They sit in the dark. It is thick around them, but people such as they are do not need the light.

A paw is pressing down on the gaunt old man's stomach. The paw is heavy, formed like a wolf's but clawed like a great hunting cat's. The toes are spread and so the five claws curl out and dent the old man's skin. It does not break the skin - perhaps it can't. His old flesh gathers loosely like cloth, folds working under the paw.

The leonine paw flexes and the silence breaks with a low rasp. It's the sound of metal on bone, the sound of a damned soul resisting torture for the first time in its life. It's a death rattle.

Kronos smiles faintly at the noise, reaching up to stroke Asmodeus's ears. The sound of his old cracked nails on the Djinn's fur is a hiss like wet sand being poured evenly down. Asmodeus's eyes are thin slits of contentment in his face.

"Good boy," Kronos whispers. He strokes in a short, regular rhythm, the ticking of clocks. "Good boy."

Asmodeus continues to purr, in the darkness where nobody hears, and caring doesn't matter.