Solitude, even chosen, will always become a prison if given enough time.

  If filled with enough hate.

  Look now, beyond the limitations of Earthly perception and see a place where manifestation builds worlds upon worlds. Where sacred sight finds the assassin Abaddon, sitting alone in his sanctuary, ruminating in anger and in doubt.

  A singular fractal among many within the vortex of infinite perspectives, known as the Kaleidoscope, displays an ill-defined image. With focus, this image begins to take shape, and as the details sharpen, a picture emerges.

  It is a fortress, massive, constructed from polished black basalt stone. Four towers linked by high battlements. A portcullis raised and bound by immense chains.

  The sky is black and silent, devoid of stars or moon; the only illumination coming from the great torches, affixed midway up each tower. Torches that burn only as long as Abaddon desires. This realm is his vision of authority and dominion. It requires no builders to be maintained, and with a single thought, he can alter any section or stone.

  The throne room is a long and narrow hall, polished black from floor to ceiling. More torches casting yellows and reds across its darkness, lighting the path to the grand seat where the Destroyer awaits.

  There are headstones throughout. Thousands of them. Each engraved with the name of a victim. Trophies gifted by the onyx war-hammer resting to the Demon’s left.

  Here he sits, unmoving upon the great dark dais, arms resting on each side. His tarnished silver boots flat on the floor. Crimson robes spilling out before him like a pool of blood.

  And under the shadows of a hood, his sunken eyes glare.

  Without warning, he raises two long fingers to his pale forehead. The hall begins to fade, replaced by a cyclone of fractals converging upon him. In an instant, he’s surrounded by their infinite number.

  Each lens holding the potential to reveal or transport him to locations on Earth, or in the higher dimensional plane. They rotate and swell like a living tunnel, filling the space with the faint sounds of breaking glass.

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  “Show me the man, Pete Bishop,” Abaddon orders.

  His voice echoes. The Kaleidoscope freezes in an instant, and a single lens leaves the fractal mass expanding and moving toward him. Through it, a scene, as he beholds his target: Pete Bishop, driving down a rural road.

  “Damn the nine circles...?” Murmurs the demonic voyeur.

  He views Pete from behind, as though seated in the back of the vehicle. One of the man’s arms rests on the window while the other grips the steering wheel. There is no music, no passengers. The man is simply... driving.

  And now, for the second time in as many weeks, a mighty Fallen prince, once a glorious, Favored child of the One, stares astounded, at a simple, broken, mortal.

  In all time and beyond, Abaddon has never once failed to Break. Not once a stumbling in his dark work. Yet here is a victim, suffering to be certain, but still with enough strength to operate an automobile.

  “Who is this man?” the demon asks.

  Abaddon recalls the final moments in the Bishop’s apartment, seeing Pete’s Wreath in the bathroom after the hammer fall. He remembers the golden threads spinning chaotic, but never truly unravelling. And now, weeks removed from the attack, that fragile bundle of consciousness still holding. Right there, through the lens, undeniable empirical evidence of supernatural failure.

  Failure that stirs fear within Abaddon’s ancient heart. Fear that climbs to panic, rising toward…

  “Enough!” The Fallen shouts, and just as abruptly as it had appeared, the Kaleidoscope vanishes. The throne room returns; its black stones lit by torchlight. He sinks heavily back into his seat, his scarlet hood falling behind him, revealing his long obsidian hair. “My one task,” he mutters. “If this man can survive, what does that mean? What does it mean for me?”

  And a chilling thought strikes.

  “What fate might Lucifer decide if I can no longer fulfill my task?”

  Instinctively, he tries to banish the fearful thought. To shew it away before it cements itself. Yet as Pete Bishop could attest, there is no line of logic strong enough to bind a disturbing obsession.

  The irony adds an anger to his fear. “No!” He shouts, and his voice reverberates, shaking the entire realm. “I’ll not be denied!”

  His mind starts to race, searching desperately for solutions, and as it does, a strange and frantic idea emerges. A mad notion never to be considered, though even as he fights it, the arrogant assassin senses his terror turning the unthinkable into the inevitable.

  With pride collapsing, and images of his own demise creeping upon him like spiders, Abaddon reluctantly acknowledges the need for…extreme measures.

  “Baal.” He growls, the great hall darkening with his rage.

  “Damned Baal.” His eyes flash. “Has it really come to this?”

  Then, rising again from his throne the Fallen prince summons the Kaleidoscope once more.