• "No way! I always get this assignment!"

    "Yes, but you never manage to actually do it, so I'm locking you in until it's done. Have fun!"

    "Wait, Oliver!"

    Too late. The old man had already slammed the door shut. Flynn spun and launched himself at the wooden barrier, but to no avail. With a click, the lock was put into place, leaving him to wallow in the dark closet. He heard Oliver chuckling on the other side as he walked away.

    "Dammit," Flynn sighed. He slumped against the door in defeat, flipping on a light switch to face his sworn enemy.

    The storage closet.

    Every year, the Outbreak Prevention Squad was put to work, cleaning the Den from top to bottom. Between patrolling the streets of Obsidian and protecting their headquarters from rogue demons, it was hard to keep the place clean. This particular closet was rarely ever used, and therefore collected a great amount of dust. Usually, any item worth keeping but not important enough to file was thrown aimlessly into a box and promptly forgotten. The horrible task of straightening up the clutter was always given to Flynn, as most of the mess was thanks to him. However, because of his incessant laziness and unmatched skills in procrastination, the job continually went unfinished.

    This year, Oliver had wised up. The conniving founder of OPS made up for his seventy-year-old frame with his wit, but Flynn was far too stubborn to let this new curve ball force him into manual labor. Samuel Flynn, cleaning? He would have none of that.

    Instead, he would use his time in a much more suitable manner. After all, his patrol shift was fast approaching and a nap would do him some good. Flynn dug around a nearby crate for some sort of blanket material. The closet was a bit chilly for his tastes. A moment of rummaging passed and he spotted a haggard cloak dangling from the shelf above. Perfect.

    Flynn pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed one corner of the cloak and tugged. It didn't move. Glancing upwards, he saw a rather large stack of books piled right over top of his makeshift blanket. Just a small setback. He tugged harder. With the proper amount of force in the right direction, the cloak should...

    Oops.

    The books toppled over and came crashing down on top of Flynn. He threw his arms over his head and braced for impact, but the heavy documents took him with them. He fell to the floor, covered in dust and an assortment of novels. The cloak still hung triumphantly on the shelf.

    With a grunt, Flynn sat up and brushed off the wreckage. He made a mental note to reenact the scene upon whoever had the idea to precariously stack such heavy items on the top shelf, and then realized that it probably originated from someone long retired. From the looks of the dust cloud that still hung in the air, the books had probably been there quite a while. In fact, some even looked like old spell books that he'd seen in movies.

    Perhaps a nap wasn't so crucial after all. Flynn grabbed the binding of the nearest magical-looking publication and examined the cover. The History of the Mathematics. Maybe not. He pulled what appeared to be another promising book from the lot. Trigonometry: 101. Flynn frowned, opening to the first page. "Oliver Caine" was scrawled sloppily next to the inner title. These must be Oliver's old schoolbooks. No wonder they looked so ancient.

    Flynn let out a disappointed growl and shoved the documents away. He began to make a second attempt at the cloak when, without warning, the last remaining book tumbled off the shelf. Acting on reflex, he stretched to catch the falling mass. He staggered as the large, heavy volume slammed into his arms with a whirl of dust and cobwebs.

    Now this was a spell book. It was bound in dark, thick leather and held shut by a tattered cord fastened around the width. The age was a mystery, although it was apparently old, as the corners of the cover were all but torn off and the pages were a worn gold color. The most interesting feature, however, was the intricate symbol etched in place of a title.

    Reverting back to his spot on the ground, Flynn set the book in his lap and clumsily undid the knotted cord. The binding crackled as he pried the cover open, not used to being moved after so many years of idling among the other lost treasures of the closet. More layers of dust fell loose and a musty air lifted from the text. He gingerly thumbed through the first few pages, eying them curiously though without understanding. This was not a language Flynn knew. He didn't even recognize it.

    Flynn's minimal amount of patience let his curiosity burn out after hitting a dead end with the unknown tongue. On any other day, at any other time and in any other place, he would've done exactly what he intended to do; he would've closed the chapter in frustration and piled it right back on the shelf to be hidden within the other assorted novels for another eternity. He would've forgotten about the book, and never been able to unlock the secrets it held. He never would have known had not the slightest shift in fate held his attention for a moment longer. As Flynn folded the covers together, a single page flipped, revealing the underlying illustration that caught his eye at the very last second.

    He stopped, and pulled the pages apart for a second time. An elaborate design was carefully sketched into the parchment, depicting all sorts of figures and characters. It stood out boldly from the rest of the foreign scribbles, but in the center of the chaos, freestanding in its own faded shade of ink, was a symbol that Flynn had seen before.

    “One wish?” he murmured to himself, a newfound interest beginning to surface.

    --

    “You can hole him up in there for days, man! He’s still not gonna get anything done,” Jeremy laughed.

    Oliver grinned, wagging a finger at the man towering over him, easily twice his size. “He just needs motivation, that’s all. Lack of food will remedy that in due time,” he countered.

    The strongman was about to further argue the point when a loud crash interrupted the conversation. It was followed shortly by another louder crack as Flynn burst triumphantly through the closet door, tearing it clean off the hinges and leaving it a heap of splintered wood underneath him.

    The old man let out a horrified gasp. "Flynn! Look what you've done!" he exclaimed.

    "Hey Jer, check this out," Flynn said to his friend, ignoring Oliver. He motioned to the decrepit object hooked under his left arm as he stepped away from the wreckage.

    "Wow, that looks old. What is it?" Jeremy said, taking the book.

    "Never mind whatever it is! Who is going to fix this door?" Oliver cried, nearly tripping over himself with panic.

    Flynn pulled open the cover and found the page he had seen in the closet. "I'm not sure," he said, "but it looks like some ancient manual. I can't read it."

    "I think I've seen this symbol before, in one of Robin's calculus books. Maybe this is math," Jeremy pondered, furrowing his brow.

    "Nah, doubt it. That one's talking about a wish, but it's the only part I recognize. I was hoping Fred could translate it."

    Jeremy flipped the book upside down. "Is it in Spanish?"

    Flynn rolled his eyes and yanked the text away from him. He trudged off in the direction of the common room with Jeremy in tow, leaving a very flustered Oliver to deal with the wooden mess.

    --

    From the outside, the Den looked no different from the other abandoned and run-down warehouses that scattered the area. On the inside, however, the Den was an elaborate headquarters, filled with the latest technology and nearly impenetrable security system. It was a beloved home and safe haven for the OPS gang, most of who now gathered in the common room to see what all the excitement was about.

    Flynn had immediately delivered the ancient thing to Fred. She was the team's technician and possessed more brainpower than all of them combined. If anyone could translate it, she could. Besides, Flynn had only recognized the Wish symbol because of one of Fred's intellectual tangents. Her bulky laptop and a mountain of various folders were now strewn across the coffee table in front of the two couches. She loved a challenge, and was apparently very dedicated to this new project. Her long, oil-stained sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and she had actually taken off her enormous gloves.

    Jeremy hovered anxiously, his bottom barely resting on the edge of the couch as he tried desperately to understand the busy scientist's notes. Despite his best efforts, Flynn had little faith in his comprehension. Jeremy was part of OPS solely because of his brawn and was accustomed to letting others do the thinking.

    Next to Jeremy was Garrett. Garrett and Fred shared their workspace in the garage because of demolitions specialization and immense knowledge of weaponry. The two were only ever seen as a pair, so his quiet presence was not unordinary. He lounged patiently in the cushions behind Fred, awaiting her final deductions.

    The adjacent couch was occupied by Flynn and his inamorata, Robin. As per usual, Flynn had tossed himself lazily into the seat, sprawling his limbs out to take up more space than necessary. Robin was curled up beside him, her head resting in his lap as she watched everyone exist. People were interesting to her. Flynn didn't understand it, but he thought it cute regardless. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, letting his hand fall over her collarbone to play with her necklace.

    This book business really was intriguing, but Flynn was having a hard time staying awake as Fred lost herself in the papers. He yawned drowsily and was about succumb to his eyelids when Fred let out an excited victory cheer. Everyone perked up.

    "I've gotta hand it to ya, Flynn. This was a real piece o' work, with all this Latin garble," she said, flashing an accomplished smile.

    Jeremy let out a frustrated grunt. "Damn, so it was Spanish," he sighed.

    "Are you sure? That didn't look like Latin. Latin is at least readable,” Flynn frowned.

    Fred shuffled some papers and turned her laptop to face him. "Usually. But, see, this Latin is the really old kind, to speak in terms ya'd understand. It uses a different alphabet, see, which is why it comes off as indecipherable scribbles to ya non-intellectual types," she boasted, jerking a thumb in Jeremy's direction.

    Robin giggled although her brother was too caught up in his confusion to notice the insult. "What does it say?" she asked. She rolled to her side, positioning herself to get a better look at the data.

    Taking a deep breath to prepare for a long explanation, Fred began her translation. "The document itself is apparently called The Grimoire of Turiel," she said, nudging the emblem on the cover with her elbow. "See, the gist of it is that there's this glyph, right?" she flipped to the page Flynn had taken note of, "an' if you draw this glyph on a door, ya gain access to what seems to be a whole 'nother dimension sort of deal. From there, there's this mirror, right? S'posed to conjure up your greatest fear. If ya can manage to take it out..." She trailed off.

    "Then what?" Robin prodded.

    "Then I'm not sure, that's what," Fred grumbled, "It's all sort of fuzzy around there, see. Hard to translate exactly. Looks to be some sort of test or maybe a bunch o' trials. These symbols here are warnin's, though, so whatever it is, it ain't all flowers an' cupcakes." She jammed a finger into the document, pointing out some particularly bold markings.

    Flynn yawned again, longing for a nap. "Forget it, then. What's the point of making life more difficult? We've got enough to handle around here," he said, cringing as he remembered his patrol shift fast approaching.

    Fred's small mouth curled into a devilish grin. "Ya best pay attention to this part, hot shot. That glyph? Yeah, see, it really does mean One Wish. That's what all this mirror business leads to. If ya defeat the mirror monster an' whatever else it's got to offer, ya get one wish of absolutely no limitations. This could mean big things for ya, Flynn."

    Flynn didn't notice that the entire room was now staring at him expectantly until the awkward silence crept up on him. "What? Why just me? All of us could go fight this mirror thing and call it a day. I'm sure we could think of something useful for OPS, and --"

    "No can do. Gotta be just one of us. And, I don't think ya got me. Anything ya could ever want, or rather, not want," Fred interrupted, trying to emphasize her point. Flynn raised an eyebrow.

    Garrett spoke for the first time. "Use the wish to get rid of that demon of yours," he said.

    Oh. That.

    Each member of OPS was a member for a reason. No one fell into the job at random, and everyone's story began the same way: Demons. In Flynn's particular case, the monsters had left him an orphan. When OPS arrived to clean up the mess, it was too late for him. One of the evil spirits abandoned its former shell in hopes of hiding within the small human, but grossly underestimated the strength of his soul. Oliver, part of the patrol team at the time, recognized the symptoms of possession and brought him back to the Den. Ever since, Flynn was forced to fight constantly to remain in control of his body. The turmoil lessened with age, and in his late teen years, he was finally able to use the demon to his advantage. However, there was always the possibility of a breakdown...

    "It's either ya go, or we put the book back in that closet," Fred continued, "Says here that this puppy don't just appear at random. It picked ya for a reason. None of us could go if we tried. It don't work that way."

    "Well, it's settled, then," said Oliver, who had waltzed in somewhere in the midst of everything and now sat majestically in a leather armchair across from the couches. "Flynn, you're off duty tonight. Jeremy will cover your shift. You go and get a good night's rest, and then first thing tomorrow, we'll open this door and get you your wish."

    The group started to disperse at Oliver's command, the old man leaving just as quickly as he had come. Jeremy pumped the air victoriously to celebrate earning a new shift for the night, and hopped up to get ready. His hand came down on the top of Flynn's head, ruffling his already disheveled bronze hair.

    "I'd do it," the brute declared with a smirk. He shoved his friend away roughly and trotted off.

    The two engineers pulled themselves to their feet. "I'll go make some arrangements for you, then. You'll be needing some special gear by the looks of it," Garrett said coolly, striding in the direction of the garage with Fred at his side.

    Flynn exhaled. Regardless of any written rules in this troublesome wad of parchment, it didn't seem like he had much of a choice. Hey, at least he was getting out of a patrol shift. Something new would be a welcomed change of pace, along with the decent amount of sleep beforehand.

    Until she sat up to face him, Flynn had almost entirely forgotten about Robin's presence. Damn, he really was tired. She stared at him for a moment. Sure enough, the voiceless conversation got through.

    "You don't like this, do you?" he said, nudging her playfully.

    She laughed lightly. In one fluid motion, she swung her legs over his and nestled her head under his chin. "I just worry about you, Samuel." He reacted automatically with an aggravated twitch at the sound of his name.

    There was a pause. Then, "Think I should go?"

    "Yeah," she said, smiling, "but that doesn't mean I want you to."

    Flynn rolled his eyes. He understood, though. It was much easier to work up the motivation for instant gratification, but in the long run, expelling the parasite inside him would be for the best. "Well, that's that, then," he said. Tipping her chin up, he kissed his love tenderly and stood with her in his arms. "My room or yours?" "Yours. I think I left my pajama bottoms in there anyway."

    He snorted. Damn, she remembered.

    --

    Clothes. I need clothes. Where are my pants? Flynn stumbled into his room from the adjoining bathroom, scrubbing his head furiously with a towel. Robin had been cruel enough to pry him out of bed and force him into the shower without so much as a good morning kiss. He seriously considered crawling back under the covers until he heard a slue of bickering voices pour in from the common room.

    "Alright, alright," he grumbled, tugging on a random pair of boxers, followed by his favorite green cargo shorts.

    Moments later, he emerged into the hallway, trying to cram one foot into a sneaker and yank on a black sleeveless shirt at the same time. Once he could see, Flynn plodded down the corridor and entered the main room of the Den.

    "Oh good, you're awake," Robin skated over and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him towards the group huddled around the newly-installed storage closet door. On reflex, he frantically scanned the room for a place to hide. Then, he realized a familiar symbol outlined over the wood.

    Fred and Jeremy were standing inches apart, shouting at each other in frustration. Fred's compact five-two against Jeremy's bulky and considerably taller frame looked quite comical, despite the verbal lashing hissing from the tiny engineer's mouth. "It's not my fault the dang thing ain't workin'! Why don't you try an' read the instructions, then tell me what exactly I'm doin' wrong, huh?" she spat, glaring up at him.

    He scowled and shoved her aside, thrusting the closet open to reveal the mess of books that had assaulted Flynn the day before. Oliver cringed, fearing for the safety of his new door. "This," Jeremy barked, "does not look like some evil monster."

    Garrett, who had propped himself against the wall with his hands folded behind his head, looked up suddenly. "Morning, Flynn," he smirked. The arguing pair stopped abruptly. Simultaneously, their eyes lit up and they immediately charged across the room in a wave of excited conversation. Fred's dirty work gloves clamped around Flynn's wrist and began to lead him to the door, with Robin and Jeremy in tow. This was far too much activity for only having been awake for fifteen minutes.

    "So here's the thing, see? This door business doesn't seem to be functioning correctly for me or anyone else that's tried. I figure it's 'cause the man himself's gotta do it," said Fred, laying his hand over the doorknob, "Have at it, demon boy."

    "Hey, that was my idea!" Jeremy whined.

    "Hush, ya oaf."

    Flynn felt Garrett's rough hands close over his shoulders. "Let's not rush into things. Hold on," the demolitionist said, pulling him away from the over-animated crowd. "You might want this." He motioned to a nearby chair.

    "Oh, there's my vest. I was looking for that," said Flynn, running a hand through his damp chestnut hair. The old olive-colored thing was battered and faded, but it was more of a set of extra pockets than anything else. It served its purpose well enough. Nodding thanks to Garrett, Flynn hitched the vest off of the chair and around his shoulders. There, now he was ready to go.

    Oddly, it felt heavier than usual. He dug around in one of the front pockets and extracted a handful of funny-looking spheres. One eyebrow jerked upwards in confusion.

    "I took the liberty of outfitting you with some useful 'toys' for whatever lies beyond that glyph. Those are smoke bombs, and the opposite contains explosives. They look similar so be careful," Garrett explained. "Also, my own personal switchblade is on the inside. Lose that and I'll wring your neck." He clicked his tongue and gave him a friendly wink, but Flynn suspected he was quite serious.

    "Oh, one more." The engineer fumbled through his own jacket and quickly produced a small, black handgun. "Should you need it." Flipping the barrel around, he extended the grip towards his friend. Flynn frowned, as he hadn't had much experience with firearms before. Nevertheless, he grasped the heavy pistol firmly and slipped it into the vest.

    "Thanks, Garrett. I owe you," he said. Garrett simply touched a finger to the rim of his fedora and slunk back to his place against the wall.

    With a squeal of impatience, Fred shoved Flynn in the direction of the closet once again. He shook her off with a growl and continued over on his own accord.

    The door didn't look like anything special. The only thing outstanding about it was the hastily-scribbled glyph that stared him down like an oncoming train. It was ominous but it didn't scare him much. Probably wouldn't even do anything. If the glyph didn't open some sort of other dimension for anyone else, why would it be any different for him? Flynn took hold of the doorknob and jerked it, letting the door swing open on its own. It swiveled inwards slowly with an eerie, drawn-out creak.

    That was no storage closet.

    The room that lay beyond was much bigger than anything that could've fit in even the most spacious areas of the Den. Gray stone tiles spread beyond the opening across the expanse. The only illumination emitted from the hallway Flynn stood in, leaving a long trail of curious shadows splayed on the floor. At the far end of the cold chamber, there was the slightest gleam of a mirror reflecting from the darkness.

    "Wow," Fred muttered after the initial shock had worn off, "Ya sure 'bout this, buddy?"

    Flynn inhaled deeply. Regardless of the details in the curious grimoire, the reality of the situation had taken him by surprise. "Guess so. If I get massacred, I'm gonna come back to haunt you," he said, pivoting to face to the rest of the team.

    "Well, wish me luck."

    Fred shot him a thumbs-up as she moved to lean against Garrett, who saluted him casually with two fingers touched to his brow. Holding out a fist, Jeremy let out a nonchalant grunt. "You can take whatever's in that stupid door. Don't let nothin' intimidate you, hear me?" Flynn simpered coyly and pounded his own knuckles against his friend's.

    Then he turned to Robin and cupped her face in his hands. "You're my girl," he whispered, the corner of his mouth sliding up into a warm half-smile. He bent down to kiss her and she met him halfway.

    "I love you," she murmured.

    "Love you too, babe."

    After taking a split second to find his usual cool, confident bearing, Flynn spun on his heel. In we go... He stood for a moment before the threshold.

    Oliver gave him a fatherly pat on the back. "Take care. We want you back in one piece."

    The first step was taken. Then, a second. Flynn glanced over his shoulder to wave a final farewell to his friends, but they were gone. All traces of the door had vanished entirely, and he was left standing alone in a vast, despairing black.

    His slow footsteps resonated throughout the chamber as he stumbled in what he thought was the direction of the mirror. So far, things didn't seem promising.

    He blinked, and the room lit up with a soft glow, streaming in from ornate windows high on the walls. They stretched upwards towards the vaulted ceiling. Every other window was composed entirely of stained glass that whirled in an array of colorful illustrations. Most depicted beautifully-detailed angels in some form, and others displayed more Latin calligraphy that Flynn could only assume related to the mysterious Grimoire of Turiel. Through the glass shown brilliant rays of sunlight that accented the dusty specks hanging in the air. The particles swirled around him as he continued forward, breaking the stale atmosphere. The entire chamber very much reminded Flynn of a church. Though awestruck, he immediately felt uncomfortable in such a place.

    Across the room, embedded into the stone wall, was the mirror. Without the bone-chilling darkness, it didn't seem so foreboding, yet the way the light glared off of its surface seemed to be taunting him. He saw, of course, his own reflection walking towards him, mimicking his movements as a reflection should.

    The image of himself against the angelic windows and elegant architecture seemed out of place. There he was, lackadaisical as ever, in his characteristic Flynn slouch. He swore that his beloved although nearly destroyed shoes were white at one point, even if a couple of the black vertical stripes down the sides had long since fallen off. His plaid blue boxers poked out from the waistband of his shorts that sagged despite the belt looped through them. Ah, s**t, there was still a pizza sauce stain on his lap. Filled with all kinds of explosive goodies, his usual green vest weighed him down a bit more than he was used to. It hung bulkily around his much looser black undershirt. With the way the light bounced around the room, a slight aura surrounded him, bringing out the chestnut highlights in his scruffy shock of hair.

    Flynn stopped a few feet before the mirror. What now? Wasn't there supposed to be some great fear of his attacking ruthlessly? With a confident hand, he reached out to tap on the glass. Nothing happened. Impatient, he shifted his weight and watched the reflection do the same. As he did, a sliver of light glinted across his neck. It collided with the jagged scar that ran overtop his right jugular to form the shape of a cross. Flynn's expression fell. How unfitting, he thought with a grimace, for what I am.

    The air changed. Someone else was in the room with him.

    Looking up to the mirror, Flynn met the gaze of his reflection again. It stared back at him with intense, stone gray eyes that were not his own. Bloodthirsty, malicious, evil. The mirror twin cocked its head to the side. A devilish row of ivory glistened from between the lips it pulled into a smug grin.

    Flynn knew that look well enough.

    "Oh, Christ."

    Before he could react, the thing smashed into his chest with what felt like the force of a semi. He was on his back, a good fifteen feet from the mirror, face to face with himself at his worst.

    He threw the creature off of him with a rush of adrenaline, fueled by both surprise and horror. It rolled away with little argument and sprang to its feet, ready to pounce again. The grin was still plastered onto its face. Shaking, Flynn pushed himself off of the ground. How the hell was he supposed to fight this?

    His mirror self cackled quietly. Its voice sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to his own vocal cords. Then, it let its weapon-laden green vest drop to the floor. The garment bubbled, dissolving into a puddle of thin acidic waste. The thing swayed from side to side in a daze as it ripped the remaining shirt over its head.

    Even from a distance, Flynn could see the blackened veins snaking under its skin. He had experienced it himself once before, as the demon spirit had been close to overtaking him. The process had rendered him unconscious after only a few minutes, the burning pain being too much for his body to handle. This creature, however, bore the fire without blinking. The inhuman muscles in its limbs and torso bulged. The dark blood sucked the life from its features and drained it into a cold, soulless color. Slowly, the thing began to lose its resemblance to Flynn. Its pulse hammered visibly, pumping the poison deeper into its extremities.

    It threw its head back as a bodiless fist punched through its ribs from the inside. The chest burst, spoiled fluid erupting from the cavity and dribbling in gushes over its stomach. Its familiar cargo shorts, pizza stain and all, melted away with the sick mess. The opening expanded, tearing downwards into its abdomen and upwards over its shoulders. Skin began to liquefy and rot, dropping to the floor. The cast off membranes sizzled and boiled, scarring the once-magnificent stone tiles. Its face contorted, being the last to change, and slid from its skull.

    The dripping mass was reduced to a horrible skeleton encased by rippling tendons and fibers. Its heart beat viciously behind its ribcage. Still more of the black blood spewed endlessly from the organ, coating the broken frame of the chest. It coagulated, the ooze covering the bones until the entire creature was made whole again, the vile liquid hardening into a disgusting shell.

    Flynn staggered backwards. His mind spun in disbelief. This mirror really knew how to call them. What did he fear most? Physically, even he didn't know the answer to that. However, if he thought a bit more abstractly...

    This creature was a personification of what would happen if the demon were to win him over.

    A cold sweat dominated his pores and his breath came in short gasps. He buried his head in his hands, desperately trying to regain composure. Come on, come on. You can handle this. It's just another demon. You've fought hundreds before. No big deal.

    He opened his eyes. The thing was inches from his face, the sinister smile gleaming once again.

    He didn't have time to think. Its fist collided with his gut, then his jaw, driving him back into the ground. Flynn scrambled to stand but the monster was too fast. It brought its foot down upon his back, crushing him against the granite. In the next second, it kicked him roughly in the side, flipping him over to stare up at it. The monster glared back with its devilish smirk wider than ever.

    Reaching down, it locked its strong fingers around Flynn's neck. He cried out in pain as the acidic skin seared his flesh. Even as he pried at the hand, twisting to get away, the creature dragged him with little difficulty to a nearby wall. The air was forced out of his lungs as the thing slammed him heavily into the stone, its firm grip still clenched around his throat, constricting his windpipe. His feet dangled helplessly above the floor.

    Breathing was out of the question. With every attempted inhale, the creature only squeezed tighter. His limbs grew weak with lack of oxygen, unable to fight back any longer. Life began to leave him, and he was moments away from slipping out of consciousness.

    Flynn flopped to the floor harshly as the monster stepped away. Air rushed into him, burning his trachea and leaving him lightheaded. Never had he felt a sweeter sensation.

    But, why?

    How easily it could kill him. It had already proven that tenfold. Yet, here he was, although crumpled pathetically on the floor, alive and kicking. After a moment, Flynn managed to support himself on his hands and knees. He needed to get up. There was no telling how long this wave of mercy would last.

    The monster crouched to his level, cupping a corrosive palm around his chin. Flynn winced away to little effect. It lobbed an iron punch into his cheek, and then jerked his head back to its original position.

    Realization seeped into his expression. It could hit much harder than that. It could've snapped his spine like a twig if it was really trying to kill him. No, it wanted more. More than death, more than suffering. The creature's cold eyes ignited with delight as it stepped back. Now the game would begin.

    Flynn was only aware of the blood pounding in his ears, rushing with new energy and strength. Only a few moments had passed and already his heightened senses were beginning to peak. He could feel every grain of sand embedded into the floor, every bead of sweat that ran down his heated body. The very scent of the creature told him that it was standing exactly three feet and four inches from him. He could react twice as fast, and despite the shaded gray covering his irises, see with the precision of a hawk.

    As he stood, his muscles twitched with murderous sensation to destroy. The creature locked eyes with him, resonating with pure glee. Flynn rolled his neck, grunting with relief as the vertebrae crackled, and hurled himself at his opponent. The two locked arms and came down on the stone tile with a deafening crash. The thing's skull was the first to make contact with the ground. Finally, a substantial blow.

    Just as he was about to celebrate with a fist to its temple, Flynn found himself pinned under the monster, its frightening grin teasing him. It was still stronger. He wasn't enough.

    That was all the more invitation his own demon needed. Before a rational thought could erect the mental barrier, Flynn's heart was a pulsating tangle of flames and corruption. The fire pierced through his being ruthlessly, stabbing his mind in half. He ran his eyes over the creature on top of him, feeling like a spectator in his own story.

    All that force, all that pure power. It could belong to him. He was given the opportunity to see how unstoppable he could be. Mortality and pitiful human weakness were a world he could easily, so easily leave behind. Give in, right now, and start over. Defeat this weakling in seconds and move on to taste the true limits of newfound strength.

    He froze, a tiny spark of sanity cutting through his lust. Where was the tattoo? He searched the right thigh, and then the left. Not even his finely-attuned sight could detect the smallest hint of ink.

    Years ago, Robin and Flynn had each adorned themselves with matching tattoos. Simple, straightforward black markings that represented all that was love. It was Robin's idea, of course. Flynn abided without question, but as time passed, the preciousness of the symbol grew on him. It was a connection, a wedding ring that he couldn't take off, forever sealed into one of the more private parts of his body.

    With its human flesh, the monster above him had shed all traces of emotion and thought. It was a soulless being that thrived on carnage and annihilation. To accept the immense power offered to him, he would forfeit Flynn. He would forfeit Samuel.

    And that was exactly what it wanted.

    The creature snickered knowingly, pressing its nostrils to Flynn's chest to inhale the wicked scent of impurity. Soon, the blaze would be too strong for him to restrain, if he even tried. It would be done, his test failed. He would destroy himself.

    Flynn shook off both the demonic influence and the physical form it had conjured for itself in one quick motion. The thing shot upwards with an enraged hiss and dove for its prey, but it was deterred by a sudden outburst of haze. Bewildered, it slammed into the ground where its target should've been.

    Thanks, Garrett. Flynn tossed the pin of the smoke bomb aside and hurried off to enact the rest of his plan.

    The monster shook its head, slightly dazed from the collision. It clambered back to its feet in a predator-like hunch and scanned the room. A lot of good that did. This fog was too thick to see much of anything. Its spiteful eyes closed, and it listened for movement.

    Footsteps. Slow, quiet, unsure. Fifty-two degrees, seven meters. The eyelids pulls open again and it began to creep in the direction of the sound.

    Straining its vision, the creature could make out the silhouette of the human. It could hear his pulse, rushing with adrenaline, but no longer smoldering. Back to his frail self. Impatient, the thing decided to end it here. Maybe this one's willpower was not so easily broken. Unlike his bones.

    It launched, full force, at the oblivious shadow. A current of malice electrified its system, d
    The current came to an abrupt halt as the monster smashed headlong into the very mirror it has escaped from. The glass shattered. Shards of broken metal rained down over the beast, leaving it to flop to the ground in a whirl of dizziness.

    Flynn sidestepped from the opposite side of the wreckage. He nudged the thing onto its back, leaning over it with restored pride and confidence. The switchblade flipped expertly between his fingers.

    As much as he was enjoying his moment of triumph, he wasted no time plunging the knife deep into the heart of the abomination. A thick stream of black blood spurted from the wound, spraying over itself and the mirror pieces. The thing writhed, an unholy shriek echoing through the chamber as it dissolved, the acidic fluid devouring it with the mirror. After what seemed like hours, the stone floor was returned to its previous state of spotlessness.

    Flynn collapsed as a wave of exhaustion hit him. He lay there, concentrating solely on sustaining life. Breathe in, breathe out. He couldn't remember ever being so spent after a battle before. Then again, he'd never come that close to losing himself. But, he had been able to maintain control.

    For now, it would be best not to think. Thinking would not be productive. He would rest up, since the damned door looming above him in place of the mirror couldn't possibly lead to a room of rainbows and sunshine. Oh no, not with his luck. Succumbing to the part of himself he could trust, Flynn slipped into his nap mode, readying his body and mind for the next step in ridding himself of this overwhelming defect.