The prison was quiet, it was 3am — the witching hour. Captain Fisher walked down the brightly lit hallway, his well polished shoes click clacking on the cold marble tile of the floor. When he reached his destination, Cell 624, also known as the Hellhole, he stopped. The Hellhole was a place of extreme punishment, where only the worst were sent. Prisoners were kept in the dark always, and ignored. There were legends of the place, of prisoners slowly going mad; the darkness and solitude obviously didn’t suit everyone.

Fisher opened the door, a screaming creak of protest coming from the ancient rusted hinges. The light from the hallway bulb cast him in silhouette, yet did not penetrate into the cell itself. He cut an imposing figure, all dark planes and angles with his perfectly fitted and creased uniform. The occupant was barely visible, crouched over in the far corner with his back to Fisher.

“Time to go” said Fisher.

“Don’t want to” the inmate replied.

“What makes you think you have a choice? You know who I am” retorted Fisher.

The figure stirred.

“Oh I do, I do I do know who you are. Captain Bobby Fisher, I thinks I’ll stay right here. Far far away, far far away from you… Safe here, safe here. I knows you, I knows you too well. You’s the devil, Mr. Fisher, and I ain’t coming with you nowhere.”

Fisher’s lips twitched, and moved upward in a cruel smile.

The door closed, slamming shut in a tone of finality. Darkness returned, and the inmate let out a long held breath.

Safe, for now.

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