## Emil POV The night after our one-on-one meetings with Duke Egelon, I had a dream. I was back in the driver’s seat of a rally car—not the Lancia 037 that took my life, but a Subaru Impreza, the rising star of rallying that debuted on the scene a few years after my death. The world outside was endless shades of green cast in a mist of rain. Dangerous conditions, but I was at peace; I was not in a race, just driving along a normal highway. There was a blob of black fur lying curled up on the dashboard—a blob that woke up, yawned, and did a big stretch. I looked into its narrowed gray eyes, and a sense of familiarity washed over me. The next moment I was wide awake, alerted by a peculiar noise coming from the direction of the storage room. It sounded like something was clawing at the walls. Having registered that I was a dead man resting in the break room of a devil’s diner, not a soldier in a war zone, I initially wanted to go back to sleep. But the scratching wouldn’t stop. I stood up groggily and dragged myself toward the source of the noise. It turned out to be Isha, the ancient goddess whose powers were restrained, clawing the back of a broom closet that I didn’t recall being there. I chatted with her, and gradually put the pieces together: this broom closet was what remained of the arcane storage facility Isha summoned earlier in the day. Egelon became aware of this act of transgression, reprimanded her, and disabled the occult magic sustaining the space, shrinking it into a common broom closet. Her attempt at escape thwarted, Isha was deeply frustrated. She questioned me on why I wasn’t actively trying to undo my own state of confinement, and I found it quite difficult to explain to her, how it felt to look outside the window and sense that this world was not meant for me—not anymore, and perhaps never had been. What would I do with myself, even if I were to get out? On my own, with no one to protect, no one to kill. No legal documentation, forged or otherwise, that would allow me to get anywhere or achieve anything. Under the broad daylight, everything appeared drab and overdone, even the shining chrome of the cars on the road, for they were nothing but vessels for getting from point A to point B, not inspired creations meant to be pushed to their limits, in speed or in maneuverability… In the end I just said that maybe staying put in a modest place like this was exactly what I needed for now. Isha somewhat scoffed at me, and tried to break out of the diner building by rushing out of the backdoor she just swung open, only to run face first into an invisible force field that sent her flying back and stumbling onto the floor. I tried my best at appeasing her by noncommittally saying that surely one day she would have control of all her powers again, and then she’d be able to get all of us contracted diner employees out of here. She mumbled something along the line of “Yes… Me and all my servants…” before falling asleep from exhaustion, right there on the floor, curled up like a kitten. I got to know her recent past a bit better in the days that followed. She was born—reincarnated, perhaps—into her current form about twenty years ago, and had yet to regain the true essence of her power. Before coming here to Deviled Egg, she worked at Miss Munchies, the ubiquitous fast food chain store that I only realized was owned and operated by Hellish entities after my death. Apparently, the corporate at Miss M had zero regard for worker rights, and used some sort of devil magic to strip employees of their autonomy, turning them into mindless units on a burger-assembling conveyer belt. This explained her desperate mentality: what if she were to be put into that sort of situation again? I doubt Duke Egelon would ever convert his business model to that of Miss M’s, though. Shady as he is, the machine-like optimization devoid of human touches at Miss M does not seem to be what he wants in his enterprise. In the meantime, I told Isha more about motorsports—from the raw speed, finesse, and unpredictability of Formula One, to the sheer passion, experimentation, and brutality of Group B. I remember her showing some interest during her first day here, when I was looking up F1 qualifying results on my phone. I had since resolved to nurture that interest, however little or misguided it might be. It appeared to be working, to an extent: I spotted her watching video clips of races and award ceremonies a few times, though she seemed more taken by the cheering of the crowd rather than the roaring of the engines. Sometimes I would wonder, whether it was the old god or the young girl in her that so desired the adoration.