Bathed in the unholy black light of Leviathan, the most beloved son of Hell sat. Face in his palms, pins drawing blood from his pale skin, The former Elliot Spencer pondered the meaning of his death.

His 'death'. It was strange, labeling it with such an unfit word. Transformation would be more appropriate. His...awakening? Yes. In life, when he was part of the world above, he was blind to so much, his mind so weak. Now, surrounded by the cold stone walls of the labyrinth, the Former Elliot Spencer was wise beyond imagination, as well as weary.

When he had first tried his hand at the skillful practice of the Cenobytes, the practice of torture...he had been excited. How thrilling it was, hearing those moans of pain and knowing that they were his doing. The language of lamentation was his native tongue now. His power over all others that called the labyrinth their home was invigorating.

Yes, it had all been so delicious in the beginning.

Now, he had fallen into a routine. A bloody, fearsome routine but a routine nonetheless. Slowly, he was beginning to miss small bits and pieces of humanity. Sunrises, sweet foods, summery wind...

Love-making. Yes, there were more than enough Harlots to choose from, but they were cold...full of black sin and wanton desire. Instead of finding their blatant sexuality arousing, he was annoyed by it. Any intimate contact with such filth couldn't be considered love-making.

He wished that he could rid himself of all longings for such things. He wanted to embrace what he was completely, accept Hell and want for nothing. A day in hell was comparable to a lifetime on earth. It had been years since he had solved the puzzle box...

A phantom tug pulled at Hell's son with gentle demand, and so he lowered his hands and stood. Above him, in the living world, someone had opened it, just as he had done.

The former Elliot Spencer started down the nearest hallway, to fulfill his duty.

The room was small and bare, but for a wooden cross that hung above the bed, above the young girl that lay there. Her doe eyes were open, staring at the small, painted box that sat on the nightstand. She had found it that morning, sitting on a shelf in the convent's library and obscured by books.

If it hadn't been so odd-looking, so weightless in her soft hands, it would have stay on that shelf. Instead, she had tucked it in her habit and left the library in a hurry, head hung low in shame. She didn't suppose it actually belonged to anybody, and the layer of dust that had settled upon its smooth surface was evidence of its abandonment.

Sleep, it appeared, was not going to visit her that night. She reached out for the box and wrapped her dainty fingers around it as she sat up, the cotton sheets pulled up to her chest.

Her eyes filled with innocent curiosity, the girl allowed her fingers to explore the smooth surface and slight seams. Her thumb grazed the circular groove that adorned the side and on instinct, traced it all the way around. An electric shock, barely powerful enough to be noticed, traveled through her fingertips. The box was changing.
The girl did not notice the blue light pouring from the door, or the rush of cold air. Her wide eyes were on the box, hands pushing the moving sides into place.

As the final click echoed through the freezing room, as the puzzle was at last solved, she looked up.