CHAPTER 6: "OBSESSION IS POSSESSION" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner

CHAPTER 6: "OBSESSION IS POSSESSION" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The trail left by the Wraith Dragon lingered like smoke on the wind—sharp, sulfuric, and easy to follow. My Wulver senses locked onto its distinct scent. Tracks dug into the dust, and the wind carried pieces of black, serpentine scales. I kept moving, my mind racing to catch up with my feet. Deathskull had only been a few feet behind me. Now he was somewhere in this nightmare realm, taken.

I moved quickly through the broken alleys of the abandoned demon city. Twisted structures loomed overhead like shattered bones, remnants of a long-forgotten war. But as I advanced through the wasteland, a strange aroma curled into my nose—sweet, floral, eerily familiar.

It smelled like Emily’s perfume.

That couldn’t be right.

My steps slowed. The scent wasn’t subtle; it wrapped around my senses like a ribbon, pulling me toward its source. In this place, where nothing should feel comforting, something felt almost… beautiful. That should’ve been the warning sign.

Out of the shadows stepped a woman.

She looked real. Alive. Human.

She had tan skin that seemed to glow in the orange light, piercing dark eyes, black hair streaked with bronze, and a figure that immediately caught my attention—too perfect, too convenient. She wore a sleek black dress and leather boots, like someone plucked out of an upscale night club and dropped into Hell.

“William?” she said softly, her voice trembling with relief.

I blinked, frozen. “Do I… know you?”

She smiled gently. “Madeline. Madeline Scoggin. You saved my sister once, back on Earth. I will never forget your face.”

She threw her arms around me, her touch warm—but something sharp grazed the back of my neck. A prick, like a nail—or a fang. My body stiffened.

Suddenly, the world began to tilt.

My limbs have weakened. My armor retracted on its own, as if sensing no threat. My heartbeat slowed, and I stumbled back toward a collapsed wall, sinking onto a stone slab. I felt distant from myself, like I was floating underwater in a waking dream.

Madeline crouched beside me, tilting her head. Her eyes shimmered unnaturally.

“Why did you leave her?” she whispered. “Emily. You walked out on her. You abandoned everything.”

“I didn’t abandon her,” I muttered, slurring. “I needed space. I needed… to clear my head.”

“But you’re home now. With me,” she purred, brushing a hand down my chest.

The haze was growing thicker. My memories of Emily—her face, her green eyes, the voice that gave me clarity—started to blur.

I clenched my jaw. “This isn’t real.”

“Oh, William,” she said with a mocking tenderness. “It’s as real as you want it to be.”

Her words crawled into my mind like vines, and a part of me—some broken, animal part—wanted to surrender. But I dug deep, clawing for the memory of Emily. Her warmth. Her stubbornness. The way she held my hand when I was too proud to ask for comfort.

And in that moment, clarity cracked through the fog.

“No,” I growled, standing despite the dizziness. “You’re not her. You’re not real.”

Madeline’s smile twisted. Her eyes turned glassy and black, and her skin shimmered with something otherworldly.

She hissed, not with rage—but with disappointment.

“You’ll regret this,” she said, vanishing into a swirl of smoke and ash.

I dropped to my knees, chest heaving. My strength returned slowly, but the shame wasn’t immediate. Madeline Scoggin was my type but I do not want to have sex with this strange woman at the expense of hurting Emily Eagle’s feelings. I was being seduced against my own will.

Madeline undone my jumpsuit as she began to rape me under a drugged up state. Against my own will, she was having sex with me. This was the most shameful thing I have ever felt. In my heart I knew I made a disastrous mistake. My sexual relationship was always satisfying with Emily, although, being addicted to excess sex, could’ve been the start of my downfall.

They say a man that attracts more chicks, makes you more manly. The reality is, the more sexual pleasure you’re granted, the more a man loses self respect. He’s now less of a man, since he lets his access to hot women control him. It’s ironic since I was never the chick magnet growing up in Illinois. I was always the nerd. Lady’s respected me a bit better during highschool, however, they still didn’t like me. When I found Emily Eagle, I couldn’t believe what a wonderful woman I found. And now this lady is trying to strip everything pure from Emily. Madeline was not respecting our boundaries.

I looked down at my trembling hands and muttered, “I almost lost myself…”

But I didn’t.

Emily was still in my mind, still my anchor. And Deathskull was still out there, counting on me.

After Madeline had her way with me, I lay in the rubble beside her—physically spent, emotionally tangled in a storm of conflicting sensations. In the moment, it felt good… too good. But as the haze lifted, and clarity crept back into my blood like a cold wind, shame started gnawing at my chest.

What the hell just happened?

Madeline sat up with a smile, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. Her eyes gleamed like obsidian in the orange hue of the Wraith sky.

“That was the most intense sex I’ve ever had,” she said with a playful breath. “You’ve got something wild in you, William. We’ll have to do it again… soon.”

I said nothing. My mouth was dry. My muscles were stiff, my armor half retracted around me like it didn’t know what to protect anymore. My instincts were screaming. There was something I was forgetting. Something critical.

Then it hit me.

Deathskull.

He was still out there—kidnapped, probably being tortured, or worse.

I bolted upright, blinking away the daze, trying to sort memory from dream.

“I have to find him,” I muttered. “I can’t stay here.”

Madeline rose to her feet, her black leather boots clicking against the fractured obsidian floor. She extended a hand to help me up, and despite everything, I took it.

“There’s no rush,” she said, her voice honey-sweet with menace. “You’ll see. This place grows on you.”

As she led me through the twisted streets, I started regaining focus. The spell was lifting. But something still felt… wrong. My heart wasn’t beating right. My armor wouldn’t fully respond to my commands. Whatever venom was in her nail—it was still lingering in my system, dulling my resolve just enough.

We walked for several minutes through the broken shell of the demon city. Ash fell from the sky like snow. A red sun hovered low behind the skyline, casting the streets in a never-ending dusk.

Eventually, we approached a structure that loomed like a mountain of black steel and bone. The palace. A brutalist fortress of jagged towers, whirring gears, and glowing red runes. Its massive gates stood open, as if waiting for a conqueror to return.

As we approached, I couldn’t ignore the animals lined along the obsidian walkway—massive, snarling creatures, chained to rusted spikes. Guard dogs the size of bears. And worse…

Smilodons. Ancient saber-toothed cats—but each one had multiple heads. Three, four, even five. Their mouths foamed, and their battle-scarred hides were stitched together with black wire and rune-etched iron plates.

Their eyes followed me. Not Madeline. Just me.

“These poor beasts,” I said quietly, watching one of them gnaw at its own shoulder like it couldn’t feel pain anymore. “What did they do to deserve this?”

Madeline kept walking, utterly unfazed. “They were reborn.”

“Reborn?” I glanced at her. “They look like they were torn apart and sewn back together.”

She chuckled. “That’s one way to put it. Here, everything evolves—whether it wants to or not. The more heads, the better. More eyes. More mouths. More teeth. That’s how you win in this place. More everything.” With an optimistic gesture she says, “The more, the better!”

“Sounds like hell,” I muttered.

She smiled again. “Exactly.”

We stepped through the front gates into a cavernous hallway—lined with hanging chains, steel columns, and murals painted in blood. I stopped walking.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I said, finally finding my voice.

Madeline turned back toward me, eyebrow raised. “Oh? And where would you rather be, William? In the rubble? With that hunk of rust you call a droid? Or maybe—back with Emily, pretending to be something you're not?”

I stared at her, something cold settling in my stomach.

She was baiting me.

Every word, every gesture—it was all designed to keep me here. To feed on my guilt, my confusion, my lust. Maybe even my soul, if I stayed long enough.

“You’re not real,” I whispered. “You’re something wearing human skin.”

“Does it matter?” she asked softly, stepping close. “You felt something. That’s more real than most people ever get.”

I pushed her hand away. “I felt manipulated.”

Madeline laughed, low and rich. “And you think your dear Emily’s never manipulated you?”

I said nothing. The truth was—I didn’t know anymore. Not here. Not now. This realm twisted everything. Even certainty.

But I had to find Deathskull. That truth still rang clear through the fog.

I took a step back. “Thank you for the… hospitality. But I have someone to rescue.”

Madeline narrowed her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You walk out that door, and you’ll regret it. This place won’t be so kind next time.”

“I don’t need kindness,” I said, my hand on my sword. “I need my friend back.”

With that, I turned toward the exit of the palace, the smilodons watching hungrily from their chains. I didn’t know if I’d survive another encounter with this witch—but I knew staying would be the death of me in more ways than one.

And in the distance, I could still smell Deathskull’s scent, faint… but there.

Still alive.

Although, with all of my strength I couldn’t open the palace doors.

“You’re not going to find your droid out there hun.” Madeline said in a commanding tone.

As Madeline guided me deeper into the heart of her palace, the metallic groan of grinding gears echoed through the massive structure. Dim red lights cast a sickly glow along the cracked black walls, and every few paces I saw carvings etched into the metal—twisted murals of pleasure and agony, intertwined as if one could not exist without the other.

We emerged through an arched doorway into a chamber unlike anything I’d seen before.

The Lingerie Walkway.

A grotesque spectacle sprawled before us, stretching across a grand circular hall as wide as a stadium. People—humans—intermingled with demons. Laughter and moans and screams echoed off the cold steel. It was a carnival of flesh and fire.

Everywhere I looked, there were scenes of obscene indulgence. Women in tattered lingerie danced with horned beasts, while others were suspended from the ceiling by meat hooks, still conscious and forced to smile by some kind of magic. A demonic band played off-key jazz on burning instruments, while succubi danced atop tables dripping in honey and wine.

To my right, a man was vomiting onto the floor, barely able to lift his head—and yet the moment he slumped, two demons grabbed him and forced him back upright. Tubes and wires were pumping alcoholic sludge directly into his stomach through his mouth and nose.

That’s when I saw them.

Ben and Page.

“No…” I muttered.

Ben was strapped to a throne-like chair, a funnel jammed between his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin had turned pale. Page lay beside him, laughing and crying at once, her body slumped as she twitched. Both of them had syringes jabbed into their necks, pumping something into their veins in sync with the music.

“What are they doing here?” I growled, backing away.

“They came through the portal after you,” Madeline whispered behind me. “Or maybe they were brought through. The Wraith realm calls to those with excess in their hearts.”

I clenched my fists. “They’re just lovers. They didn’t deserve this.”

“Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” she said, running her nail along my back. I shivered—not from pleasure, but from the residual venom in her touch. “Everyone here chose something. Even you.”

My eyes swept the room again.

To the far left, I spotted Brody and Tom, their hands cuffed to massive, smoking gaming consoles. Their eyes were locked to screens flashing blinding colors, their faces twitching with pain. The buttons on the controllers had spikes beneath them—every press drawing tiny droplets of blood.

I watched Brody’s thumb tremble and pause. His scream cut through the noise as a jolt of lightning surged through his body. He slumped forward, but the chains yanked him back up, forcing his eyes to remain open.

“God… what is this?” I muttered.

“Fun,” Madeline whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“No,” I spat. “It’s madness.”

In a darker corner of the room, my stomach twisted as I saw Denton and Dominic. They were bound to tall, spiked chairs while Demonettes with bright orange skin and glowing eyes circled them like vultures. These women were striking—inhumanly gorgeous, with curved horns and flowing black hair—but their beauty masked violence. One was pecking Denton’s arm with her sharpened teeth, tearing at his flesh with surgical precision. Another forced Dominic to watch as a glowing-hot needle was inserted beneath his fingernails.

One Demonette straddled Denton, raping him, as it placed a gas mask over his face. A long, coiling tube connected the mask to a glass bong-like machine on the floor, bubbling with a sickly green fluid.

I didn’t have to smell it twice. Marijuana—but not like any I’d known. This stuff was infused with something darker. I could feel it even from here. A fog of euphoria and paralysis.

“He’s going to overdose,” I said aloud, stepping forward. “He’ll die.”

Madeline chuckled. “Not quite. Not yet. They’re kept right on the edge. That’s the thrill.”

Then I saw Taps.

He sat lazily in a metal chair, smiling faintly, hooked up to an IV pumping a bright yellow substance into his bloodstream. He had a lit cigarette in one hand, and another Demonette gently stroked his head like a pet. His pupils were wide. His skin gleamed with sweat. His lips kept moving, whispering something over and over:

“I’m not dead… I’m not dead… I’m not…”

My heart sank deeper.

Then I saw him.

Across the room, near a raised platform, stood a demon with shoulder-length hair, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with a smug grin.

His face…

My body went rigid.

Zach.

It looked just like him—Zach Carpenter. His frame. His eyes. That same arrogant tilt of the jaw. My old “friend.” The one who had judged me, condemned me, looked down on me for being “weak.”

I froze. My vision burned red. Everything turned red.

My claws unsheathed from instinct. I didn’t think. I lunged forward—howling—and aimed to rip that demon in half.

But before I could even get close—

Madeline’s nails slashed across the back of my neck.

I collapsed instantly, like a marionette with its strings cut.

My head swam. My pulse thundered in my ears. The floor spun in a dizzy spiral.

Venom. Again.

“I warned you,” she said, crouching next to me. “You’re still mine for now, Wulver. Don’t throw a tantrum just because you saw a ghost.”

I groaned, trying to reach for my blade. My limbs wouldn’t move.

Madeline leaned close, her lips against my ear. “That isn’t Zach. Just a mask. A demon wears his face because he knew it would break you.”

“Why?” I rasped. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because the more you struggle, the sweeter it tastes,” she purred. “Now sleep, my wolf. When you wake… we’ll talk about what you’re really running from.”

My eyes rolled back. The lights dimmed. The last thing I saw was Taps waving lazily, as if he didn’t even recognize me.

And then, blackness.

After Madeline’s cruel interruption, another figure emerged from the shadows—a demon who announced himself with an irritating flourish.

“Ah, Kotus Pleasant,” Madeline said with a smile that barely masked her disdain. “One of my best generals. You’ll find him… quite persuasive.”

Kotus stepped forward, a lithe Incubi with slick black hair, eyes like molten silver, and a smile that reeked of arrogance. His voice dripped with mockery as he circled me, his movements feline and irritatingly confident.

“So, the wolf wakes again,” Kotus sneered. “You look far less… imposing than I imagined.”

I clenched my jaw, wanting to throw a punch straight into that smug face, but my limbs were still sluggish from Madeline’s poison. I had to hold back.

Madeline took my arm, dragging me forward. “Enough of this chatter. You must be hungry.”

I nodded weakly, already dreading what was coming.

We entered a vast, hellish space that defied the concept of a mere room. It was a hall—a cathedral to excess and torment. The walls were covered in rusted chains, cages filled with emaciated souls, and grotesque carvings that pulsed faintly with infernal energy.

The floor was slick with something I dared not identify, and the air was thick with the stench of spilled wine, rotting food, and the faint undercurrent of death.

At the center was a gargantuan table—long enough to seat dozens, laden with mountains of food piled high. Roast beasts with eyes still gleaming, steaming piles of grotesque vegetables, fountains of syrupy liquids flowing endlessly.

Standing over the feast was the demon chef: Gorgon.

His name suited him perfectly—his face was a horrifying mask of serpents writhing where his hair should have been. His tongue flicked out like a serpent’s as he barked orders in a guttural voice.

“Eat! Eat! Waste not a crumb! Gluttony is survival here!” he roared.

I scanned the room and spotted Max chained to the table beside me. His torment was clear—his body was bloated and swollen beyond reason, his skin slick with sweat that shone under the flickering hellfire light. Every few seconds, Gorgon or one of his twisted servants shoved handfuls of food into Max’s mouth, forcing it open when Max tried to resist. Max's cheeks puffed grotesquely, tears streaming down his face as he choked back the unrelenting flood of meat, bread, and thick sauces. When he managed to bite down or swallow, the servants cruelly forced even more food on him. His hands trembled, bruised from futile attempts to push the food away, but the chains kept him pinned, a prisoner of gluttony.

His breaths came in ragged gasps, and I could see the shame and desperation in his eyes—trapped in a hell of forced indulgence, becoming a grotesque caricature of himself.

Madeline grabbed my arm again, her grip like iron.

“You will sit here,” she commanded, dragging me to a stool at the table’s edge. Before I could protest, cold steel cuffs locked around my wrists, chaining me to the stool.

Max chained to the table beside me, stuffing food into his mouth desperately. His cheeks were swollen, sweat slicking down his face as he forced himself to eat, his stomach visibly swelling. He looked beaten, not just physically but in spirit.

“This is the gluttony chamber,” Madeline whispered with cruel glee. “Everyone here is a prisoner of their appetites. You're free from the hunger once you eat.”

I glanced down at the massive plates piled before me. My stomach churned. Even the smell made me want to gag. But there was no escape. I was forced to lift the fork and shove food into my mouth, no matter how sickening.

Each bite felt like a betrayal to the warrior I was—the sharp edge dulled as my gut began to swell. I could feel the weight settling, the extra pounds pressing down on my ribs and stomach.

After what felt like hours of forced feeding, Madeline approached the counter with a wicked smile. Her eyes locked onto mine as she squeezed her breasts together, producing a thick, white liquid.

From her breast!

The milk went straight into the glass as she squeezed her nipples.

“Drink this,” she said, her voice low and hypnotic.

I tried to refuse, tried to summon any ounce of strength to resist, but the venom in my veins muddled my will. Before I could protest, she pressed the bottle to my lips and forced the milky liquid down my throat.

Nausea flooded me, twisting in my gut like a living thing. I gagged, desperate to vomit and purge the poison—but my body betrayed me. I was trapped, my stomach bloated, my head heavy, and my spirit slipping.

Madeline leaned in close, whispering, “You’re mine now. That stable, resilient warrior is crumbling. Every bite, every sip, I strip him away.”

I closed my eyes, swallowing hard as the shame burned hotter than any flame. I was twenty pounds heavier already. I was becoming soft, vulnerable, and weak.

And worst of all, I hated myself for it.

Madeline’s grip was firm as she pulled me away from the grotesque dining chamber, her fingers curling possessively around my arm. The air grew colder as we walked through winding corridors of blackened stone, illuminated only by flickering, unnatural flames that cast long, twitching shadows.

Finally, she stopped before a heavy iron door, scarred with scratches and stained with rust. She pushed it open, revealing a cramped holding cell—bare, save for a narrow cot and a small window high above, barred and letting in only a sliver of sickly green light.

She shoved me inside, the door clanging shut behind me. The cold metal cuffs still bit into my wrists.

“You’ll be free soon enough,” Madeline said, her voice deceptively sweet. “You and your friends. All you have to do is surrender, let go of your chains, and revel in the pleasures this place offers.”

I stood rigid, glaring at her through the bars.

“This isn’t freedom,” I said flatly. “You don’t get to call this a release. Everyone here is shackled to their addictions and their vices—slaves to excess and impulse. That’s not freedom. It’s… it’s repulsive.”

Her lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. She stepped closer through the bars and planted a kiss on my cheek—soft, but heavy with menace. Then, with a sly, almost childlike grin, she reached through and tickled the crease of my groin.

The sensation jolted me, and a wave of shame crashed over me like a tide. I stiffened, feeling less like a man and more like a trapped animal. The humiliation was suffocating. Lust and shame tangled inside me, twisting tighter with each passing second.

Madeline withdrew, laughing lightly. “Oh, William. You’re such a contradiction. Trying to be a warrior, yet so easily undone by desire.”

She turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying as if she owned every inch of this hellish domain.

Left alone in the dark cell, the silence pressed down like a suffocating blanket. My heart pounded not from exertion, but from the simmering rage and helplessness inside me. The cuffs bit deeper into my skin, cold and unyielding—just like the prison that had become my mind.

I sank into the cot, head heavy, thoughts racing.

This isn’t freedom. This is captivity.

They’re all trapped—Max, Brody, Denton, Dominic, Ben, Page, Taps, Max, everyone! Even Deathskull.

Addicted to their vices, numbing the pain with excess. Lost in shallow pleasures to forget the reality of this hell.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

I can’t let this stand. I have to find a way out. I have to help them break free from this curse.

I closed my eyes and focused on my Wulver senses, willing them to push past the lingering fog Madeline had left inside me. Slowly, the haze began to lift.

Outside, I could hear faint noises—the muffled sobs of the damned, the clanking of chains, the low growls of twisted beasts.

I forced my mind to steady, to strategize.

First, I find Deathskull. Then, we free the others. We leave this place behind.

But before that, I had to break my own chains—not just the metal ones biting into my wrists, but the chains tightening around my will.

I would not become another slave to this hell.

Not while I still had breath.

The dim light from the barred window barely reached the cell opposite mine, where John sat slumped against the cold stone wall, his eyelids heavy and unfocused. He moved sluggishly, his limbs like a marionette cut loose from its strings. When he finally lifted his head and staggered to his feet, his gaze landed on me with a dull, glassy stare.

“What are you looking at, weirdo?” he slurred, voice thick with sedation and fatigue.

I shook my head, the exhaustion and frustration thick in my chest. “You’re an idiot for following me and Deathskull into the Wraith,” I said bluntly.

John blinked slowly, then with a rough grunt, he obliged and spilled the truth. “I got punched—repeatedly—by some incubus named Gerald. That bastard didn’t just hit me; he forced me to… you know. Had sex with a Demonette named Cari.” His voice faltered, almost ashamed.

I could tell John was sinking deeper, giving in to his lustful nature, feeding the very thing that kept us trapped here.

“I told him not to fold,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “But you’re just like me with Madeline. You might enjoy it in the moment, but the guilt—the shame—that always comes after.”

John scoffed and looked away, voice low and bitter. “Shame? What shame? I never loved a woman. I never even knew what that felt like.”

That hit me harder than I expected. The loneliness in his admission echoed a familiar emptiness.

“Then maybe it’s time to be wiser,” I said softly. “No hard feelings for wanting to smack you for being so naive, but you gotta protect yourself. You gotta care about more than just what feels good.”

John looked back at me, expression dark but thoughtful. “I wish I could,” he muttered.

I exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling over. “You know what? I’m done.” I slammed my fist against the cold wall. “I’m taking my droid and leaving all of you behind.”

Before I could dwell further on that thought, a heavy set of footsteps echoed from the cell next to me. The door clanked open, and a tall figure stepped into view.

He wore battered armor marked with the crimson dragon sigil of the Red Dragon Empire. His dark hair was cropped short, and his eyes held a dull, haunted look. He introduced himself simply: “Casey Zander. Knight of the Red Dragon Empire.”

I eyed him curiously. “What are you doing here?”

Casey let out a bitter laugh. “Funny thing. I used to think guys in monogamous relationships were weak, even feminine.” He shook his head slowly, voice tinged with regret. “But now, after all this… I know better. Letting sex control you? That isn’t manly. It’s self-destruction.”

I nodded, sensing a shared pain in his words.

“But,” Casey continued, his gaze drifting, “I don’t even remember who I am anymore. My identity… it’s like a ghost. I’m lost. A shell drifting in the Wraith’s endless night.”

I thought to myself how quickly people could break down under this kind of torment—mind, body, and spirit.

Casey locked eyes with me again. “You’re strong. You have a droid. Save yourself. Leave this place before it consumes you, too.”

His words hit me like a cold slap. The urgency in his voice was real.

“Thanks, Casey,” I said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.”

The cell fell silent, save for the distant moans and muffled cries echoing through the stone corridors.

I sank back against the wall, wrestling with my thoughts.

The Wraith wasn’t just a place. It was a prison for body and soul.

And if I didn’t act fast, I would be trapped here forever—just like John, Casey, and so many others.

I sat back against the cold stone wall, breathing shallowly, my mind racing with the cruel reality that time here was warped beyond recognition. In the Wraith, eight minutes could stretch into what felt like eight years, and eight years could collapse into the blink of an eye. The sense of eternity and instant torment intertwined, crushing hope and sanity alike. It was no wonder everyone around me desperately clung to the idea of escape — a fevered, urgent grasp at any shred of freedom before the endless torture consumed them.

But the worst wasn’t over.

A sudden, sharp realization hit me: I had a data device tucked deep in my pocket. Not just any device — this one held memories, photos, names, history, everything I needed to keep my past and identity intact. More importantly, it held a picture of Emily — her face, her green eyes, the warmth I clung to. I couldn’t risk losing that.

Without hesitation, I pulled the device out, cold metal pressing against my palm, and with a steady breath, I made a calculated decision.

I took a small, laser blade hidden beneath my belt and carefully cut into my chest — just below the collarbone, where I could hide the device without it being obvious. The sting of pain was sharp, but I swallowed it, focusing instead on preserving the last link to who I was.

Sliding the device beneath my skin, and crawled in deep. I sealed the wound with a thin layer of nano glue — a modern marvel that hardened like transparent armor over my flesh. I pressed gently, ensuring it stayed in place.

For a moment, I allowed myself a flicker of relief.

I pulled out the small, handheld laser cutter again — a slim tool I’d secretly smuggled in — and directed it toward the iron bars of my cell. The intense heat hissed as the metal began to melt away. Freedom was within reach.

But before I could finish, a sharp smell caught the air: burnt metal and ozone.

Madeline was back.

Her eyes flared with cruel delight as she prowled toward me, nails extended like poisonous daggers. She jabbed into my hand, pain flaring like fire, and the laser slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the floor.

“Trying to play hero?” she taunted, her voice dripping with mockery. “How quaint.”

The laser was swiftly confiscated by a pair of Incubi guards who materialized like shadows from the corners of the cell block. They tightened their grip on Brody and Tom, dragging the two struggling prisoners toward my cell.

Brody and Tom were locked in a loud argument as they were pushed inside, bickering like children about which bunk bed was better.

“I’m telling you, top bunk is the way to go,” Brody grumbled, tugging at his chains.

“No way, you get all the drool from whoever’s above,” Tom retorted, rubbing his wrists raw from the shackles.

I cut them off with a dry voice, “I’ll take the floor.”

They looked at me, surprise flickering in their eyes. I shook my head. “I’m not planning on staying here long. Neither should you.”

Brody scoffed but said nothing. Tom gave a weary nod, his expression dark. Then Madeline spoke.

“You’re right hun.”

The incubus guards’ grip was relentless as they dragged Casey and I down the dimly lit corridor. My muscles ache from exhaustion and the lingering haze of Madeline’s drugged embrace, but a spark of defiance kept burning inside me. Every step echoed in the claustrophobic hallway until we arrived at a peculiar pink door — glossy, almost surreal, an odd splash of color in this grim place.

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a chamber that made my skin crawl before I even stepped inside.

Men — many young, some barely older than boys — were lined up in neat rows, all kneeling with their pants down, their bodies trembling with a mixture of fear, shame, and resignation. Their necks rested on cold, metallic machines that held them fast, forcing their heads down so they could only look at the screens before them.

The screens flickered with hypnotic images—flashing colors, suggestive figures, endless loops designed to enslave minds. I could feel the seductive pull even from a distance. Around us moved the Demonettes — stunning, lethal creatures draped in scant, shimmering lingerie that caught the dim light and reflected it like broken glass. Their eyes glowed faintly, dark and dangerous, as they prowled the room, their movements predatory.

Casey’s jaw clenched beside me. “This is…” he began but trailed off, choking back anger.

The incubus guards shoved us forward until our knees met cold stone. We were ordered to bend over, our pants forcibly lowered, and our necks placed onto the machines. The metal was unyielding, biting cold against my skin, and it forced my gaze downward onto the screen.

I swallowed hard.

“Welcome to the Reclamation Chamber,” a sultry voice purred behind me.

Madeline’s presence was unmistakable, even in this suffocating place. She stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

“This,” she gestured broadly, “is where lost souls are ‘refined.’ Where their will is broken and their desires remodeled into something... useful.”

Casey spat quietly. “Useful for what? To be puppets?”

Madeline smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Puppets? No. Tools. To serve, to indulge, to obey. Freedom is an illusion here, boys. But pleasure... pleasure is very real. You’ll learn to crave it, to surrender.”

I fought the growing pull from the screen, images of lust and excess swirling, flooding my mind with heat and confusion. My heart hammered, not just from fear but from the suffocating weight of temptation.

Casey whispered, “Hold onto who you are, William. Don’t let this place steal you.”

I nodded, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat. The Wraith’s power was strong, but my love for Emily — the real world — was stronger. I had to hold onto that. For my sake. For hers.

The Demonettes circled, their fingers trailing dangerously close to exposed skin, eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

Madeline leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Give in. It’s easier. No pain, no struggle... only pleasure.”

I bit back the urge, the shame, and the desperation. This was not freedom. This was slavery masked in velvet.

“We’re not your playthings,” I said, voice low but firm. “And I won’t let this place own me.”

Her smile faltered, but only for a moment.

The machine hummed, and I braced myself.

I dared to glance up, catching sight of one of Madeline’s generals — a being named Zuccubus, whose appearance sent a cold chill down my spine. His face was eerily familiar, a twisted caricature of Mark Zuckerberg’s, with pale orange synthetic skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones and cold, calculating eyes that seemed to bore into my soul. The resemblance was unnerving — as if some corrupted AI had tried to model power after the tech titan and failed grotesquely.

Zuccubus strode toward us, a mocking smirk curling his lips. With a swift motion, he adjusted the machines forcing us to keep our heads down, staring fixedly at the digital screens in front of us. The images flickered, and my breath caught.

The screens displayed endless loops of pornography — my favorite kind — light-skinned brunettes clad in tight black leather, their bodies twisting and writhing in simulated ecstasy. The women seemed impossibly perfect, and every detail was designed to ensnare the mind.

Before I could look away, mechanical arms slid out from the machines, synthetic hands mimicking feminine softness with terrifying precision. The fingers closed around me, stroking relentlessly. A cold metal rod throbbed gently beneath the touch, forcing a perverse rhythm.

I gasped, struggling to resist, but the hypnotic pull was overwhelming. Around me, I heard the other men’s breaths hitch as the machines’ arms worked their cruel ministrations. The room filled with a low mechanical hum, mixed with soft moans and stifled cries.

I turned my head slightly toward Casey, who was struggling to maintain his composure.

“Is this some kind of brainwashing?” I whispered hoarsely, voice trembling.

Casey’s eyes were glazed but resolute. “You get used to it,” he muttered bitterly. “At first, it’s unbearable. Then... it becomes your world.”

My stomach churned at the thought.

Suddenly, a desperate, pained voice broke through the haze.

“I don’t need more!” a man pleaded. His voice was raw, edged with desperation. “I love my wife. Please... stop this.”

The man’s head was forced down harder against the machine. The screen flickered to a twisted face — the Demonettes grinning cruelly.

I watched in horror as the mechanical contraption attached to the man’s groin twitched violently. A sickening snap echoed through the chamber — the sound of flesh and bone breaking. In reality, his erect penis was broken through force & agony.

The man screamed, a guttural, wrenching sound that seemed to reverberate in my chest.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he slumped forward, broken and humiliated.

The screens flickered on, showing new images — fresh waves of digital lust designed to crush resistance.

This wasn’t just digital porn. This was digital rape.

I fought the mounting tide of lust rising within me, the images of those perfect brunettes invading my mind. My breathing quickened. My vision blurred with heat and desire.

But beneath the overwhelming sensation, a cold kernel of defiance remained.

I would not let this place win.

The haze of lust and agony clawed at my mind, threatening to erase everything I was — my memories, my purpose, my very identity. I was slipping, drowning in the relentless flood of synthetic pleasure and pain.

But then, a sharp cry cut through the fog.

A few spots down, a man named Alex was fighting with every shred of his will. His head was forced down; his eyes squeezed shut as he muttered his love for Bethany Tomlinson — the woman who anchored his soul.

The machine attached to him was far crueler than mine. One of its mechanical arms gleamed with a wicked, serrated knife. It inched dangerously close to his groin.

“Don’t resist!” I yelled, my voice hoarse and raw, desperation lending it strength. “It’ll get worse if you do!”

Zuccubus suddenly appeared beside me, his pale face twisting into that mocking smirk again. His cold eyes bore into mine as he spoke, voice silky and venomous.

“Just use my invention, fuzzy kid,” he said, drawing out the words with sick satisfaction. “The chicks like you. You can have any woman you want.”

His hand flicked a switch on my machine. The screen in front of me shifted, and there she was — Bethany Tomlinson. Her face was delicate and familiar, framed by soft chestnut hair, her eyes glimmering with warmth. She was my type, the kind of woman that could hold a man’s heart. A familiar ache settled deep in my chest.

I fought the rising heat, the pulling desire, trying to resist.

Zuccubus’s eyes narrowed as he sensed my faltering will.

“Use it,” he ordered the machine coldly.

Suddenly, one of the mechanical arms slid forward, the knife gleaming in the dim chamber light. Panic surged.

“No! This is stealing!” I gasped, struggling weakly against the restraints.

Before I could react, the blade plunged into my abdomen, just beneath my ribs, near my liver. A sharp, searing pain exploded through me. I gasped, choking on the shock.

The mechanical arm began its slow, deliberate path downward — closer and closer to my groin.

Alex’s voice broke through the torment.

“Do it... just masturbate for Bethany... for your survival,” he begged, his voice trembling with desperation.

My pride screamed in rebellion, but the pain and pressure left me little choice. Shame suffocated me as I obeyed, my hand moving involuntarily. The synthetic hands intensified their grip, forcing compliance.

Warm shame mixed with the metallic tang of blood as I released, my body betraying me in the worst way possible.

And then, the screens shifted again.

Page’s face appeared.

Her eyes — wide, frightened, vulnerable.

The flood of emotions nearly broke me: regret, anger, sorrow.

I barely had the strength to whisper, “No... not you.”

But the images kept coming, relentless, each one clawing deeper into my fractured mind.

The torturous haze clung to my body like a suffocating shroud. Every muscle aches, every nerve screams exhaustion. The relentless assault on my senses had drained me deeper than I’d thought possible. My mind felt fragile, like a cracked mirror threatening to shatter with the slightest pressure.

Zuccubus stepped back from the machines, striding toward the door with a twisted grin. I caught snippets of his voice, cold and cruel as he gathered with his demon brethren in the corridor outside.

“Ha, he will never need Emily again. Sure she's his type, he needs more though... he will never find Emily Eagle again,” Zuccubus sneered.

Emily Eagle. The name struck me like a shard of ice, foreign yet familiar, elusive as a ghost in my fragmented mind. Who was she? Why did that name sting more than any pain I’d endured here?

But there was no time to linger on that mystery. The demons returned, Zuccubus grabbing me by the arm and dragging me through winding corridors until we reached another chamber — stark, sterile, and utterly disorienting.

The walls were smooth and blindingly white, padded like a high-tech asylum designed to contain the most dangerous minds. There were no windows, no light but the soft, diffuse glow embedded in the walls themselves. The silence was deafening.

Before I could process where I was, a cold metal straightjacket slipped over my shoulders and locked tight, restricting my movement like a cage for a wild animal.

“Welcome to the nut house,” Zuccubus hissed, his voice dripping with mocking delight.

Left alone, I sank to the cold floor, head bowed, trapped in the quiet prison of my own thoughts.

At first, I couldn’t tell if I was awake or drifting through a memory — the boundaries between reality and illusion had long since blurred here.

Suddenly, I was a small boy again — no more than ten — at summer camp in Bloomington, Illinois. The sun was hot, and the laughter of other children echoed around me. But instead of feeling joy, I felt terror.

The older girls there, pretty and cruel, had made me their target. Their teasing was relentless, their words sharp knives disguised as jokes. They chased me through the woods, corners forcing me to cower, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

One of them, her voice cold and serious, had threatened to kidnap me — to keep me forever against my will. I could still feel the chill of that threat as if it were whispered in my ear yesterday.

From that day, I learned to hide — to act unappealing, to push away the very affection I secretly craved. I became a ghost among my peers, invisible and unreachable.

But the memory faded, replaced by a sudden, vague recollection of someone else — a face I could almost see, a name I struggled to grasp.

I tried to summon her from the depths of my mind, but it was like grasping at smoke. I couldn’t remember my girlfriend’s face or name. It was maddening.

A soft voice echoed in my mind, fragile and distant. Emily...

Was this the same Emily Eagle that Zuccubus mentioned? Was she the reason I was here, tangled in this web of torment and illusion?

I clenched my teeth, fighting the rising panic.

“No,” I whispered to myself. “I have to remember. I have to find her.”

But the silence swallowed my words.

The white chamber was a prison not only of my body but of my mind. Surrounded by that sterile blankness, I clung desperately to the shards of my memories — but they were fractured, twisted. The good ones, the ones that gave me hope and strength, slipped away like mist in the wind. All that remained was bitterness, resentment, and a gnawing sense of loss that corroded my spirit.

Then the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Madeline Scoggin entered. Her lime green yoga pants clung tight to her lean legs, and the black belly tank top revealed a flat, toned stomach beneath. Her athletic build was undeniable — a predator’s grace in human form. But something about her presence only deepened the hollowness inside me.

I wasn’t blind to the fact she was attractive. I’d been with her more than once in this hellish place. But every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise was a lie that echoed empty through my soul. There was no warmth. No meaning. Just the cold, mechanical grind of lust used as a weapon.

I didn’t believe in God — not in the traditional sense — but I knew there was such a thing as a soul. Something beyond flesh and desire. And in this place, Madeline had no soul. Neither did I.

She approached me, eyes glinting with her usual cruel amusement. “Ready to get to work, sweetheart?” she purred, sliding the straightjacket off with expert hands.

I rubbed my wrists, flexed my fingers. “What’s the plan?” I asked, wary.

“We’re preparing a feast for your friends,” she said with a sly smile, “and I want you to help make it perfect. Maybe this time they’ll feel... satisfied.”

I nodded, knowing refusal wasn’t an option. As much as I hated her, Madeline was the key to survival here. For now.

The dining chamber was a grotesque parody of a banquet hall. Massive tables groaned under heaps of grotesquely oversized food — roasted beasts with eyes still glazed, steaming piles of forbidden fruits, rivers of thick sauces that dripped like poison. The air was thick with the sickly sweet scent of excess.

I found myself in the kitchen area, prepping dishes under the watchful eyes of Demonettes and incubi alike. My hands moved almost on autopilot, slicing, stirring, seasoning — trying to summon some pride from my skill.

When I finally brought the feast to the table, the room filled with hungry voices and delighted murmurs. My friends — broken, defeated — began to eat with an almost ravenous hunger.

Max, bloated and sluggish, gave me a tired smile. “You actually did good, man,” he said between bites.

Even Casey managed a nod of approval, though his eyes remained hollow.

The Demonettes flitted among us like wicked fairies, their laughter tinkling like shattered glass. An incubus named Jose — slimy, slick, and impossibly charming — handed out tiny candies that glittered with unnatural light.

“Try these,” Jose whispered to each of us, voice oily. “They’ll make the emptiness go away.”

I took one hesitantly, feeling the candy melt on my tongue. Almost immediately, a gentle numbness spread through my limbs. The crushing weight of purposelessness began to lift, replaced by a faint, euphoric haze.

“Feels good,” Evelen murmured. Brody's blond haired sister. Her eyes were glazed. “Like a warm blanket for your brain.”

But as I watched them all, savoring the numbing sweetness, something inside me recoiled. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t living. It was a cage — gilded with pleasure but locked tight with chains.

I looked down at my hands, trembling slightly. Cooking was a gift — a talent I’d once cherished. But here, it felt like just another distraction, another trick to keep us sedated in this nightmare.

“This isn’t right,” I whispered to myself. “I’m not meant to be this... this puppet.”

Madeline caught my eye from across the room, her smile razor-sharp. “Enjoy your little feast, warrior,” she said. “It won’t last long.”

I clenched my jaw, knowing she was right. This place was a prison of pleasures that only chained us tighter. And no matter how many feasts I cooked or candies I took, the emptiness inside would never be filled — not until I escaped. Not until I remember everything.

I still remember my name, date of birth, places I lived in. But I have forgotten something extremely important… I needed to figure out what it was.

---

CHAPTER 6: "OBSESSION IS POSSESSION" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"