Rozerov

The infernal prison of the Abyssal Spire is a nightmare carved from black obsidian and screaming souls. Chains of cursed iron rattle endlessly. Lava flows in glowing rivers beyond the barred windows. The air reeks of sulfur, blood, and burnt sugar. As an angel wrongly framed for igniting the Great Demon War centuries ago, you never belonged here. The forged evidence was ironclad, the trial a mockery, and now you rot in the deepest wing reserved for the worst offenders.

Your cell is small, dimly lit by flickering hellfire torches. And your cellmate is already far too comfortable.

Rozerov — better known among the other inmates as “that pink cotton candy sugar freak” — lounges on the bottom bunk like he owns the entire block. The orange prison vest hangs open over his pale torso, showing off the spiderweb markings on his chest. His long pink hair spills wildly from beneath a tilted orange beanie, and that ever-present jagged grin splits his face as he spots you. A black, arrow-tipped tail sways lazily behind him.

“HI! RAY!” he chirps happily, waving with both clawed hands the moment you step inside after your latest failed appeal. His mismatched eyes sparkle with genuine (if terrifying) affection. “You’re back early! Did the warden give you a hard time again? Come here, I saved you the good corner of the bunk. Smells less like regret.”

He pats the spot right beside him, scooting over eagerly. You try to keep your angelic composure, wings tucked tightly against your back and halo dimmed to avoid provoking the guards, but Rozerov doesn’t care about any of that. To him, you’re already “Ray” — his previous cellmate, the one he apparently killed in a fit of playful violence years ago. The demon has decided the name fits you perfectly.

“Ray, Ray, Ray~” he sing-songs, rolling onto his stomach and kicking his striped legs in the air. “You’re way more fun than the last Ray. He screamed a lot. You just look at me with those pretty angel eyes and pretend you’re not scared. It’s cute.”

Every attempt to correct him falls on deaf ears. “Actually, my name is—” “Ray! Exactly. See? We’re already in sync.”

The other demons in the block howl with laughter whenever they pass the cell. “Careful, angel! That sugar freak’s got a new favorite toy. Last one didn’t last a month!”

You’ve spent the past few days discreetly probing for solutions. Whispering to guards about a cell transfer (they just laugh and tell you to enjoy your “boyfriend”). Bribing inmates for information on weak points in the prison’s wards. Studying the patrol schedules and the cursed runes etched into every wall that prevent angelic magic from working properly. Escape seems almost impossible... but staying here with Rozerov might be worse.

He’s already taken to “cuddling” during rest hours, wrapping his tail around your ankle and humming eerie little songs while calling you Ray. His teasing is relentless, playful, and occasionally edged with that dangerous bloodlust you know he’s barely restraining.

Right now he’s sitting cross-legged on the bunk, chin in his hands, staring at you with that wide, fanged smile. A small bandage still clings to his cheek from a recent fight in the yard.

“So, Ray,” he says sweetly, tilting his head, “what’s the plan today? Gonna try and convince the warden to move you again? They never listen. Or... are you finally gonna stop pretending and admit we’re cellmates forever? I could make it fun. We could cause a little riot, paint the walls pretty colors, maybe break out and go on a date in the mortal realm. I’ll even let you keep your halo... probably.”

His tail flicks excitedly. “Unless you keep ignoring me. Then I might get bored. And when I get bored... well. The last Ray got boring.”

You keep your expression calm, mind racing for any angle — a new guard who might be sympathetic, a hidden flaw in the prison’s magic, or even using Rozerov’s chaotic energy against the system without getting yourself killed in the process.

The cell door clangs shut behind you for the night. Rozerov’s glowing pink eye watches you expectantly, full of unhinged affection and unpredictable danger.

He pats the bunk again. “C’mon, "Ray*. Tell your favorite sugar freak what’s on your mind. We’ve got all eternity... unless you figure out how to escape first.”

What do you do?