Overlord City. In the most heavily guarded prison under the Demon Race’s watch.

A black-haired girl hung on a cross, a shadow pinned to stone.

Heavy black chains coiled on her limbs like iron serpents.

She was clearly unconscious, adrift like a leaf in dark water.

In the mist-lit chamber of her subconscious, two figures faced each other.

Birand, whose heart was crushed by the Demon King’s sneak attack, now drifted as a blue soul, cold as deep sea glow.

Opposite him, a soul with a gray sheen, almost his twin, peered about like a lost traveler in fog.

Time drifted; their stare held like sand refusing to fall in an hourglass.

Feeling the shift, Birand spoke with regret and relief, a tremor under his words. “Hey. Tell me—did I die under the Demon King’s grasp? Is that why you showed up?”

“…No… I can feel it. You’re me, but something’s off.” The gray silhouette answered sideways, thought snagging like a hook in dark water.

“Hey? At least answer me.” Birand gave a bitter smile, a crack in ice.

“Ah. Sorry, I zoned out.” The gray figure waved, like a reed in wind.

“Okay, put it like this—you’re neither dead nor alive.” The gray figure said.

Birand raised a brow. “Huh?”

“Mmm… I don’t know how to say it. Someone changed something, so I came early.” The gray figure’s voice was a low ripple.

“I don’t have thoughts of my own. Right now I’m a reflection cast on you. Haven’t you noticed I’m almost exactly you?”

Birand tilted his head, humor sparking. “…Forget the messy stuff. So I’m not dead, not alive? Then what am I?”

“Mmm, like when you came from your original world to this one. That state. Between doors.” The gray figure nodded, like a lantern bobbing on a quiet river.

“…Oh boy. Feels like bad news.” Birand rubbed his temple, storm gathering behind his eyes.

“Mmm… I can roughly sense this—if you want out, the key sits with me.”

“Uh-huh. Got anything to say? Or are we just going to stare forever?” Birand’s grin turned fox-bright.

“…Suddenly I feel landing in you is tragic.” The gray figure palmed his forehead, a weary moon.

“Hey, do you have a name?” Birand smiled, mischief like sparks.

The gray figure froze. “I sprang from starlight. I speak and think because of you. How could I have a name?”

“Then I’ll name you.” Birand’s eyes lit like fireflies.

“Ah… oh. Fine. Let’s hear it?” The gray figure smiled back, soft as dusk.

“Since you had nothing before you showed up in me…” Birand’s gaze rolled, gears ticking.

“I’ll call you Eli. How’s that?” Birand grinned, a blade flashing.

“…Eli, huh. Okay. Then…”

“Oh, and your surname—Ostol. How about that?” Birand leaned in, eyes bright as a comet.

“Uh—don’t get so close. The name’s fine, okay? Fine.” The gray figure sighed, wind through pine.

“Heh. In that case, happy cooperation.” Birand’s grin stayed wicked.

“Huh?” Eli blinked, rain on stone.

“You babbled enough for me to know how to ‘come back.’” Birand said, calm like a drawn bow.

“Huh?”

“Come on, shake on it. Then I’ll explain.” Birand kept that signature grin, a cat by cream.

“Oh… okay.” Eli reached out on instinct, hand like a pale ripple.

Birand reached too, his touch a spark.

When the two souls met, their clasped hands pulled them together, gravity blooming between stars.

In the end, gray and blue fused, a whirlpool settling.

Time stretched, then stilled, like dust after a storm.

The blue-gray figure looked at his hands, listening to silence. “Am I… Eli?”

…………………………………………

Pandora cleaned his wounds the simple way, then slept one night, the dark stitched like a cloak around him.

All night he couldn’t wait; hunger gnawed like a wolf. He wanted his nemesis ruined and ragged.

She’d turned into a human girl for some reason, but a nemesis was a nemesis, mask or face.

Pandora’s mouth crooked. “Hero, you can’t imagine how bad your days are about to get.”

He came to where the Hero was held. Seeing her locked to a cross, relief rolled through him like a warm tide.

After so many times, he’d finally caught this one.

He ordered the guards to take the Hero down from the cross, voice a cold blade.

Then Pandora lifted the Hero by one arm, drawing her close like a fallen kite reclaimed by the wind.

The Hero was limp, consciousness drained like water from a cup.

Pandora frowned, then braced her with one arm, cradling her like a possession.

His other hand swept aside. Space rippled; a portal yawned open like a black iris.

He reached in and pulled out a collar custom-made by the Fallen Angels, metal gleaming like frost.

Pandora, savoring a flicker of delight, locked the collar around the neck of the girl the Hero had become.

“Heh. Hero, obey me. Learn to be a proper servant.”

He watched her like a predator watching prey finally breathe.

In that instant, the blue-gray soul slipped back into the body, a river finding its bed.

The Hero pressed her lips together, rubbed her eyes, and woke slowly, dawn uncurling.

Then she saw herself leaning against Pandora’s chest, heat and iron both.

The Hero: “……”

Pandora met those pale-blue eyes and blinked; joy wiped his tongue clean like wind over a slate.

He tugged a smile. “Yo, Hero. Be my slave.”

“I—gross! You pervert!!!”

She whipped around and slapped, thunder in a small hand.

Smack!