"I don't know much about it. Him." Peter admits. His family were never religious — his father, a psychiatrist and a man of science; his mother, whose side of the family had their own... odd beliefs, rituals. She always seemed afraid of them. Peter never had much interest in looking to anything spiritual.

The name was his mother's choice, and he's wondered before why it was that one.

He's listening with a strange bated breath, afraid to hear the words but needing to all the same. When that shock comes — and Peter blinks, startled no matter how many times he's seen it or felt it happen to himself. Brow knit, he swallows, disturbed by the concept. Visibly disturbed further by the response that finally comes.

".....The Devil," he says after an odd pause, voice barely above a whisper. There are things he could ask, and the man would have to respond honestly — are you the Devil? He's afraid to, doesn't want to. He shudders against Paimon, an ancient ghost that presses its cold fingers up under him, yearning to be closer, to learn more.

Peter's fingers curl into his palms, and he lowers his hands down into his lap. He won't ask if this man is Him, but he at least confirms—

"That's what it means?"