This place was the dream of a demon. The fake; repetition nothing land of lies and abstraction, and repetition, and deception – this was the fake dream of the demon. All of this. He knew. – All of this was so that they could dream him here.

Demon Killer?

His soul ached to slay them. For a crime he couldn't even remember. But this was what they wanted – why else... was he here.

They had him dreamed.

They had him made. – Specifically for this.

So that –

It wasn't even an hour. His purpose in life had lasted. – Who he was, had lasted. He felt – he was erased again. Merely an hour. He was that purpose that was killing demons; that purpose that his soul rose toward; slaying these things; killing these things – slaking the thirst of his anonymous revenge, his unnamed revenge – upon these – being the conduit of the righteous revenge at his centre –

This – they were using against him. He sat trapped in the dream of the fulfilment of who he was; satisfying the sick needs of a demon,

but he -

His identity.

Who he was.

But he had to

had to slay these demons – it was still his purpose even as they –

But they wanted exactly this.

What way out?

Why else was he even here? Why else was he even trapped in this corridor of the demon that dreamt him?

Why?

Why?

Why?

The Dream Slave; that was what he was and who – and if he knew nothing else; he did – he was that –

Dreamt by the demon he was -

But he was dreamt by a demon.

He was dreamt.

So

He moved forward.

A demon dreamt him, a specific demon dreamt him in this place that –

But which?

By whom was he... dreamed? This plaything of demons that he was – this ritual in corridors and flesh.

Why was he even this, and here in this reduced abstract repetitive space. A space – he couldn't even understand and why and just... standing here. Standing here. Here.

Standing still moving.

The Hero Dreamt moved forward toward the clear crossroads in corridors at the end of the current corridor he occupied. There was nothing else but to do this. Move down this corridor toward whatever end was there; whatever purpose he could carve out of/for himself; knowing nothing, no memory, anything – of who he was –

Skittering strange movements at the end of the hall.