It's always there. He is always there. His hand around her throat, her thigh. His name in her memories like a droning hum she can't block out.

Michael.

His eyes are white, devoid of colour except for the black dots that are his pupils, and she shifts uncomfortably under his harsh unyielding gaze, waiting for him to speak.

He doesn't. Not immediately at least. With his black hair loose and resting on his shoulders, his heavy black leather coat unbuttoned and his lips pursed, Michael is the living embodiment of a nightmare. What he has become is something their own makers could not have dreamt up.

"Tell me," he says. Michael has taken Sammael's place. The Fallen are his and thus their power is his. "Did you feel him fade the night I snapped his neck, the night I tore him apart and scattered his remains across this city?"

Lilith nods but makes no effort to speak. Michael knows the answer is 'yes'. He knows they can feel one another, he knows she felt Sammael die, and yet he chooses to dangle the past in her face regardless.

"Good." Michael crooks his finger in a 'come hither' gesture while he traces the swell of her breasts and the line of her corset with his eyes. Perhaps one day he'll grow tired of this monotonous existence he ekes out while waiting for the Light to send Gabriel, and perhaps he won't. "Because that is what awaits you if you fail me."