s stomach turned.
The stag looked so small and fragile beneath the towering snarling mess of the opponent.
“Fuck…”, Charlie whispered in horror.
He watched as the deer demon dodged a blow - not clumsily, not wildly, but precisely. His antlers ducked low, legs shifting to keep balance.
And for just a second …
… he looked up.
His eyes found Lucifer’s box.
There was no plea. No panic.
Just a flash of something sharp. Alive.
Will.
That was what caught Lucifer’s breath. Not the bruises. Not the blood. Not the cruelty of the crowd.
It was that look.
He’s not gone yet. Not broken like his opponent, but alive, even after all this.
Lucifer blinked, and the moment passed. The fight resumed. The stag dodged another strike, barely.
“Disgusting…” Vaggie whispered and Lucifer couldn’t agree more.
She gripped the rail. Her mouth was a tight line.
“This is worse than I thought,” Lucifer murmured.
He stepped back from the rail, but his gaze didn’t leave the ring.
Something inside him shifted. Quiet. Not a roar, but a tremor.
He didn’t know this sinner.
But something about him made Lucifer’s chest ache.
–
The sand burned beneath his hooves.
It was soaked. Blood. Sweat. Spit. Some of it his. Some of it not.
Alastor moved.
Gracefully. Quietly. Like a ghost in a ballroom.
His breaths came sharp through his teeth, ribcage straining with each inhale. He kept his shoulders square, his head high. Even now. Especially now.
Across from him, the other was snarling.
A sinner, once. Barely recognizable now. Skin torn in places, eyes milky and unfocused. Chains still dangled from his wrists, metal clinking with each wild lunge.
He fought like a beast.
No rhythm. No control. Just desperation, fury, terror.
Alastor stepped to the side again, narrowly avoiding a swing that would’ve crushed his jaw. The wind of it was enough to stagger him.
He spun with the motion, using his antlers to slice shallowly across the man’s arm as he passed. Just enough to bleed. Not enough to kill.
Not yet.
The crowd screamed in approval.
Alastor didn’t hear them anymore. Not really. It was all distant now. A low roar behind his heartbeat.
This wasn’t about winning.
It was about surviving.
The sinner stumbled, wheeled around, and charged again.
Alastor let instinct take over. Let movement guide him.
A turn. A slide. A cut across the thigh.
Alastor didn’t want to kill him. Not really. Despite them being a sinner, just like Alastor, Alastor had had a moral code on who he killed and who not. That was ripped from him the moment he had needed to start fighting for his survival in these pits.
Mercy didn’t exist in this place.
Mercy got you ripped apart.
The other fighter screamed - a raw, animal sound - and lunged again. Alastor ducked, hooves slipping slightly in the blood-slick sand. A hand caught him by the shoulder. The strength of it was inhuman.
He twisted - jammed an elbow into the broken man’s throat, then slammed the base of his antler into his temple. Not enough to kill. Just enough to stop.
His heart was pounding.
His body ached.
And then -
Something shifted.
He looked up.
Toward the private boxes. The faces above him were a blur of gold masks and glittering eyes. But one -
One was looking at him.
Not like the others.
Not with hunger. Not with amusement.
Just… watching.
A man with golden eyes.
A man with a kind of stillness that felt unnatural here.
For a second, Alastor forgot to move.
And in that second, the broken sinner struck.
A fist connected with his side - hard - and he gasped, stumbling back, ribs screaming.
He didn’t fall.
He wouldn’t fall.
He wiped the blood from his mouth. Lifted his chin. Reset his stance.
Continued fighting, feeling the burning stare of Vox on his back. Vox hated it when Alastor got hits. That meant no food for a while.
Alastor ducked a swing that would’ve broken his neck.
His hooves skidded across the sand again - slicker now, red pooling thicker beneath his steps. His breath hitched in his throat, fire in his ribs, blood on his tongue.
The crowd roared, but it sounded… different now.
Uneven. Off-beat.
He didn’t have time to register it.
The other fighter lunged again, drool and fury spilling from his open mouth. Alastor caught the swing, twisted his wrist, slammed his elbow into the man’s sternum - grace meeting brute force - and dropped him hard.
A heartbeat of stillness.
A flash of gold from the box above.
Then -
BOOM.
A tremor shook the floor. The lights above flickered violently.
The crowd's roar turned into something else. Screams. Panic.
A second explosion - closer this time. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Alastor’s ears rang. His head snapped up. The guards along the ring had turned - shouting, reaching for weapons. Some already running.
Another blast.
This time, it hit the arena wall.
And suddenly - there was a crack.
A jagged rupture splitting the concrete at the edge of the pit.
Alastor stared at it.
He didn’t think.
He ran.
He moved like something had lit a fuse inside his chest. A full-body sprint. Every step screamed through his joints. His legs almost gave out - but he didn’t stop.
The other fighter screamed behind him - feral and blind - but Alastor was already leaping.
He slammed into the crack at full force.
The wall didn’t break open entirely. Not yet. But it gave, just enough.
Dust and stone crumbled around him.
He wedged his shoulder in, claws scraping, gasping for air -
- and pushed.
A final crash - metal tearing, something collapsing.
And then - light.
Not the harsh arena lights. Not the fire-lit stage.
A corridor. An exit.
Alastor bolted.
Behind him: chaos. Gunfire. Screams. Sirens.
Ahead of him: a hallway he didn’t recognize. Dust in the air. No guards. No leash.
Just open space.
Freedom.
And he was running toward it like it might vanish if he blinked. Determined to make it. Determined to not get caught again. This time he would be careful. He would run, run until he found a safe space and heal and plan from there. He just needed to be away from here.
Chaos was around Alastor. He saw sinners in armor storming the place, slamming down the sinners that had been watching the show. Alastor didn’t look too close. He didn’t understand. He didn’t need to. He just needed to flee. Hoping he could be gone before Vox found him. Before any of those greedy bastards found him.
And he was running toward it like it might vanish if he blinked.
Determined to make it. Determined not to get caught again.
This time, he told himself, this time he’ll be careful. He’ll hide. He’ll survive.
Chaos rang in his ears - screaming, gunfire, the clash of bodies slamming into walls. Sinners in armor stormed the upper levels, tackling masked demons to the ground, some already dragging survivors out of their cages.
Alastor didn’t stop to understand it.
He didn’t care if it was a coup, a rescue, divine intervention - he just needed to be gone.
He turned a corner, hooves slick with blood and dust, lungs clawing for air -
And something slammed into him.
Hard.
His back hit the wall. The breath left his lungs in a cracked gasp.
“There you are,” hissed a voice, far too familiar.
No. No.
Cold hands grabbed him, dragging him upright, pinning his shoulders with inhuman strength. Alastor struggled, flailing, antlers catching on the stone.
Vox.
His face was twisted, half-shadowed in the flickering light.
“Stupid little deer,” he spat. “Do you have any idea how much you cost me tonight?”
Alastor bucked hard, kicking against him. “Let go -!”
Vox snarled. “Lucifer and his damn daughter just blew years of work to hell. But I can rebuild. I always do. And you, darling?”
He leaned in, breath like static.
“You’re coming with me.”
Alastor thrashed harder. Bit down on Vox’s arm.
“You always had fight,” Vox growled. “That’s why you were mine.”
He pulled a small injector from his coat, thumb already on the plunger.
Alastor’s eyes widened.
No. No. Not again.
“You don’t get to leave me, Stag.”
The needle jabbed into his side.
Alastor screamed.
His knees buckled. His arms went limp. The world around him blurred, nausea sweeping in like a tide.
“Ngh - no -!”
He clawed weakly at Vox’s jacket, legs dragging uselessly against the floor.
So close. He’d been so close.
Tears burned behind his eyes as his vision began to swim.
He was almost out. He was almost -
Vox hoisted him up by the collar, arm tight across his throat.
“You’ll sleep it off,” he sneered. “Then we’ll disappear. You’ll behave. You always do.”
But then -
Light.
“Wha-”, Vox gasped.
Blinding. Warm. Gold.
A pressure in the air, heavy and divine.
Wings. Huge. Radiant.
Alastor’s ears twitched. His fading eyes caught a shape - tall, burning like the sun, voice low and furious.
Vox’s grip tightened around his throat.
“He’s mine - !”
Then a crack of sound, like thunder.
Alastor’s body jerked.
Something ripped.
And then -
Nothing.
The drug pulling him under.
–
The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain.
No stone floor beneath him. No collar. No leash.
Just softness.
Clean sheets. The faint beep of machines.
A strange, antiseptic scent in the air. Familiar, but far away - like a dream from a life before the cage.
A hospital?
The word rose from some distant, dust-covered shelf in his mind. But it didn’t feel real. It didn’t belong to him.
He opened his eyes slowly.
White ceiling. Soft lights. A monitor to his left. A curtain drawn partway closed.
He tried to sit up. His muscles screamed. His arms trembled. The needle in his arm tugged.
No chains.
His breath hitched.
Something was wrong.
This wasn’t how it worked. This wasn’t what happened when you got caught. Where was the muzzle? The restraints?
Where was Vox?
Panic started to curl in his gut. His heartbeat kicked faster. His tail twitched against the blankets. His ears pinned flat.
And then - he saw him.
Sitting beside the bed, dozing lightly in a chair, was a man.
Short. Composed. But majestic. He was giving off something powerful, even in sleep.
And Alastor recognized him, despite him having had a mask on.
The man from the box.
The one who had watched him.
Alastor’s breath caught. His throat closed.
No - no, not again -
A new master.
Another one. Of course. Of course they wouldn’t let him go.
He whimpered, tried to shrink back, tried to press himself against the headboard. His body wasn’t ready. He couldn’t fight. Not now.
The motion stirred the man.
He opened his eyes - slowly, calmly.
Those golden eyes. Sharp. A little tired. Deep with something Alastor couldn’t name.
He blinked, sat up straighter.
Then - not anger. Not smugness. Just concern.
“Hey,” the man said, voice low. Gentle.
Alastor flinched.
The man raised his hands slightly. Not a threat. Not reaching for him.
“It’s alright. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Alastor stared at him, breathing fast.
The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t know me. I know. But I was there. I saw you in the arena.”
Silence.
“My name is Lucifer. You’re in a hospital under my protection. Vox is gone. He can’t touch you.”
Lucifer.
He knew the name. Everyone did.
Which only made it worse.
“You’re not owned,” Lucifer continued, voice soft but firm. “Not by me. Not by anyone. You’re free now.”
Alastor’s lips parted. But no words came.
Just a choked, shuddering breath.
Lucifer leaned back slightly, giving him space. “You can rest now. No one’s expecting anything from you. Not anymore.”
Alastor stared at him, eyes wide and wet.
He didn’t know how to believe it.
But for the first time in centuries, something inside him began to want to.