"You think a familiar physical form makes us friends? Do you want to be friends? I don't think you'd survive it. Your soul would scream in so much agony you'd wonder how you ever thought physical pain could hurt." Satanachia had utter control over himself, when he was alone. But this? This was passionate fury fed by Gabriel's childish vindictiveness. And the way his eyes flickered between grey and white and black like a staticy television told of the internal struggle between angel and demon. Had the prince had it his way, Syra'd be dead for even thinking to speak to him like she was. And for daring to strike him, he wanted to claim her soul too as his own plaything.<br/><br/>But it would disrupt the precarious power balance between archangel and demon prince, and neither of them was entirely sure what would happen then. Not death. He could exist fine without form, not coming back to Earth. Though Satanachia had become fairly addicted to his power; he didn't want to leave. He did retreat though. Something that was not so much physical, but a sudden abrupt absence of the demon hidden behind the guise. Gabriel half staggered and shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest. It was cold without Satanachia. The kind of cold that was spiritual, a lack of coursing power. He'd be back though, like he always was. "Hey Sy, you think we can go get coffee?"