Sammail woke in Jester's bed without any memory of lying down there. His head felt heavy and bright at once, as if thoughts were scraping along bone. He raised a hand to his face, steadying his breath.
Someone was resting their head in his lap.
He looked down and found Sylphia. Her black hair spread across him like spilled ink, her face eased into a rare, unguarded peace. Sammail's mouth tilted into a bitter smile.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Outside the window, snow drifted in slow spirals. It wasn't white—nothing in the underworld ever was. The flakes fell black, like ash already dead before touching the ground. Crimson moonlight washed across the city, catching on the wings of pale white crows circling overhead.
Sammail sighed and touched Sylphia's shoulder.
"Sylphia? Are you alright? Hey."
She pressed her face deeper into his lap, shoulders shaking with muffled laughter. Then she lifted her head suddenly.
"Boo."
It should have been familiar. Gentle. Playful.
Something about it rang wrong.
Sammail blinked, startled by the sudden laugh that forced itself out of him—sharp and raw.
Sylphia's skin cracked. Thin lines spread across her cheeks and forehead, fissures under invisible pressure. Small flakes peeled away and fell to the bed. Beneath them, Jester's grin appeared.
"So?" Jester asked. "How was it?"
Sammail turned toward the window. Black snow kept drifting.
"Darker than the snow," he said. "But just as beautiful."
Jester nodded, smug.
"Where is Sylphia? How is she?" Sammail asked.
"She's fine. She tried to stay here and wait for you, but hunger got the best of her. She almost passed out," Jester said lazily.
Sammail's jaw tensed.
"Did the Black God give you a cure for her condition?"
"How do you know about him?" Sammail asked, studying Jester.
"Me and your mother were very close. She talked about him constantly. Usually while we were in bed," Jester said, smirking.
Sammail snorted.
"You never fail to amuse me, Jester."
Jester held out his hand. Sammail took it, and together they stepped into the drifting snow.
They lit cigarettes. Smoke curled through the cold air. Sammail noticed the thin shirt clinging to him, the lack of warmth—the way his chest felt colder than the world around him.
"Sylphia needs to eat a human heart," Sammail said. "If she does, she'll become a complete Fallen angel. Her hunger won't vanish, but it will quiet."
Jester gave him a sideways look.
"And what are you planning to do?"
"It's her choice. Not mine," Sammail exhaled.
Jester laughed softly.
"You're lying."
"Of course I am," Sammail said.
They stared at each other. The silence was heavy, easier to ignore than to speak.
"Fetch black," Sammail said.
"Rotten black color," Jester answered.
A small grin passed between them.
Below, souls wandered the streets—fighting, shouting, clinging to the habits that once made them human.
"We devoured each other," Sammail murmured.
"I know," Jester replied.
"So what does that make me now?" Sammail asked. "Lilith? Or Sammail?"
Jester sat on a snow-coated bench. Sammail remained standing.
"Does it matter? I'll be honest—I don't feel the same lust for you as I did for her."
"You two are alike. If you'd been born a girl, I wouldn't tell the difference," Jester said, scooping black snow and tossing it against Sammail's shirt.
"What was that for?"
"To wake you up. To reality."
"Fuck reality," Sammail muttered.
Jester's laughter faded as he walked away.
Sammail stood alone beneath the drifting snow, cigarette ember glowing. His pulse felt wrong—slow and steady—as if his heart had turned to stone.
Footsteps approached. Sylphia appeared in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, bare feet sinking into snow. Exhaustion bruised her eyes.
"You're awake," she said.
Sammail smiled softly.
"I am."
She stepped closer. Pupils wide, pulsing faintly. Blood lingered on her breath.
"You followed the scent unconsciously," Sammail said.
Sylphia looked down, ashamed. Hunger and self-loathing twisted her expression.
"Why did you stop me back then?"
"Because you asked to be saved," Sammail answered. "Or at least that's what I thought."
Silence stretched between them, colder than snow.
Sammail motioned for her to walk beside him. They moved through drifting flakes.
"Why is everything here the opposite of the surface?" Sylphia asked.
"Because it's honest. And honesty makes this place unlike anything else—hideous and flawed," Sammail said, letting black snow fall through his fingers.
Sylphia's eyes shone beneath the crimson moon.
"So where are we going?"
"To find a human. And cure you," Sammail said.
She stared, confused, but said nothing.
Eventually, they reached the slave market.
Corridors of caged bodies stretched before them—angels trapped by devils, devils by mortals, mortals by both. The nearly naked slaves trembled in the cold, eyes hollow and lifeless.
Sylphia clung to Sammail's back.
"What is this disgusting place? Are you going to sell me?"
"Not yet. Maybe later," he said.
She slapped the back of his head.
They passed a well-known trader who specialized in angels. His eyes widened, then he knelt immediately.
"Your Majesty," he said. "Sin of Corruption."
The market turned toward Sammail in fear.
Sylphia smirked behind him.
"Quite famous, aren't you?"
Sammail forced a polite smile.
"Do I know you? Why kneel? Why announce it?"
The trader hesitated.
"Good sir, did you not come to reclaim your mother's shop?"
Sammail froze.
"My mother… owned a slave trade shop?"
"What?"
"The Sin of Madness said you would return today to inspect the business," the trader stammered.
Sammail laughed sharply. Whispers filled the crowd.
Sylphia tugged at his back.
"Are we really going inside?"
"It's fine. We'll just look around," Sammail said.