Confession

The new cell is a deception—though as Ikart likes to say, it’s “about as comforting as a jaguar in a party hat offering hugs.”

It has beds. Real beds. Thin, gray sheets tucked with false neatness. A kitchenette. A private bath. A small window where sunlight struggles through iron bars, slicing the floor into uneven shadows. For a moment, it almost feels like hope.

But prisons grant no true reprieves.

Hassan hesitates in the doorway, his fists clenching at his sides. Aisha moves with careful, measured steps, her shoulders rigid, braced for the walls to close in. Across the room, Grace stands by the bed, her gaze shifting between them before locking onto Aisha.

Then—laughter.

Not joy. Not relief. Something brittle, edged with disbelief—like a dam finally splintering under the weight of too much. It is the laughter of souls who have survived the impossible, though the cracks still show beneath their skin. Aisha and Grace collapse onto the mattress, clutching each other, laughter shaking their bodies, raw and uneven—caught between sobs and breathless release.

Hassan looks away, his gaze drawn to the window, though he sees nothing beyond it.

David steps beside him, staring past the iron bars at the motionless yard. The sky hangs too blue, too bright—its vastness pressing down with quiet indifference.

Life still moves here—a quiet defiance that even prisons cannot entirely silence.

At the far end, a cluster of chickens scratch at the dirt, heedless of the prisoners who watch them—unseen, uncounted. Even small creatures live by instinct, carrying on as if suffering were only for other beings to endure.

Hassan and David remain standing in silence for two hours. Neither speaks. Just watching.

Behind them, Ahmad drops onto a bunk and succumbs to sleep instantly, his exhaustion outweighing even vigilance. But Harjit doesn’t sleep. He lies rigid, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his anger no longer a fire but something colder—tempered, hardened. Unbreakable.

Three hours later, silence claims them all.

And at last, morning arrives—a pale witness to the truth that even darkness must yield.

Morning comes too soon—a mercy for some, a sentence for others.

Pale light filters through the barred window, indifferent as eternity, a quiet reminder that time moves forward, with or without mortal consent.

Hassan hasn’t slept. None of them have. Even exhaustion bends to fear.

When the warden’s voice echoes down the corridor, calling his name, Hassan knows.

He knows before he stands. Before Ahmad’s sharp glance flicks toward him. Before Aisha sits up, her fingers tightening in the thin gray sheets.

Before Grace invokes God’s hand upon their lives. A verse stirs in Grace’s spirit, and she speaks it aloud in a voice low yet clear:

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

The guards appear at the door. No words, only expectation—the weight of power carried in silence.

Hassan forces his muscles to obey, rising slowly. Aisha starts to move, but he shakes his head—just barely.

“Stay.”

She says nothing, but her eyes sear into him as the guards pull him from the cell, the heavy door groaning shut behind him.

The room is a box—windowless, inescapable.

The sharp bite of disinfectant clings to the air, but it fails to mask what lies beneath—the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.

Hassan’s boots scrape against the concrete as he’s led inside. He controls his breathing, steadying himself against the inevitable.

The walls close in. The dim light flickers. Silence looms.

Then, he sees them.

The instruments.

Laid out with surgical precision—too neat, too careful. Their metallic gleam almost taunting under the fluorescents.

Pliers. Scalpels. Screwdrivers. Drills.

Not tools—

Weapons.

Memories flicker through Hassan’s mind: his father’s screams, the glint of steel, the smell of blood. He braces himself for what feels inevitable.

A shadow stirs. The warden steps forward, his presence creeping into the room, heavy and deliberate.

“Sit.”

A command, not a request—spoken as if obedience were a foregone conclusion.

Hassan hesitates—only for a second. Then, the chair’s metal legs shriek as he sinks into it.

The warden approaches unhurried, like a man savoring a rare delicacy. A short, stocky guard steps in, face blank as he tightens the restraints around Hassan’s wrists and ankles—a man performing a duty he’d rather not examine too closely.

“I see how you look at her,” he murmurs.

Hassan stiffens.

“How she looks at you.”

The warden’s voice is almost gentle. Like he’s offering some great truth.

Hassan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

But his throat is dry as he swallows.

What is he talking about?

The warden’s smile is slow. Patient.

The warden leans in closer, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Confess. Or everyone pays.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air, thickening the space between them. Hassan swallows, his dry throat working around the words he doesn’t want to say.

The warden stares at him, eyes cold and calculating. “What is she to you?”

Hassan’s jaw tightens. “A prisoner.”

The warden smiles cruelly, eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie. I know what you want.”

Hassan doesn’t answer, his breath slow and steady, despite the dread building within.

The warden smirks. “Does your father know you’ve fucked that girl?”

Abruptly, the warden’s eyes flick to a spot where Lakita hovers. It’s not sight, exactly—more a prickle of some half-forgotten instinct, the faint awareness humans sometimes feel when watched by things they cannot see.

I tilt my head in silent warning. Lakita returns a single, curt nod and dissolves deeper into the folds of invisibility, leaving behind not even the faintest ripple. The warden blinks, dismissing the flicker of unease, and turns back to Hassan.

Hassan remains silent.

Without warning, the warden spins and strikes him with a savage side-fist. The blow lands hard against Hassan’s jaw. His head jerks sideways, a sharp crack echoing off the walls. Blood blooms across his teeth, bright and vivid.

Hassan’s grip tightens on the chair, his gaze fierce. “I haven’t touched her.”

The warden’s smile widens. “We both know what you want.”

“I like her, yes, but nothing’s happened.”

“You keep saying that.” The warden slides a photograph across the table. “Pictures don’t lie.”

Hassan barely glances at it. “She was cold. We shared a blanket.”

“I could ask little missy.” The warden exhales sharply, feigning weary exasperation. His fingers drift over a drill on the tray, its low whir sawing into the silence. “Maybe this will jog her memory.”

Hassan tenses. “Please, don’t.”

“Confess, and maybe I’ll just punish you.”

Hassan’s breath quickens, ragged. “Just me?”

The warden’s smile is slow, predatory—a wolf circling its prey.

Hassan’s heart slams in his chest, a frantic rhythm—every muscle in his body screaming to fight back, but the weight of the warden’s words presses down like stone.

His breath quickens. His eyes dart to the floor, thoughts swirling—Aisha, his father. What can he sacrifice? What truth can he afford to lose?

“Just me?”

The warden’s grin widens, cruel and knowing. “Confess, or it’s your father and Aisha. I have a witness.”

The room tilts, spinning with the weight of the decision. Hassan’s body trembles—rage, helpless and useless in the face of this. He swallows hard.

“No. They’re lying. And I don’t care if you have a video—nothing happened between us.”

“One of the guards heard you.”

“He’s lying. Nothing happened.”

The warden’s eyes gleam, savoring the silence between Hassan’s words—reading him like an open book.

“Fine. Bear, bring them in.”

A cold knot of fear tightens in Hassan’s chest. “Who are you bringing in?”

“Papa first. It’d be a pity to see your girlfriend’s blood spill before we’ve even started our discussion.”

Panic churns in Hassan’s gut. The warden doesn’t bluff.

“Stop!”

The warden and Bear freeze. Curiosity flickers in their eyes.

Hassan’s breath quickens. “I’ll tell you what you want to hear. Just don’t bring them in here.

The warden’s smile tightens. “Very good.”

Hassan exhales shakily, a thin veil of relief skimming the surface of his fear, though he knows better than to trust any reprieve offered here.

“I’ve seen how you look at her,” the warden murmurs. “You think you’re protecting her, but you’re only making things worse. Tell me the truth now, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll make this easier for you.”

“Leave them out of this,” Hassan gasps, desperation raw in his voice. “We just… stayed close. For warmth.”

The warden leans in, his breath cold. “Did you fuck her?”

“No.” The word is a strained gasp.

“I will torture her if you don’t confess. Did you—”

“Yes,” Hassan chokes out at last, sacrificing his own truth in a final attempt to shield the two lives more precious to him than his own.

The warden’s lips curl into a slow, venomous smile.

“No. Yes. You’ll say anything. Did you think you could play me for a fool?”

The smirk vanishes like a blade snapping shut.

“Go get them, and we’ll move your worthless ass out of here!”

He slams his palm against the tray of scalpels, sending metal instruments skittering across the floor in a shrill, clattering cascade. Straightening, he looms closer, breath rank with bitter coffee and the quiet arrogance of a man convinced he commands the fate of every soul in the room.

“She’s mine now.”

Hassan’s stomach clenches as if a fist has already landed there.

But the real pain follows.

Two guards seize Hassan before he can react, their grips like iron as they ziptie and gag him. One drags him down the corridor, the other delivering fast, hard punches and kicks that crack with sickening force—maximum pain. Finally, Hassan’s thrown into another empty cell, terror hammering in his chest, a rhythm of helpless rage. The final blow lands—his head slams against the cold concrete floor. Blood pools in his mouth, metallic and sharp. One guard spits on the floor beside him. “We’ll be back.”

Dread seeps into the space left behind, thick and smothering. His body throbs. His thoughts swim, scattered and flickering like candle flames in a wind.

And then—

The sound of the door creaks open again.

Hassan’s vision blurs, not just from the pain, but from the weight of guilt. Aisha’s face pales as she steps forward, her eyes wide with shock. The horror on her face feels like a blade—sharper than the guards’ blows.

‘Hassan…’ Her voice cracks, barely more than a whisper, like the sound of something precious breaking.

He tries to speak, but his throat tightens, choking on words that won’t come.

Guilt floods him, thick and suffocating, the weight of his confession heavier than any of the physical blows. The space between them feels suffocating—like a chasm that no words could ever bridge.

As his vision fades, darkness overtakes him.

That night, Hassan is summoned again.

Not for questions. Not for threats.

For judgment, human judgement.

The warden’s voice slithers through the corridor like oil poured over stone.

“You lost,” he hisses.

Hassan stares into empty air, as though searching for a crack in fate itself, and mutters, “This isn’t a game.”

“Take him to the yard.”

The prisoners are led to the observation window, forced to look out into the courtyard beneath cold starlight. Gravel crunches under boots. Metal doors slam open and shut. The wind carries dust and half-formed prayers whispered by trembling lips. Dim lights cast the dirt yard into long, shifting shadows.

The warden stands before them, smiling—a smile carved from cruelty and certainty. Fox hovers nearby, rifle in hand, eyes flat and watchful.

“Hassan.”

Aisha screams, her face pressed against the glass, leaving streaks of fog and tears.

The warden raises the gun.

Aisha’s breath seizes in her chest.

Time stretches thin as silk.

Then the shot fractures the night.

The sound ricochets off concrete walls, sharp as shattering glass.

Hassan crumples, his body folding inward as if trying to hold the life spilling out of him.

Aisha’s scream tears through the silence, raw and piercing—a sound at once human and holy in its naked agony.

The warden exhales slowly, savoring the dominion he believes is his. His voice is smooth, measured with the cadence of a man who has taught himself to call cruelty righteous. Hassan’s head rested in a widening pool of blood; I found myself noting that his face reminded me of Joseph’s son. Yet the most shocking thing—if there is anything left that can shock an angel—came in a fraction of a moment: Aisha’s spirit rose from her body, writhing, its colors shifting again and again before it slipped back into her flesh.

“Defiance has a price.”

His gaze settles on Aisha, cold and possessive. Then he glances at Hassan’s lifeless form.

“She’s mine now. She’ll learn.”

When the prisoners are herded back into their old cell, the space feels cavernous. Hassan’s absence drapes over the room like a funeral shroud.

Aisha cannot be comforted. Her grief coils around her spirit, tight as wire. She seems hollowed out, each breath a silent battle.

The others move softly, as if afraid even their footsteps might disturb the raw wound of her sorrow.

Later—she did not know how much later—Aisha reached for the notebook. The others were asleep, or pretending to be. She opened to a fresh page and sat for a long time without writing.

Then:

His name was Hassan. He stepped in front of a bullet for a woman he did not know. I was there. I will not forget it. I do not yet know what I am going to do with that, but I know I will not waste it.

She closed the notebook. She had not written her daughter’s name. She did not need to. Her daughter was in every word.

I have stood in the aftermath of many deaths. I have watched the living absorb the weight of the gone and redistribute it — into anger, into silence, into the particular hollowness that follows the loss of someone the world needed and did not keep. I have watched this one hundred and sixty-eight times, across as many worlds. And still it does not become ordinary.

You should know what it cost to arrive at this moment. Not just this night, or this prison, or this particular configuration of cruelty and bad fortune. What it cost across the full length of everything.

In the beginning—the second beginning, after everything had been destroyed and remade—there was only the Void again. Black, cold, nothing. From within it came Essence, neither substance nor absence, but the force from which all things draw breath, including the gods..

For ages beyond counting, the darkness stirred. Pride and arrogance fed upon themselves until everything curdled. Ragnarok came. Gods and giants fell alike. All went dark.

Then, from the Void—out of Essence itself—two gods rose: Jehovah and Brahma. Within them both was a hollow place seeking form. An ache that longed to be filled.

Together, they turned toward creation.

But Jehovah could not sustain what he made. Every beauty he shaped, he destroyed—not from rage, but from ache. He built worlds of stunning intricacy, then unmade them when they failed to satisfy the hollow in his chest. He named this urge love. Destruction became a language of care.

Brahma watched. Finally, he spoke: “We embrace desire by building, yet when the work is complete, there is nothing left to cherish. We seek only perfection, but perfection leaves nothing to love. How can one cherish without first accepting the flaws of our design?”

Jehovah believed that Brahma—and no other god—could understand his thoughts. So he agreed. Yes. No more destruction.

In secret, however, he fashioned something new.

He shaped Love itself into his own image and set it loose upon creation. He called himself Father and required obedience to provide acceptance. Love became conditional. A gift dependent upon submission. To love was to submit. To submit was to live.

Fearing the ruin of all creation, Brahma turned to Essence for balance. From that appeal arose the Council of Ancients—Watchers who would guard what the gods had made.

I am one of those who watch the Watchers. Essence chose me, and I have served since the Council’s founding.

I was there.

The cave existed before stone learned to be stone—a wound in the fabric of reality itself, not carved but necessary. The River of Life pooled at its entrance, and beside it grew the Tree of Knowledge, its roots drinking from waters that remembered the first moment anything ever thirsted.

We descended in silence. Brahma first, then the assembled gods, their light dimming as we moved deeper. I followed, wings folded tight, my presence barely disturbing the air. Even gods lowered their voices in the presence of the Oracle, the ultimate truth.

The Oracle of Essence sat chained to a stone column in the cave’s heart, beside a pool so still it might have been black glass. I noted the optics. Essence could have presented herself as anything one could imagine—the King of Kings, a pillar of fire, a voice without form. Instead, she chose to be a frail young woman chained in submission in front of a council of paternal gods. She maintained the form of a girl: knees drawn to her chest, bare feet tucked beneath a simple robe that seemed woven from spider silk and moonlight. Above her right shoulder, a brass key hung suspended in the air, rotating slowly as if caught in an imperceptible current. Always within reach. Never touched.

The chain at her ankle was long—perhaps twenty paces—with links that chimed softly when she moved, like distant bells. The metal was something older than iron. Something that existed before iron knew its name.

The Oracle had been weeping. Her face was streaked with tears that caught the faint phosphorescence of the pool, and her eyes—when she lifted them to regard us—held the weight of every truth simultaneously known. The Tree of Knowledge grew from a fissure in the stone behind her, its branches heavy with fruit that gleamed like garnets in the dim light.

“Spirit of Essence,” Brahma said, his voice reverent. “We seek counsel.”

The Oracle stood. The chain sang its small song.

She walked to the Tree without speaking and plucked a single fruit. Three bites. No more. She chewed slowly, deliberately, and I watched her expression shift—first wonder, then comprehension, then a grief so vast it seemed to age her a thousand years in the space between heartbeats.

Then she began to cry.

Not the quiet tears that had marked her face when we entered. These were sobs that shook her entire frame—raw, inconsolable sounds that echoed against stone and water until the cave itself seemed to weep. She moved from the Tree to the pool’s edge, then to another stone, then to the column where her chain was anchored, as if trying to outpace what she now knew.

She could not.

“One hundred and sixty-eight,” she whispered.

The number fell like a stone into still water.

Brahma stepped forward. “What does this mean?”

The Oracle’s eyes blazed—not with tears now, but with something that made even gods take a step back. A bolt of light shot from her finger, arrowing through the assembled deities to stop directly in front of a sprite perched in the shadows—a Controller observer, so insignificant that I had barely registered its presence.

“Tell them,” the Oracle commanded.

The sprite’s voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. “One hundred and sixty-eight refers to the number of destruction cycles that have consumed Jehovah’s universes.”

Silence.

The Oracle nodded slowly, and the gesture carried the weight of Essence itself—not loud, but absolute. She turned back to the gods, her expression holding something close to contempt.

“One hundred and sixty-eight worlds built with care and wonder. One hundred and sixty-eight worlds unmade when that care curdled into hunger.” She paced the length of her chain, each step punctuated by delicate chiming. “Floods. Famine. Fire raining from skies that fracture like broken glass. Oceans rising to swallow mountains. Children drowning in their mothers’ arms while the earth splits beneath them. Plagues that turn flesh to ash. Darkness that devours light. Silence where cities stood.”

I felt the words settle into my bones. I had suspected. I had feared. But hearing it spoken—

“Why?” Brahma’s voice was barely audible.

The Oracle looked at him with something approaching pity. “Because he cannot fill what is hollow within him. Because he has named his hunger love, and love demands perfection, and nothing made can ever be perfect enough. Because—”

The cave went silent.

Not the silence of absence, but of presence—a sudden, total cessation as if sound itself had been erased from existence. The Oracle’s mouth continued to move, but no words emerged. Her eyes widened. She took a step back, then another, until the chain pulled taut.

I turned.

Jehovah stood at the cave’s entrance, light radiating from him in waves that made the shadows flee. He descended slowly, each footfall deliberate, and as he moved the Oracle retreated as far as her chain would allow, pressing herself against the far wall.

Her weeping had stopped. Her mouth was closed. But her eyes screamed everything her voice could not.

“Brother,” Jehovah said to Brahma, warmth in his tone. “I came as soon as I heard you had sought the Oracle. Surely any wisdom given should be shared between us?”

The Oracle shook her head—small, frantic movements. Her hands grasped at her throat as if she could force the words free, but nothing came.

Brahma’s expression was carefully neutral. “The Oracle was explaining the cycles of creation. How what is built must sometimes be unmade to make room for what comes next.”

“Ah.” Jehovah smiled. “The eternal return. I understand this truth well.”

He moved to the Tree of Knowledge and plucked a fruit, examining it in the light radiating from his palm. “May I?”

The Oracle could only stare.

He ate. One bite, then another. His smile never wavered. “Bitter,” he said. “But enlightening.”

He turned to the Oracle directly. “You serve Essence well, child. Your wisdom is a gift to all creation.”

She flinched as if struck.

When Jehovah finally left—ascending back toward the surface with that same measured grace—sound returned to the cave like a gasp of air after drowning. The Oracle collapsed to her knees, hands braced against stone, her whole body shaking.

“He doesn’t know,” I said quietly.

“He cannot know.” The Oracle’s voice was raw, scraped hollow. “Truth cannot reach the one who has made himself its opposite. His nature prevents even Essence from speaking directly to him. He hears only what confirms what he already believes.”

Brahma knelt before her. “Then how do we stop this? How do we break the cycle?”

The Oracle looked up, tears still streaming. She reached toward the hovering key—her fingers stopping just short—then let her hand fall.

“There is a material,” she said. “Forged from opposing principles—order and chaos bound together, neither consuming the other. Chauvin material. It can quiet his nature. Contain what cannot be contained.”

“How is it made?”

“By two who stand in opposition yet share a single purpose.” Her voice steadied. “Sodo, Jehovah’s Watcher Angel and keeper of law. And Lucifer, his perfect creation, wrought with wisdom and beauty beyond measure. Light and shadow. Obedience and rebellion. Only they can forge what is needed.”

She paused. A strange expression crossed her face—not quite a smile, but close.

“You think you know how that story ends,” she said. “You don’t.”

I have witnessed every cycle. One hundred and sixty-eight times I have stood guard as worlds were born and flourished and fell. One hundred and sixty-eight times I have watched the pattern repeat.

The Chauvin material was forged. The Council was formed. The watching began.

But that story is not the one I need to tell you today. Today I need to tell you about a door creaking open in the dark.