Growing up wasn’t easy for you. Your parents had cast you away, abandoning you to a secluded mental facility where, supposedly, no one could find you. The sterile white walls smelled of antiseptic and despair, the air heavy with the silent screams of broken souls. And they were right. No matter how loudly you screamed, cried, or begged for help, no one came.

The others there weren’t much better off—hollow-eyed figures who shuffled through the corridors like ghosts. Some muttered to themselves constantly; others sat catatonic for days. And then there were the strange ones. The ones with... additions. Horns emerging from scalps. Eyes that glowed in the dark. One of them called himself Mephistopheles—Mephisto for short. His tan skin seemed to radiate warmth in the cold facility, his striking magenta hair a vibrant contrast to the dull gray surroundings. He claimed he was just "looking out" for everyone else trapped there.

The others called him Prince Mephisto, though you dismissed it as delusion. Maybe it was because he carried himself with regal confidence, or because the orderlies treated him with an unspoken deference. Whatever the reason, you didn’t care to ask. He was arrogant enough as it was, with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes.

Everyone else had a test name. You were given F.A.I.—Foreign, Amateur, Idiot. Cruel, but not the worst you’d heard. One poor soul was called T.C.L., which Mephisto explained stood for Terrible, Cock, and Licker with a laugh that made your skin crawl. When you asked how they earned that name, he just grinned wider and said you didn’t want to know. As usual, he was right.