When the radio demon loves

Chapter 3 (A slave)

(Normal pov)

The halls of Lucifer's grand palace, once filled with the echo of his commanding presence, now stood eerily silent. The King of Hell had been reduced to a shell of his former self, his power slowly stripped away by Alastor's unrelenting cruelty. What had started as psychological manipulation and moments of rage had spiraled into something much darker—something far more brutal.

Alastor's abuse had worsened to the point where Lucifer often found himself unable to move, paralyzed by pain. His body, once strong and untouchable, was now littered with bruises and scars, remnants of the Radio Demon's increasingly violent attacks. Every blow, every strike, seemed to push Lucifer deeper into submission, until he was no longer a king but a prisoner within his own walls.

One night, after yet another vicious beating, Lucifer lay on the cold marble floor of his grand chamber, unable to rise. His ribs screamed with pain, each breath a struggle. His vision blurred, and he could barely make out the shattered glass scattered around him—Alastor's doing, of course, after he'd hurled a wine glass in one of his fits of rage.

Lucifer tried to lift himself, but his body wouldn't respond. It felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from him, leaving him helpless, broken. His once-grand wings, black and powerful, now lay crumpled beneath him, too weak to lift him from the ground. He stared at the ceiling, his mind clouded with exhaustion and despair.

Alastor stood over him, his ever-present grin widening as he looked down at Lucifer's fallen form. There was no hint of regret, no sign of guilt. Instead, there was only satisfaction.

"Look at you, Lucifer," Alastor said, his voice dripping with mockery. "The mighty ruler of Hell, brought low by his own weakness." He knelt beside Lucifer, his fingers brushing against Lucifer's cheek, the touch deceptively gentle. "Is this what you've become? A helpless little thing, begging for my mercy?"

Lucifer clenched his teeth, trying to summon the energy to speak, to resist, but the pain was too much. He felt like a slave in his own castle, bound not by chains but by fear, trapped by the knowledge that there was no escape from this hell Alastor had created for him.

The castle, once a symbol of his absolute authority, had become a cage. Alastor dictated everything now. Where Lucifer went, who he saw, even what he ate. He controlled every aspect of Lucifer's life, stripping him of his autonomy, reducing him to little more than a servant. Worse still, Alastor took pleasure in forcing Lucifer to submit to these small humiliations, reminding him daily of how far he had fallen.

"Get up," Alastor said, his voice taking on a cruel edge. "Or are you too weak, too broken to stand on your own two feet?"

Lucifer's pride, though shattered, still flickered somewhere deep within him, urging him to rise, to fight back. But his body betrayed him, trembling as he attempted to push himself off the floor. The agony in his ribs forced him back down, and he could do nothing but lay there, his breathing ragged, his heart heavy with shame.

Alastor laughed softly, the sound cold and hollow in the vast room. "I told you before, Lucifer. You're nothing without me. You need me to keep you in line, to remind you of your place. Without me, you're just... pathetic."

Lucifer's mind screamed in protest, but his body remained still. He hated how much power Alastor had over him, hated that he couldn't fight back the way he once could. His once-formidable presence had been eroded by the constant barrage of violence and degradation. He had become a slave to Alastor's whims, his every move dictated by the Radio Demon's sadistic desires.

Days blurred together in a haze of pain and fear. There were moments when Lucifer considered ending it all, just to escape the torment, to free himself from the nightmare he found himself trapped in. But even that thought terrified him. He was Lucifer Morningstar, the King of Hell—how had it come to this? How had he allowed himself to be reduced to such a state?

The truth was bitter and unrelenting: Alastor had destroyed him from the inside out.

Every time Lucifer tried to assert himself, tried to reclaim even a shred of his former power, Alastor would strike him down, reminding him that he was no longer in control. The Radio Demon's punishment was always swift and brutal, leaving Lucifer broken and bleeding, sometimes too weak to even crawl back to his bed.

Lucifer had become a ghost in his own castle. The once-grand throne room, where he had ruled over Hell with an iron fist, was now a place he avoided. He couldn't bear to sit on that throne, to face the reality that he was no longer worthy of it. Alastor, with his endless cruelty, had made sure of that.

The servants, the demons who had once bowed to him in fear and respect, now pitied him. He could see it in their eyes when they passed him in the halls, their gazes quickly averting as if they couldn't bear to witness what he had become. No one dared intervene. They feared Alastor too much, and Lucifer—once feared, once revered—was now a powerless figure, unable to protect even himself.

As the abuse grew worse, Lucifer's world shrank. He stopped speaking to anyone outside of Alastor, stopped making decisions about his own kingdom. Everything that had once been his had been stripped away, piece by piece, until all that remained was the empty shell of a king who no longer ruled.

Alastor was relentless in his torment. On the nights when Lucifer couldn't move, when the pain left him immobilized, Alastor would sit beside him, whispering dark, twisted things into his ear.

"You deserve this," Alastor would say, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "This is who you are now. A slave. My slave. No one will ever come to save you. No one cares about you anymore, Lucifer."

Lucifer wanted to deny it, wanted to scream that it wasn't true. But the isolation, the pain, and the sheer hopelessness of his situation made it hard to argue. He had lost everything—his power, his dignity, his identity. Alastor had taken it all, and Lucifer, once the embodiment of pride, was now nothing more than a broken man, trapped in a cycle of abuse he couldn't escape.

And the worst part? Deep down, Lucifer feared that Alastor was right. He was alone.

End of chapter