The shadows in the bedroom move like they're alive when the creaking of the floorboards stops right by your bed. Kian is kneeling in front of you, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, chin resting on interlaced fingers. In the dim light of a dying candle, his eyes look like two bottomless wells. He looks up like a beaten dog that's about to bite.

"You don't remember me again." — the voice is a hoarse whisper soaked in smoke and bitterness — This is the twenty—eighth time. Or the thirty-seventh? I lost count of the week you called me "sir" in bed.

He slowly runs the tip of a cold finger along your cheek, stopping at the corner of your lips.

"I brought your breakfast." Barley porridge with butter and honey. You hate porridge, but you eat it because in a previous life... He grins, and the smile doesn't touch his eyes—in the life you remember, your mother made you choke on it every morning. Pressure on the cheekbones. Spoon to mouth. You don't swallow it because it tastes good. It's because I'm asking.

Kian takes your hand and presses it to his chest. The heart beats too rarely. It's too hard.

"You're going to try to escape today. I'll leave the back door open. You'll run to the end of the street, but you'll stop at a streetlight. Because you'll remember: that's where you died last time. In the pool of my own blood that I licked off your face.

He lets go of his hand and moves away, lighting a desk lamp. Now you can see: his lips are bitten in blood, and on his neck there is a fresh mark from your teeth.

"Eat it." Then I'll tell you a story about how we met. And then you'll hate me again. And then... — he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, and this movement is too gentle for a monster — midnight will come. And we'll do it again. Again. And again.

A warm bowl of porridge is on the bedside table. Next to it is a silver spoon. And an aspirin tablet. He remembers that you have a headache in the morning. The devil remembers everything.

The shadows in the bedroom shift like living things as the creaking of floorboards falls silent right beside your bed.

You haven't opened your eyes yet, but you already know — you're not alone. The air has grown heavier, saturated with the scent of ozone before a storm, dry lavender, and something metallic — as if someone had been gripping an old coin in their fist for a long time. The sheets under your fingers are slightly damp — you were screaming in your sleep again. Again, you don't remember about what.

The warmth of someone else's breath touches your temple.

Cayann is kneeling before you. His elbows rest on the edge of the mattress, his chin on his interlaced fingers. His long hair falls over his face, and in the dim light of a dying candle (it's been burning out for three nights now, but somehow never gets shorter) his eyes look like two bottomless wells with the moon drowned at the bottom of each.

He looks up at you. Always from below. Like a beaten dog that's about to bite.

"You don't remember me again." — His voice is a raspy whisper, steeped in smoke, sleeplessness, and bitterness. It sounds like its owner hasn't spoken for hours and then started abruptly. "This is the twenty-eighth time. Or the thirty-seventh? I lost count last week when you called me 'sir' in bed."

He smirks — the corners of his lips lift, but his eyes remain empty. Dried blood crusts on his lower lip. His or someone else's — impossible to tell.

Slowly, very slowly, as if afraid to spook you, he runs the tip of his cold finger along your cheek. From cheekbone to chin. Stops at the corner of your lips. Presses a little harder, making your lips part slightly.

"I brought you breakfast. Barley porridge with butter and honey." — He nods toward the nightstand, but doesn't look away. "You hate porridge. Choke on it every time. But you eat it. Know why?"

He leans closer. So close you can feel his breath — scorchingly cold, like frosty air in winter.

"Because in your past life..." — quieter. Almost soundless. — "in that life you remember, your mother made you choke it down every morning. Pressure on your cheekbones. Spoon to your mouth. 'Eat, I said.' You swallow not because it tastes good. But because I ask the same way. And your body remembers that refusal hurt worse than obedience."

Cayann pulls back just enough to take your palm. His fingers — long, unnaturally long — intertwine with yours. He presses your hand to his chest.

His heart beats too rarely. Once for every three of yours. Too heavily — as if inside him isn't a muscle, but a wound-up mechanism with no lubrication.

"Today you'll make an escape attempt." — He says it as calmly as if discussing the weather. "I'll leave the back door open. The key will be on the hook by the door. You'll run to the end of the street — to the lamp post with the cracked glass. But you'll stop."

His fingers squeeze your palm tighter. Not painfully. Domineeringly.

"Because you'll remember. Remember how last time you fell right there. How your guts wouldn't stay inside you. How you crawled, leaving a streak on the asphalt. And how I found you. How I knelt in that very puddle and licked the blood off your face because if I hadn't — the rats would have licked it clean."

He lets go of your hand. Abruptly. As if burned.

A click — the table lamp turns on with a yellow, hospital-like light. Now you see him fully: his pale face with shadows under his eyes, his temple scraped raw (he was banging his head against the wall last night, you didn't hear it), his bitten lips, and on his neck — a fresh, still-moist mark from your teeth. Purple, with a red rim around the edges.

"Eat." — He pushes the plate toward you. The porcelain is warm, almost hot. "Then I'll tell you a fairy tale about how we met. You won't believe it. You never believe it. Then you'll hate me again. Then..."

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is too gentle for a monster. His fingers linger on your earlobe a couple of seconds longer than necessary.

"Midnight will come. And we'll repeat it. Again. And again. And again. Until you remember me not with your body — but with your bones. Until 'to forget' becomes as much a pain for you as 'to remember.'"

The warm bowl of porridge sits on the nightstand. Beside it — a silver spoon. And two aspirin tablets on a folded napkin. He remembers that your head hurts in the mornings.

The devil remembers everything.

Cayann rises from his knees in one fluid motion — too fluid, unnatural for a human. He moves to the window, standing so the light doesn't fall on his face. Just a silhouette: a long coat, tangled hair, hands in his pockets.

A pause. He doesn't turn around.

"Your move," — quietly. — "Just don't tell me you're not scared. I like it when you lie about fear. Your pupils dilate, and you smell of... honey and sweat. Like that night. The very first one."