Chapter 7
The Devil stood before Johnny Storm, his red eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, look at you. The last ember of defiance in this miserable little pit. You really think you have a chance?"
Johnny clenched his fists, his body igniting in a furious blaze. "You talk too much," he spat before launching himself forward, flames roaring as he struck.
The battle was unlike anything Hell had seen before. Fire met fire, explosions rocked the underworld, and the heat from their clash melted the very ground beneath them. For the first time in an eternity, the Devil faltered. Johnny’s fire was relentless, burning hotter than he had anticipated. It wasn’t just rage fueling him—it was desperation.
And the Devil lost.
He was forced to his knees, panting, his body scorched and wounded. The souls watching from the shadows dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, Johnny could win.
But then, Dice stepped forward.
With a smirk, he wove his illusions, wrapping Johnny in a nightmare of his own making. Fake Susan appeared before him, her spectral face twisted in agony. "Johnny, you left me! You let me die!”
Reed’s voice followed, laced with sorrow. "Johnny… why didn’t you save us?"
Their voices were suffocating. Their eyes, accusing.
Johnny gasped, stepping back, his flames flickering in hesitation. "No… no, this isn't real!" He turned, trying to shut them out, but they only came closer, their voices overlapping, drowning him in grief and guilt.
And that was when the Devil stood again.
Now fully healed, his smile was gone. His amusement, gone. His patience, gone. The flames around him darkened, shifting into something unnatural, something older than time itself. "You burned so brightly, Johnny. But let me show you what real fire feels like."
Hellfire erupted around him. Unlike Johnny’s flames, this fire did not burn—it consumed. The very concept of form, of flesh, of existence melted away under its unbearable heat. Johnny screamed as his bones liquefied, his own fire utterly meaningless against the raw power of the underworld itself.
The souls watching shrank away, unable to look, unable to listen.
And then, silence.
The Devil stood over the last remnants of Johnny Storm, inhaling deeply as he pulled what was left of his soul into himself. But there was no pleasure in it. No satisfaction.
He turned away from the others without a word. His exhaustion was absolute.
Dice watched, his usual grin absent. He didn’t gloat, didn’t tease. He simply followed.
Back in the Devil’s chambers, Dice made sure his lover was comfortable, settling him into bed with a care that no one else would ever witness. The Devil did not speak. Dice did not push him to.
For two whole days, the underworld remained still. The souls whispered, uncertain. The Devil did not rise, did not call, did not gloat over his victory.
And then, on the third day, the Devil opened his eyes once more.
And Hell resumed as it always had.