The dream world twisted like a melted clock. Reality breathed — but wrong.
Metatron ran through endless corridors that never began, never ended. Every door led to another version of himself dying — one burnt, one drowning, one laughing hysterically in an empty theater while an audience of skeletons clapped.
His voice echoed — fragmented. "Okay… okay, this is fine. Just a dream. I've fought worse… I fought Leviathan for heaven's sake—"
Then the ground spoke.
"You are not welcome here."
He screamed. Because the ground had teeth.
Metatron jumped back as the sand formed faces — billions of them — whispering his name like a broken prayer. The stars rearranged themselves into mocking constellations that all spelled one word:
"SLEEP."
In the waking world, his body lay motionless in his apartment. A faint blue glow pulsed around him — celestial energy trying, failing, to awaken him.
And in the shadows… a figure appeared.
Azazel.Dressed like sin wearing a smile.
He traced his claws along the wall, admiring the architecture like a realtor about to steal the house. "So this is where the divine lives now. Posters, ramen packets, and socks that defy both gravity and hygiene."
He crouched beside Metatron's sleeping form. "Poor little angel. Even the Almighty can't save you in dreams."
His eyes flickered crimson. A small vial floated into his hand — inside, a glowing wisp of golden light: a fragment of Metatron's essence.
"The dream realm weakens him," Azazel murmured. "Perfect. All I need is a little… extraction."
He pressed the vial against Metatron's skin — and the room shuddered as divine energy bled into the glass. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Just enough to build something terrible."
But back in the dream world…
Metatron stumbled through an infinite meadow where colors bled wrong — red grass, blue fire, clouds that hummed like broken machines.He looked behind him — the sky itself was chasing him now, folding into a funnel that devoured everything in its path.
He ran, faster, faster — wings torn, robes burnt — but space itself looped back.He was running in a circle.Through the same pain.Over and over.
And then he heard laughter.
It wasn't evil — it was lazy, almost bored. A voice that sounded like silk and static.
Hypnos appeared. The god of dreams floated upside down, his hair drifting like ink in water, his eyes glowing with sleepy cruelty. "You're so… energetic for someone unconscious."
Metatron shouted, "Let me out of this nightmare!"
Hypnos yawned. "You call this a nightmare? My dear… I'm barely trying."
He snapped his fingers.
The world shifted — now Metatron stood in a classroom. Desks were filled with hundreds of versions of himself — each one staring blankly, drooling. On the chalkboard, written in blood-red chalk:
"WAKE UP OR DIE."
He tried to fly — his wings refused.He tried to summon light — his hands melted into feathers.
The bell rang.Every Metatron clone turned to him and whispered in unison:
"We failed. We always fail."
He ran. Through hallways that spiraled into flesh. Past lockers that screamed when opened. A door appeared — marked EXIT. He burst through—
And fell. Forever.
Meanwhile, Azazel poured himself tea in Metatron's kitchen. The audacity was biblical.
He hummed an old infernal lullaby while examining Metatron's photos on the wall — friends, laughter, memories of peace."Humans always soften their monsters," he murmured. "Even gods forget what they are."
He turned to the sleeping celestial."Let's see what happens when you wake up weaker."
He began drawing sigils on the floor — complex, glowing red, intertwining with faint white remnants of heavenly wards.Opposites clashing — chaos flirting with order.
"Raphael's healing made you whole," he said softly, "but dreams… dreams will make you mine."
The vial pulsed — the fragment of Metatron's essence reacting violently.A small explosion of light — his hair flickered back, face momentarily glowing with divine fury.
Azazel smirked. "Don't resist too much, golden boy. You'll ruin the furniture."
Inside the dream, the torment deepened.
Metatron crawled through a black desert where stars were eyes watching him. Every breath he took birthed another version of himself. Each clone whispered his sins.
"You failed to save them." "You killed the innocent." "You wanted power." "You think Heaven still loves you."
He covered his ears, but the voices were inside his bones. He punched the ground — it screamed. He tried to fly — gravity laughed and pulled him down again.
And then, like a cruel joke, a pink neon sign appeared in the void: "METATRON'S ESCAPE ROOM."
A voice blared through unseen speakers:
"Welcome, contestant! Solve your trauma to win consciousness!"
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" Metatron screamed."Yes," Hypnos said through a megaphone, eating popcorn. "Round one: Identify which of these ten worlds isn't trying to kill you!"
Ten portals appeared. All looked identical. Each emitted a faint hum — except one that purred.
He stepped into the one that purred. Instant regret.
It was a room filled with dragons playing poker — and they all turned to look at him.
One dragon slammed the table. "NEW BLOOD. DEAL HIM IN."
"Wait— what? "Cards materialized in his hands. One of them was labeled 'Your Soul.'
The dragons grinned.
Outside, Azazel's ritual intensified. The sigils crawled up the walls, humming with dark resonance. His tail flicked lazily as he whispered to the air, "Now, little dream god… keep him entertained. I have work to do."
The vial cracked — a surge of divine data, memories, and power poured into a crystal matrix he'd brought from the Underworld.It pulsed with life.Azazel grinned."With this… I can make an army."
He turned toward the sleeping Metatron, whispering mockingly,"You always thought you were untouchable. But even gods bleed when they dream."
Back in the realm of nightmares, the game escalated.
Metatron lost all his poker chips — and his soul card. The dragons cheered, roared, and melted into shadows. He tried to run, but the floor turned to liquid mercury, reflecting his fears. He sank.
And fell again.
Down through memories — the Leviathan's fire, Raphael's light, Lucifer's smirk, humanity's betrayal. Each memory shattered like glass around him.
He landed on a chessboard made of stars. Opposite him, Hypnos sat as the King, sipping cosmic coffee. "You still think you can wake up?" he said lazily. Metatron clenched his fists. "I always wake up." "Not here you don't."
Hypnos moved a pawn. The pawn exploded — a sun ignited, devouring half the board.
Metatron tried to counter, but every move he made rewrote reality against him. His sword turned into a feather. His wings into smoke. The rules changed mid-game.
"See?" Hypnos smiled. "In dreams, omnipotence is relative. And I'm always relative."
He leaned forward."Sleep well, Metatron. You can't die here. You can only… continue."
Back in the real world, Azazel stood over the glowing crystal. It now pulsed with the same rhythm as Metatron's heartbeat. The demon smiled, eyes burning with crimson triumph. "I don't even need to kill him. His own mind will do that for me."
He turned toward the window — the night stretched endless, whispering with infernal winds. Soon, the world would feel the consequences of one sleeping god and one ambitious demon.
Azazel poured himself another cup of tea and whispered to the void:"Sleep tight, Metatron. When you wake up… I'll be the one inside your dreams."