There is one thing that no man, no beast, not even the fallen angels could ever truly grasp: what it feels like to be reborn, naked as the day you first drew breath, into a world you do not recognise, and worse still... squirming inside a body that weighs less than four kilos.
Sebastian (or rather, the soul formerly known by that name) opened his eyes with the slow grace of curtains parting before a sunrise. Before him, the light was gentle, filtered through tall, coloured stained glass. The ceiling above, carved and elegantly beamed, left no doubt: this was not his cramped two-bed flat in the suburbs.
"…Elliot…" said a woman's voice, low and warm, with dark tones like her hair.
The voice echoed in his mind like a spell. Was that his name now? The one they'd given him? Or just an auditory hallucination? Uncertainty lingered, wrapped in the heady swirls of far too much incense.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs refused to cooperate. A hiccup escaped his lips. Bloody hell. I'm a baby. A real one. Not a dream, not a metaphor. Actual knitted booties on my feet and everything.
The room he was in was vast—white stone and lacquered wood, lit by a chandelier suspended from silver hooks. On one wall, a coat of arms: a wing and a flame, entwined like mettlesome lovers.
While everyone else would have been eager to experience exciting adventures upon seeing this new world, he was simply happy not to have been reborn into a poor family.
That's when fate, ever fond of dramatic timing, decided to intervene.
The door burst open with a crash, flinging sparks of golden light into the room. A man in armour, streaked with soot and dried blood, stormed in, shouting:
"The demons are here! They've breached the Onyx Gate!"
At those words, the room seemed to freeze. The dark-haired woman went pale, her eyes flickering between panic and resolve. A distant explosion rumbled, like the sky itself had sneezed lightning. Screams, far off. Bells. Then howls.
The infant now named Elliot felt a strange disturbance. A deep, primal dread curled itself around his tiny spine—he hated those sounds. He cried. Not by choice, no. His body made the decision for him. He wailed and drooled, a storm of frustration and helpless fear.
"Shhh… young master, don't cry," the woman murmured, slipping a pacifier the colour of royal violet into his mouth. She did it with the practised ease of a seasoned mother.
Silence returned. Elliot suckled despite himself, ashamed but also, oddly… soothed. This is humiliating, he thought. I'm regressing at an alarming rate.
The woman lifted him from the crib and held him close. And with a whirl of cloaks, smoke, and the scent of gunpowder, she dashed from the room, leaving behind the deceiving calm of a world teetering on the edge of ruin.
They slipped out of the building on cautious feet. Rain fell like molten knives, each drop seemed to carry the weight of regret. The city, no doubt grand and splendid just moments before, was now little more than a labyrinth of fire and ruin.
Elliot, nestled against the soaked neck of the dark-haired woman, understood none of this chaos—except perhaps one thing: he was quite likely to die before ever getting a clean nappy.
The streets were strewn with debris, blackened cobblestones, and bodies, some still, some not. Shadows flitted between walls, some silent, some screaming. And behind them… the demons came.
They looked nothing like anything one would dare describe in a children's book.
One of them burst from an alley, huge, slick with black, glistening chitin. Its limbs bent at angles that defied both geometry and decency. Its "head" (if one could call that throbbing scarlet mass such) was adorned with six asymmetrical eyes and whistling mandibles that snapped hungrily.
Another, leaner, wore what appeared to be a coat of stitched flesh. Its arms were as long as its entire body, and clawed fingers dragged along the ground like swords. With each step it took, the earth trembled slightly, as if it carried an echo from the depths of the world.
"Oh my God…" thought Elliot—or at least, the internal version of him still capable of forming old-school religious curses. But hey, maybe he should start believing in God since he's reincarnated. So this is hell. They really oversold reincarnation as something… calmer.
The demons were countless. Some flew. Some slithered. But all shared a common theme: deformity, hatred made flesh, and an utter lack of aesthetic sense.
The young woman was running flat out, her boots slipping on the slick stone. A car, jarringly modern in this uncertain world, appeared at the corner of a street. She dashed toward it, Elliot still clutched tight, and flung the door open, swearing under her breath. But she'd barely touched the passenger seat when an explosion tore the air apart.
The car shattered like a sculpture made of glass. The blast hurled her backwards. Elliot, for his part, had the unique experience of flying (briefly) before landing in a puddle, feet skyward, his dummy flung dramatically into a patch of mud.
Elliot focused. He didn't want to cry. He mustn't cry. Drawing attention meant death — terrible, squelching, limb-tearing death. But it was no use, not even stoic resolve could save him. He began to scream again, louder than before.
And there it is. That's how I die. Soaked, muddy, and not even a chance to say hello to my new internal organs.
But once again, fate had other plans.
A boy emerged from the mist. His face was filthy, hair wild, eyes strangely pale. He scooped Elliot up the way one might retrieve trapped treasure.
"Don't worry, mate. We're gettin' outta this madhouse. Heard up north there's forests the demons won't even go near. Not far now."
If Elliot's tongue had any real muscle tone, he might've replied, You don't look trustworthy, but I like you already. Alas, all he could manage was a damp, bubbling burp.
The boy picked up the pacifier and, not bothering with cleanliness, popped it right back into Elliot's mouth. Oops. And off they went, walking for minutes, maybe more. The screams behind them had faded, replaced by something worse: a guttural, inhuman bellowing, a chant the very walls seemed to echo.
Then, suddenly, something massive dropped in front of them. The boy shrieked, clutching Elliot tight. Before them loomed a towering creature, stitched together from slabs of flesh, obscene and noisy.
Hooded figures appeared around them. The demons had them surrounded. Real demon-like beings this time: the kind that wore human shapes, save for the horns curling from their skulls, and the glint of razor-sharp teeth behind their lips.
One of them stepped forward.
It wasn't a scaly, clawed monster like the others. It was a woman with horns. Or something that had chosen the shape of a woman. Her skin was smooth (too smooth) stretched taut like new leather. Her eyes were black, as if ink had been spilled into a deep well. A strange smile cracked across her face; a smile too wide, stretching wider still.
She shoved the boy aside and gathered Elliot into her arms with a disconcerting tenderness.The others let her. They seemed far more interested in the older boy, who was no doubt the more tempting prey.
And without a word, she slipped one strap of her dress down her shoulder. Her cheeks already flushed with a sickly kind of delight. In the background, one could hear the small cries of the gentle boy as he choked in pain.
No.
No.
No no no no no.
But it was too late. The demoness pulled him close to her breast, where a bruised, bloody glow pulsed like a cursed moon. It was the hypnosis of a summer night, when drunkenness makes even poison taste sweet.
Elliot suckled without resistance.
And to his own horror, he felt... calm. A deep warmth seeped through him. Not a loving warmth. A dark warmth, maternal only in the sense that a bonfire might be maternal to the moths it consumes. Like a lullaby sung in the cold glow of dying embers.
And so he fell asleep, cradled by a thing that should never have existed, as the world around him burned; though he no longer heard it.
***
Now, he was dreaming.
In this dream, he ran endlessly, barefoot across smouldering ash.
His breath was gone, replaced by harsh, ragged cries.
The world around him screamed: men, women, beasts, even the stones themselves!
Everything that could burn, burned. Everything that could die, died.
He could not see his own face. Only bloodstained hands, and shadows falling at his feet. He had no voice. Only a pure, raw rage, planted in his heart like a burning seed.
The worst part?
While he dreamt it... he liked it.
***
When he opened his eyes, the world was no longer red and black. It was white. Too white. The light hit him like a dry slap. He blinked once, twice. Everything was blurred. He tried to move, but it was still impossible.
His body was strapped to a metallic table. Wrists, ankles, chest, everything pinned down, as if his very existence was a threat. Yet he felt no pain. Tubes connected him to a machine that oscillated rhythmically nearby. But the worst part, the part that truly disturbed him (the one that also surprises us), was that this body… this was no longer the body of a baby.
The last thing he remembered clearly was… a beautiful demoness, a warm breast, the taste of sleep. And now? Another reincarnation already?
A faint crackle, barely audible, and then a voice: calm.
"He's awake."
Two people entered.
A wiry, twitchy man, all angles and nervous energy. And a woman with a sharp face and an even sharper gaze behind her glasses. Both were dressed in white, holding instruments whose purposes defied any sane logic. Their posture carried that false calm, the kind only scholars can muster, the ones who know too much. Definitely scientists.
"Hello. Can you hear us?"
Elliot nodded slowly. The two scientists exchanged a glance.
"Do you understand what we're saying?"
He opened his mouth. His voice came out clumsy, crooked, as though he were fumbling with an instrument he hadn't yet mastered. Sorry, sensei.
"Yes."
They did not hide their surprise.
"Can you speak?"
"Yes."
The woman with the glasses stepped forward cautiously. She wasn't afraid. But in the set of her shoulders, in the careful control of her hands, there was that tell-tale tension, like someone approaching an animal they think is tame, but know might still bite.
"What's your name?"
He hesitated. The name… He had heard it. In another life. Or perhaps only earlier this morning. He could no longer be sure.
"I think... my name is Elliot."
Yeah, he actually liked that name quite a bit.
The suspicious man scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"He's responsive. That suggests he has memories."
"No... I... I don't remember. Not really."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't quite the truth either.
I remember dreams. Not memories. And if I told them what I'd seen... they'd cut me open to study every last bone.
The woman studied him for a long moment. Then, in a softer voice:
"You appear to be around ten years old. That's the assessment from our medics. I'm going to ask you something strange... but it's necessary. Are you... human?"
Elliot nodded, hesitating slightly. Immediately, she brought a mirror close to his face.
"Look at yourself."
He saw a child. But a strange one.
His skin was very pale. Long, unkempt blond hair hung around his face. And his left eye—it shimmered faintly red. Far too striking to be just human. Elliot reached up to touch his eye and noticed as he opened his mouth that his upper canines were slightly elongated. Animalistic. Subtle, but unmistakable.
He lowered his gaze to the rest of his body. He was surprisingly well-built for a child of ten. A scar ran from his elbow down to his wrist.
"What's this?"
"We had to operate to stitch you back together. You should be grateful."
Elliot looked away. She seemed willing to answer questions, so he pressed on:
"Where am I?"
"In a human zone. Specifically, a laboratory. You were captured two days ago in a demon bastion. We recovered you after a specialist unit launched an assault. You were found among the demons."
"Killing," the other scientist added bluntly.
Elliot didn't respond. He didn't remember killing anyone. But in his dreams... in his dreams, the blood had fallen like rain.
He closed his eyes.
"I don't remember anything. Sorry..."
The woman in glasses exhaled out of disappointment (or was it relief?). She turned away and picked something up from a tray.
"We found this on you. Do you recognise it?"
It was a pacifier. The same object that had stayed with him all this time, through that desperate flight in the rain. Plum-coloured, its edges were worn and dulled with age. But at its centre, carved in a pale glimmer of mother-of-pearl, one symbol remained untouched.
Elliot recognised it instantly. An intertwined wing and flame.
Exactly like the crest that had adorned the wall... The wall from that first room, where the dark-haired woman had first spoken his new name.
His chest tightened without knowing why. Why hadn't he been given a normal reincarnation? Why this ellipsis of ten years, stitched together like some deranged plot?
"Can I have it?" he asked, in a melancholy tone.
He held out his hand. The scientist hesitated. But after a moment, she placed the pacifier in his palm.
The touch was soft; a plasticky warmth, a soul-less material. And yet...
It gave off a familiar scent. A scent that haunted him. Like an intoxicating embrace... a bewitching perfume. And only too late did he realize he should never have inhaled it so closely.
For the moment he did, something uncoiled in the depths of his mind. A coiled movement that suddenly snapped open. His darkness within stirred, as though someone had knocked against the lid of an ancient tomb.
His hand clenched. His breath hitched. Anger, or something perilously close to it, began to rise. He clutched the pacifier like a talisman.
And then, voluntarily, he brought it to his mouth.
Everything turned red.
***
The straps snapped. The tubes tore free from his skin. The table itself was ripped from the floor and hurled against the wall like a discarded toy. Metal shards scattered, raining down around Elliot.
His left eye now glowed with a strange light, a tiny flame burning escaping from it.
The woman with the glasses fell backwards, her hands splayed against the floor. Behind a reinforced pane of glass, grey silhouettes burst into frantic action, hammering consoles, shouting mechanical incantations: Delta Level. Containment breach. Emergency protocol. Immediate remedy...
But Elliot... heard none of it.
The world, to him, was no longer made of sound. Only red. The red of dreams, the red that leaks behind closed eyelids.
He lunged forward on all fours, a predator dripping with saliva. His hand clamped around the scientist's neck like iron claws. He lifted her effortlessly. An incredible strength for a ten-year-old child. She didn't scream. But her eyes widened—and in the fragile mirror of her pupils, Elliot caught a glimpse of himself once again: a face twisted, feral, ravenous.
He was about to tear her apart.
Perhaps this was the real Elliot after all. But then... something resisted.
This isn't me.
He wasn't just Elliot. He was a reincarnated soul and he knew it.
He had once been a man, ordinary, awkward, too gentle for his own good. A man who had tried, nearly always tried, to do right. Who helped. Who comforted. Who listened. He had loved without trying to possess. He had died without ever causing harm.
And that life... still lived somewhere inside him.
Elliot staggered back.
His fingers loosened. The woman collapsed, coughing, gasping for breath. Elliot, trembling, yanked the dummy from his mouth and flung it across the room. That cursed object. It skidded along the floor, making a small, ridiculous clatter.
He dropped to his knees, shivering. Silence crashed back over the room. Behind the glass, no one dared move.
The woman was breathing. She was alive. Her white coat was rumpled, stained. A thin trickle of blood ran from her lip—but she was whole. She looked up at him and in her gaze, there was a tension sharp enough to cut.
"I... I... I'm sorry," Elliot said, his voice breaking.
She answered. A hard voice, barely hiding its tremor:
"What exactly are you?"
The way she looked at him, it wasn't the way you look at a child. Not even the way you look at an enemy. It was the gaze reserved for weapons or monsters.
And Elliot understood, with a clarity that sliced deep into him, that he might just be both.
***
What he didn't see, however, was the man hidden in the shadows, on the other side of the room. Silent behind a pane of tinted glass that blended seamlessly with the wall.
The man did not move. His tailored suit clung to a frame built like a war machine. One hand rubbed at a grey beard, revealing a flash of teeth. And his eyes gleamed; not with fear, not even with surprise.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Interesting," he murmured.