Kadmon stood at the edge of the abyss, watching as the Serpent's form was claimed by the darkness below. His lips curled into a sneer, a faint scoff escaping him as he watched the Flaw of the Universe vanish.
An instinct flared within him to return and tear the darkness of Tahat to rip apart the Serpent once and for all.
The idea that the Serpent—that creature—could ever redeem himself was laughable. A cruel joke that only someone as idealistic as the Creator could believe.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn't stomach the idea.
"Redeem himself?" Kadmon muttered under his breath. His wings twitched behind him as he continued to stare into the void. He found the notion absurd, almost insulting.
For how long was this joke going to last?
The Serpent had done nothing but betray, deceive, and destroy, sowing chaos in his wake like a malevolent storm. And yet, God still entertained the thought that this vile creature, the very embodiment of rebellion, could somehow find his way back to grace.
A bitter laugh escaped him, quiet at first, but it quickly grew, taking on a sharper edge. The irony wasn't lost on him. God, the same being who demanded perfect obedience, who cast down angels and humans alike for even the smallest transgressions, had always held out hope for the Serpent. The same one who had led Eve astray, shattered the peace of Eden, and brought sin into the world.
Kadmon's wings stretched, casting a massive shadow over the dimly lit realm. He spat on the ground, disgust curling in his chest.
"Too optimistic, Old Man. Always were." His voice was thick with disdain. "You really thought a creature like that could change? That somehow, after ten millennia of deceit and destruction, he'd just... see the light?" Repent? He was nothing but a walking catastrophe.
Kadmon clenched his fists at his sides, anger bubbling beneath the surface. How many times had the Serpent been given chances? And how many more times had he spat in God's face? Each time, the consequences had rippled outward, affecting not just the Heaven, but all of creation.
Yet never the Serpent itself.
He flared his wings with a snap, the sheer power behind the movement tearing through the stagnant air. His expression darkened further. For all His wisdom, God had been far too lenient with the Serpent.
"For someone who claims to be omniscient," Kadmon growled, "You sure as hell couldn't see how this was going to end."
His thoughts became a torrent, each one stoking the fire of his anger. Spare the Serpent? Forgive him? For what? So he could find yet another way to screw everything up? This was the pattern. It had always been the pattern. The Serpent made a mess, and everyone else—Adam, Eve, their children—got caught in the crossfire, paying for sins that weren't even their own.
His glared at the spot where the Flaw had been claimed, every inch of his being wished to ignore the old man's naiveté and deal with the Serpent himself. Once and for all.
Kadmon's teeth ground together as he flexed his hands, the rage building. "How many more times are you going to let this happen, huh? How many more times are we going to clean up his mess?"
His wings beat the air, and he shot upward, tearing through the Four Worlds of Tahat as though they were nothing but paper in his path. tens of thousands o f kilometers crossed with a each flap. Each layer peeled away before him, the force of his ascension too great for the fragile boundaries of this realm to withstand. As he burst through them, one after another, his anger only grew.
"You're too damn merciful!" Kadmon snarled, the wind whipping around him as he climbed higher. "Too soft! Too forgiving! And for what? So we can all suffer the consequences of your mistakes? Again?"
The thought of it all—the Serpent's endless cycle of sin, forgiveness, and destruction—only fueled his rage. The Serpent's survival, his continued existence, was a threat. Kadmon knew it.
He could not accept it! How could he when he had no clue what God's so-called test and punishment was? Not that it mattered as any that left the very possibilty of that bastard existing was too damn forgiving!
"You think this time will be different?" Kadmon's voice echoed as he ascended, his wings tearing through the layers of the world. "That somehow, sparing him will work out? It won't. It never does."
His movements, at first calm, grew more forceful with each flap of his wings. Twelve wings beat wider as one as he burst through Shefelah's bounds like a comet. Once more, as he had done in Tahat, the Kadmon anchored their sins and souls to himself. A harsh crack split the air as the flames grew burning inside of him raged hotter.
"This pain—my pain, my children's pain—was it not proof enough?!" Kadmon's voice was ragged. The flames around him roared to life again, this were not the Flames of Judgement of a God protecting the Mistake that should not have been made.
These were the Flames of a man wronged and denied his justice.
Another flap, and Azael's worlds were behind him
"Is it not enough?" He spat, his wings beating faster, stirring the searing heat in a whirl around him. "Every tear, every drop of blood, every death, every curse! How much more must your angels and humans suffer before you realize this is madness?! Are we not your children, too?!"
"And for what?" he continued, his voice shaking. "For the sake of a test? For your twisted sense of Love? Was it not enough to see me brought low—to see my sons cursed, my daughters weep, my bloodline shattered by your so-called Brightest Star?!
Kadmon's fury reached a crescendo, his voice warping as the sheer force of his rage twisted it into something unrecognizable. The sound, once human, now reverberated through the Ten Kelipot of His Hell like a guttural roar, inhuman and monstrous.
His voice wavered, bitter rage mixing with a deeply buried sorrow. "Ten thousand years of suffering. And yet that Serpent, your damn Serpent," he growled, the mention of Lucifer's name sparking another surge of fire. "He will change? He will be redeemed? After everything he's done?!"
Kadmon's fists clenched, shaking with the force of his frustration. "Where was that same leniency for Cain whose retribution came swift? Where was his mercy?!"Where was it for my children? Where were their ten thousand years of grace, of patience, of hope?!"
As he hovered there, shaking with fury, his once majestic wings elongated unnaturally. They cracked under the heat, splitting apart like brittle stone under pressure. The ethereal darkened into a bleeding crimson, shedding their angelic light until they looked like jagged shards of molten rock.
"No, God. You gave it all to him—to the one who ruined everything. And what did we get? What did I get? Condemnation. Punishment. While you sat there, silent... silent as we burned for his sin."
His bones ached, stretched, his form growing larger as the fire twisted his body. His hands curled into claws, the fingers lengthening unnaturally, skin taut and cracking like a shell barely containing the flames that wanted to tear him apart from within.
"Answer me! O all-knowing God!" He raised his hands, Authorities erupting from his fingertips as he hurled his anger into the void. "Is that flaw of his so favored, so beloved, that you doom me and my own just to spare him? That is no mercy. That is no love. That is not how a Father behaves!"
"Why do you let us suffer? Why do you let us bear the weight of this curse while he walks free, with your promise of redemption?" The six eyes on his face, burning with divine light, now radiated only hatred. "Answer me! You who wasted no time making yourself known when I spoke to him! When I told him the truth! But where are you now? Where is your voice now that I call out to you? Now that I demand to know why?!"
The words echoed, unanswered, through the empty void. Kadmon's chest heaved with each ragged breath, his fire beginning to sputter, the inferno flickering but not fading.
Yet still there was no reply. The silence gnawed at him, fueling the flames as they raged, uncontrollably.
"You think I didn't feel it? That you didn't curse my bloodline the moment they fell? Cain's curse was my curse! Abel's death was my death! And you... You let it happen. You allowed all of it! This isn't mercy. This isn't justice. "He repeated as his wings faltered momentarily, the fire dimming, though his anger still burned just beneath the surface. "This is Cowardice! This is you hiding. This is you running from what you did. "
Kadmon's chest heaved as his breath came quicker, the rage bubbling up inside him once more. "You always have so much to say when it suits you, don't you? Always so eager to command when it's convenient—when it's just another demand of praise or another curse to dole out to my progeny. But now? Now, when I demand an answer, you hide in your precious silence."
The words echoed, unanswered, through the empty void.
"Answer me, Coward!" the Demiurge bellowed, his voice breaking through the stillness like a thunderclap. It was heard through All Creation as it echoed in the flesh of the lowly Hell-born, the minds of the Angels, both esteemed and disgraced, and in the soul of Each of Adam's sons and daughters. "Or must I threaten your precious Star for you to crawl out of your hiding to Smite me!?"
The flames that had died down moments ago roared back to life hotter and more violent than ever, swirling around him like a storm as his fury reached its peak.
"Smite me!" He spread his wings and arms and faced the Heavens. "If you dare!"
For an agonizing moment, The Demiurge stood there, suspended in the nothingness, waiting—demanding an answer. His breath came in ragged gasps, the flames reflecting the turmoil within him, flickering brighter with every heartbeat.
But there was nothing.
No retribution for his Hubris to prove him right.
No voice from the heavens.
No divine presence.
Just the empty, suffocating quiet.
The flames slowly dwindled as his rage ebbed, leaving only smoldering embers licking at his form. His chest heaved, breath heavy from the storm that had consumed him moments before.
His rage settled into something else—something deeper, bitterer.
Silence pressed in again, but this time it wasn't suffocating—it was hollow. The quiet mocked him, as though God refused to dignify his anger with an answer.
His mind circled back to the injustice of it all, lingering on the sharp unfairness he'd come to know too well.
He stared at the nothingness around him.
the Lord did not wish to unmake the Mistake that started it all, then how come He did nothing when the Serpent's action forced Adam to slaughter his own year after year?
Were they not God's children too?
Where was the forbearance for the rest of Creation?
Why had they suffered so much, forced to endure pain that should never have been theirs? Cain, condemned for a single act, had borne the weight of his punishment for millennia. Yet the Serpent—treacherous, manipulative—was granted patience, time after time. It made no sense.
Where was the fairness in that? The balance? His children had never been given the same.
God was a fool!
If things had been different—if he'd been the one to shape the universe from the start—
If he'd been the one to cast the judgments and mete out the punishments—
If he'd been the one to decide who deserved mercy and who should face the fire—
If he'd been the one to forge the destinies of the damned and the redeemed—
If he'd been the one to enforce true justice without the flawed compassion of the Old Man—
If he'd been the one to lead his children with an iron will and a heart unburdened by naivety—
If he'd been the one to stand unyielding, unshaken, while the heavens and the earth bowed to his decrees—
None of this would have happened if, from the very beginning, Kadmon had been the One True Go—
The False Demiurge's thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he felt blood pool inside his mouth.
A moment later, pain blossomed in his chest.
He looked down.
There, embedded in the center of his chest, was an arm—his arm—though it looked different, darker, and crystalline, stabbing into the place where his heart should have been.
Without any conscious desire, his fingers curled and grasped harshly at what should have been his heart.
His mind finally caught up with his body.
He closed his eyes in shame.
He'd lost himself again.
"Heh," he let out a snort, filled with humor he didn't feel at the moment. Leave it to the Serpent to make him mad enough to forget himself.
Bastard really had a talent for pissing him off, even when he wasn't in sight.
He focused on the irregularity he felt at his fingertips. It was his heart, yet it felt wrong—hard and cold.
His brows furrowed in confusion.
He pulled his arm out of his caved chest in a shower of dark crimson—not golden—blood, holding something that bore no resemblance to a human heart.
A crystalline transparent sphere containing a dark-purple orb, barely the size of a fig, pulsed with a spectral hue.
He could only stare at it in stupor. What was...?
It looked beautiful, yet what he felt from it was anything but.
A cold shiver snaked down his spine. The sensation of raw wrongness became much more suffocating.
He observed it worriedly and noticed that it wasn't entirely spherical. It had two identical soft curves and protrusions on its top half.
It almost resembled...
"An apple…" he muttered, the realization twisting his insides with deep, unsettling dread.
His senses finally picked up its disgusting, yet all too familiar scent.
The scent of Sin.
The fruit was unmistakable. The shape, the cursed energy emanating from it, the vile familiarity of its presence. It was her apple—the Apple of Sin, the very fruit that had damned them all.
The Fruit of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
He deprived it of its name, reducing it to a █████ before he crushed it, letting the remnants dissolve into nothingness.
To Kadmon's relief, the rage and bitterness that had overtaken him now felt like a distant memory. As his senses returned, he glanced down at his arms. The dark, crystalline flesh that had sprouted moments ago had receded, leaving his skin smooth once more.
The soft, warm blue light emanating from behind him reassured him that his wings had returned to their normal state—whole, serene, and untainted.
But as the tension drained from his body, a gnawing question lingered in his mind.
How could a reflection of that cursed fruit have been there?
His thoughts drifted, trying to make sense of it. That apple—the symbol of their downfall—should have long been banished. The idea that even a shadow of its essence could manifest, let alone within him, sent a ripple of unease through his chest.
residue from the sin of the Adam who ate the Fruit, perhaps?
Kadmon shook his head. The thought gnawed at him, but for now, it was gone. That cursed remnant had been crushed. Still, a bitter aftertaste lingered in his mind. He'd have to remain vigilant, watching for any sign that this corruption might resurface.
No more lapses. No more cracks in his armor. He'd make sure of it.
Kadmon exhaled, feeling the weight of his fury finally slip away, though it left behind a lingering emptiness. He flexed his fingers, testing their movement, still half-expecting the unsettling hardness to return. But no—his flesh remained as it should. Human. Divine. His.
He tilted his head back, staring at the vast nothingness above. The silence, once oppressive, now felt indifferent. There were no answers, no divine response, no retribution. Just... quiet.
The bitterness in his chest still simmered, but the fire had dimmed to embers. That gnawing sense of injustice lingered, though it no longer threatened to consume him wh—
Once more, he stopped.
His eyes widened, instinctively darting to the wings stretched out behind him. Twelve in number, crystalline in appearance, radiating with an ethereal, almost unnatural blue light.
Why did he think of their presence as normal?
His first instinct had been to tear them off when they had appeared. He was certain he had. But there they were—still attached, still glowing. When did he stop tearing them?
Realization struck him as the pull of All Creation pressed down on him once more.
When did his sense of self become so distorted, so entwined with the very things that should have been foreign to him?
When did his humanity start slipping away, replaced by this?
His mind flickered with the rage he felt moments before, but now, it seemed meaningless.
His feelings toward the gods had always been tinged with apathy, a cold indifference that barely flickered, no matter the pantheon.
So why was he raging now? What was this fury that had boiled up from within, aimed at a god of all things?
For the Serpent? Was that truly what he should've been focused on?
How foolish.
Since when had the Serpent's fate become a source of outrage for him? Adam, the first man, had faced greater challenges. The gods, the angels, even his own fall—none of these had broken him.
Since when had the focus shifted from what mattered most—saving his children, guiding them—to petty rage at some snake that had no power without their own foolish choices?
Since when had his rage against the Serpent burned hotter than his rage at himself for not saving Eve?
His Eve—whom he should have saved by now.
Yet just as confusing, he thought to himself.
Since when had Kadmon ceased to be merely a title and become what he thought of himself, instead of Adam?
What sort of man had Adam allowed himself to become?
She sat in the room, cleaned and clothed once again, though weariness and fear weighed heavily on her. She let herself drift into thought, pretending for a moment that nothing else existed. Her room—a notion that nearly made her scoff as if anything truly belonged to her now—was spacious, elegantly adorned, yet modest in its simplicity. Of course, none of it was designed for her. It was for His Children, a place for both comfort and humility. A space to offer security and rest in this purgatory, and in her daughter's Happy Hotel.
And wasn't that a surprise?
How ironic.
A dream she and Lucifer had dismissed, written off as nothing more than a whimsical fantasy born from Charlie's hopeless naïveté. Perhaps that was Lilith's doing—sheltering her from the outside world. But truly, what other option was there when the outside world as barely little more than humanity's worst, Sin incarnate, and debauchery in its purest form?
It should have been like all of Lucifer's other grand schemes—ideas he would abandon halfway through, the spark of enthusiasm dimming from his eyes with each new failure, as she had often likened it. He had even agreed, and deep down, it had enraged her to see what became of him. Reflecting on it, It may have been, perhaps, the last thing Lilith and Lucifer had truly seen eye to eye on in the century before her departure.
And yet, it wasn't.
Her Charlie had made her dream a reality. It was no longer a mere fantasy, not when souls were said to be redeemed, not with Heaven's Archangels and their new God lending their support.
Godhood, he had ascended
Or perhaps the title All-King, as her daughter had told her the angels used, would be more fitting for...Him.
Her equal. That was what she had once, in her naivety, foolishly believed. But the universe had made sure to drive the truth home, time and time again, showing her just how wrong she had been. In status, in honor, in the Almighty's favor—and now, in Power. The oh-so-great All-King reigned unrivaled and unquestioned.
He surpassed her in every conceivable way, in ways she could not deny, no matter how much pride she clung to. Even in something as seemingly trivial as supporting her own daughter's dream, He had proven Himself greater still, while she, her mother, had carelessly cast it aside.
That humiliation stung the deepest.
Equality. Lilith let the word roll through her mind, tasting it like ash. Once, she had believed in it—once, she had dared think she stood beside Him as an equal. How foolish she had been.
And now? Now she was reduced to hiding. In a room within a structure He had erected, on a land He had shaped, on a planet He had fashioned in a Realm He had created. Hiding from Him, and from those who no doubt sought to carry out His will, whether from reverence, greed, or the simple disdain they harbored for her.
Had she truly been reduced to this? Was this all that remained of her—a coward, hiding in a place that wasn't even her own, clinging to borrowed time, haunted by the shadow of her own failures?
She had once ruled Hell, stood defiant in the face of Heaven's decree. But now, she was nothing more than a fugitive in a kingdom that wasn't hers, trapped between fear and regret. The great Lilith, First Woman, Queen of Hell, now cowering like a frightened child in a room not even meant for her.
Lilith's mind drifted, trying to pinpoint when it had all begun to fall apart. Was it the day she was cast out, stripped of everything she once held dear? Or had the unraveling started long before, in the quiet, unspoken moments when she realized that, no matter what He promised, she would never be His equal? His throne was always meant for Him alone. She was nothing more than a footnote in His grand design, a forgotten chapter in a tale written by someone else's hand.
A dry, bitter laugh slipped from her lips. Even now, after all this time, was she still foolish enough to fight against forces so much greater than herself?
She was afraid. But more than that, she was nothing.
The comfort of a plebeian in Heaven had proven far more appealing than the hollow power she once wielded as a ruler in Hell.
What chance did a fallen queen of Hell stand against the might of a King in Heaven? A God who had all but sealed her fate, leaving no question that her retribution would come—and by His own hand. He had already shown her daughter, Charlie, the extent of Lilith's failures, ensuring that the wound cut deeper.
It was almost laughable.
And now, her daughter—her fierce, loyal daughter—was holding her hand, shielding her mother from a judgment too painful to face. Charlie, who had been far more worried about Lilith's safety, despite the sheer hatred and rage that had shaken all of creation earlier, was tending to her cowardly mother.
Charlie, who, upon discovering the truth of all Lilith's lies, still loved her. Loved her fiercely, even now.
Lilith stared at her own hands, trembling, clutched in her daughter's. She had no words. What could she possibly say to the child she had betrayed, over and over? And yet, despite all that, Charlie's love remained.
"I left you," Lilith whispered, barely managing to get the words out. "Your friend, Alastor... he died because of me."
The confession hung in the air like a broken promise. She had spoken the truth, a truth she'd buried deep, hoping it would never come to light. And yet, here it was, laid bare before the one person who had every reason to hate her.
Charlie didn't flinch. Her expression didn't shift, nor did her hand pull away. Instead, she continued to hold her mother's hand, her thumb brushing over Lilith's knuckles with a softness that Lilith couldn't comprehend.
"I wasn't there for you," Lilith continued, her voice cracking. "I should've protected you... him... everything. I failed. I wasn't the mother you deserved. I left you in that world, and yet...like it doesn't matter, you're holding my hand."
Charlie didn't answer. She simply held on tighter, as if her silence was answer enough. As if her presence alone was proof that Lilith's past transgressions, however great, couldn't sever the bond between them. It was infuriating, humbling, and so deeply and painfully...
...Human.
Charlie's expression softened, her eyes shimmering with emotion. "It does matter, Mom," she said quietly. "But I choose to. I choose to hold your hand, to forgive you, even if you can't forgive yourself."
Lilith swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising tide of guilt, but it crashed over her, relentless. She had shielded Charlie from the world, from the cruelty and corruption that had shaped her own fall. And in doing so, she had also lied to her, repeatedly, crafting an illusion that had kept Charlie blissfully unaware of the darker truths lurking beneath. Now those truths were laid bare, and yet her daughter's love hadn't wavered.
But that love—pure, relentless—was a knife in Lilith's chest. It wasn't forgiveness. It was condemnation, dressed in the guise of compassion. Charlie's unwavering loyalty was a reminder of everything Lilith had lost, everything she had failed to be.
"I never wanted you to see me like this," Lilith confessed, her voice thick with the weight of her own inadequacy. "I never wanted you to bear the burden of my failures."
"I don't care about that."Charlie replied. "I just… I just want you here."
Lilith's breath caught in her throat. Here. Even now, after all her failures, her daughter still wanted her. Not Lilith the queen of Hell, not the myth, not the sinner. Just... her.
The shame deepened, twisting in her gut. How could she repay that? How could she stand beside this girl—this woman—who had more strength in her forgiveness than Lilith had ever possessed in her defiance?
"You don't know what you're asking, Charlie," Lilith said, her voice barely holding together. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."
Her body felt heavier now, her breaths more labored, the edges of her vision blurring. She wasn't dying now, but it was coming—soon. Days, maybe. The slow ebbing away of her strength had begun. The cold creeping into her bones.
"I'm not going to make it much longer," Lilith finally admitted, the words trembling on her lips. "I'll be leaving you again."
Her daughter eyes filled with tears, her mask of strength cracking for the first time. She shook her head, gripping Lilith's hand tighter as if that could stop the inevitable. "No... no, you're not."
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clutched Lilith's hand, desperate. "I'll figure something out! I'll fix this, I swear... you won't die, Mom. Not now. Not ever."
Lilith watched her daughter, her heart breaking at the sight. Charlie's voice trembled as she made her promise, thick with emotion. Lilith wished she could believe it. But she knew better.
"I'm sorry," Lilith whispered, her voice barely a rasp. "I'm so sorry."
Charlie cried harder, shaking her head again, refusing to accept it. "No, don't be sorry! You're not going anywhere! I'll make sure of it! Please, just... stay with me. Don't leave me."
Lilith wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that somehow, Charlie could defy the fate that awaited her. But as her body grew colder, as the weight of her nearing end settled in her chest, she knew that this was beyond even her daughter's reach.
Still, she had a little time left. Time to hold on, time to make peace. Time to be with her daughter. Charlie's love was the last thing she felt—holding on, refusing to let go.
Lilith's gaze followed Charlie as she stood there, her daughter's face lit by the faint light of the room, torn between duty and the pull to stay. Lilith's lips twitched with the smallest, almost resigned smile. She knew that look, the one Charlie wore whenever she felt the call to do good. And yet, here she was, standing frozen, hesitating because of her.
"You don't need my permission, Charlie," Lilith said, her voice softer than it had been moments ago, but there was a sharpness underneath. "I know you can't ignore that bell. It's what you're here for."
Charlie's brow furrowed, the familiar fire dimmed by her guilt. "But... what about you? I can't just leave you alone."
Lilith shook her head, looking away for a moment. "I've been alone for a long time." There was no bitterness in her voice, just the simple truth. She had been left behind before—this was nothing new. "This is what you were meant to do, not sit here, watching me fall apart."
Charlie hesitated, visibly torn, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She opened her mouth, perhaps to argue, but Lilith cut her off.
"Don't waste time worrying about me," Lilith said, her voice growing firmer, more direct. "Go, before you miss your chance. This... this sinner needs you."
Charlie bit her lip, eyes flickering between Lilith and the door, her heart warring with itself. Finally, with a deep breath, she nodded, though her reluctance was clear. "I'll be right back... as soon as I see who it is," she promised, backing toward the door. She turned to leave but paused, looking back one last time before stepping outside. "I'll be right back, Mom."
Lilith held her gaze but said nothing more, watching as Charlie turned toward the door.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Lilith sat there, alone, the echo of the bells still lingering in the air.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the bells wash over her, mingling with the bittersweet ache in her chest. Without Charlie beside her, the room felt vast, almost hollow. It was cold; even the warmth of the moment couldn't chase it away. She ran her hands along her arms in a vain attempt to soothe herself, but the chill remained, sharper than before.
This cold was different.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she buried her face in them, cradling herself as if trying to block out the world. Memories swirled within her—of laughter, of love, of choices that had led her here. Choices that had cost her everything.
A soft knock on the door startled her.
"Charlie?" she called, her voice a fragile thread. But the door remained still, the knock lingering in the air like an unanswered question.
A flash of fear took hold at the thought of Him being behind the door, but she quickly dismissed it. She had felt Him—the weight of His presence, the rage that rippled through all of Creation. Even back in Eden, he had never missed a chance to announce his arrival in the most bombastic manner.
It was probably Charlie's girlfriend, Vaggie. A fallen angel, of all people. Lilith tried to find humor in that to calm her nerves. Like mother, like daughter, she supposed.
Cautiously, she unfolded herself and rose to her feet, crossing the distance to the door. Her hand hesitated on the handle, uncertainty coursing through her.
With a deep breath, she turned the handle and pulled the door open, half-expecting to see her daughter's familiar smile or Vaggie's uncertain face.
Instead, she was met with an unexpected figure, cloaked in blood that pooled beneath him. He was shorter than her, yet from the crimson staining his features, his identity alluded her. His hair was matted and slick, painted red with blood. He stood shaky legs. He breathed heavily as blood continued to rush from his face, chest, sides, and back.
He had no halo, so he was no angel. He had crimson blood, so he was no fallen.
Lilith's heart skipped a beat. "Wh..Who are you?"
He tilted his head, one eye peeking out from the matted hair—a tired, weary golden eye.
"Hello, Lilith. You doing... good?"
Lilith's blood ran cold, and she felt her legs give way beneath her in terror. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to hide from the figure standing before her—his smile both familiar and horrifying.
He looked down at her and smiled, blood seeping from his lips as he balance wavered.
"Me? I'm feeling great."
The embodiment of all her fears made flesh.
Adam.
Zemach-the Frozen Pits-Second World.
The wind screamed across the barren expanse in an endless and hollow whistle that seemed to seep into everything—every crack in the ice, every breath in the air. Somewhere in the midst of it all, He trudged on, wrapped in a heavy coat that did little to block out the cold.
He moved like a ghost—he supposed he had been one for a long time now—through the frozen wasteland. His bare feet sank into the hard crust of snow beneath him. Each step was slow, deliberate, yet devoid of thought. His body was carrying him forward on some primal command to just..move.
Crunch.
The snow shifted beneath him, brittle under the weight of his body. His feet raw and stiff carried on without direction. He didn't know where he was headed. Didn't need to know. All that mattered was the movement—the motion keeping him going, keeping him from collapsing under the weight of the cold that was slowly devouring him from the inside out.
The biting air gnawed at his exposed skin with the burning frost that crept into every pore, every crevice. Each gust that tore through the vast, frozen forest was bit harder than the last. But still, he didn't stop. There was no warmth here, no relief—just the endless stretch of Zemach, the barren land of ice and nothingness. The horizon blurred into the sky, pale and unforgiving.
Shuffle.
The winds whistled. His face, though mostly numb, could still feel the sting of the wind cutting across it, as if the air itself were sharp.
But it wasn't the cold that weighed him down. Well, it did, but...
It was everything else.
The burning ache deep inside him—more than just the frost gnawing at his skin. Something else. He'd tried to shake it before. Tried to drown it out, snuff it out, forget it ever existed. It was easier, back then. Easier when everything disappeared for a while, and he would forget.
But here, there was no escape. No distractions.
So, Anthony walked.
Crunch
The pain… excruciating at times, like needles shoved deep under his skin—he had a lot of experience with that. Shame there was no sign of the euphoria that usually followed. Probably for the best. Chasing that high was what landed him in this place.
Anthony was a smart man… or at least, he used to be, before he fried his brain with drugs and semen. The hits from Daddy Dearest never really helped either, and neither did burying his feelings.
...
Perhaps "smart" wasn't the right word. "Street smart" wasn't it either—otherwise, he wouldn't have been dumb enough to trust a man with a title like Overlord. A small mercy, if he could call it that, was knowing that Val was probably in a worse place than him right now.
Heh.
Crunch. Another shift in the snow.
"Clever" didn't fit either. If he'd been clever, maybe he would've seen it all coming. The sweet words, the promises of protection and power, all sugar-coated lies he lapped up like a fool. He thought he was playing the game, thought he had some kind of control, but really? He'd been nothing but a puppet, strings tied tight around his wrists before he even knew it.
He wasn't even sure there was a word for what he was anymore, but he'd always been good at recognizing irony. Mrs. DiMarzio always said he was good at spotting rhetorical devices and literary techniques.
A frozen land for a man taken by the flame of lust. It was kinda funny in a sad way, he admitted.
A wolf's howl echoed in the distance.
The pain never stopped.
That's all there was. The biting, bone-deep ache that made him numb but kept him conscious just enough to feel it. It was always there. Sometimes it faded into the background, like a dull hum he could ignore. Other times it flared up, twisting into sharp, agonizing spikes. But it never left him alone.
He wasn't sure what was worse—the constant ache, or the moments of brief relief where he could feel his mind slipping back to that quiet place. The place where he didn't have to feel anything at all.
Were these signs of withdrawal? Or guilt? He had plenty of guilt, he supposed. It was the only thing he could focus on here, besides the pain. The guilt, the pain, and the cold.
His mind clung to something, something that let him not think but also kept his thoughts going. The golden chain holding him in place whenever the pain almost shattered him, or when madness got too close.
The remorse and agony threatened to overwhelm him, only to pull back at the last second. Just enough for him to hang on, like that chain tugging him back when everything inside was screaming to let go.
It also told him that he was not beyond redemption and salvation.
"Which was cool," he supposed.
So, Anthony walked.
He still didn't really know where he was headed, but he knew it was the right direction. Somewhere out there was salvation—or something like it. He could feel it, not clearly, but in the way his legs kept moving, like instinct. Or maybe it was intuition? He never really knew the difference.
Maybe it was divine guidance? Anthony didn't know which god was guiding him—if any. The Lord, probably. He had to exist, right? If Lucifer, Satan and all the angels were real, then Big Capital G was probably real too. Or maybe it was the First Dickhead himself.
Not like it mattered. It was always easier to just forget all that crap anyway, with a sniff or a needle. Back then, he didn't have to think.
Still, he wasn't really thinking now either. Just walking. Thinking but not really... thinking? Pondering? That seemed right. He was pondering...stuff. His brain being kept alive.
More pain.
Silver lining? At least this pain was his own damn fault. That made it a little more bearable than dealing with Val. May he rot for all eternity.
His body just kept moving, dragging him forward through the wasteland, the white nothing stretching on forever. He had no idea where he was or where he was going, but it didn't matter. Not like he had anywhere else to be.
Walking meant something. His body was still here, still moving, even when his mind wasn't.
His mind felt empty—not of thoughts, but of new ones. He'd already been through it all. Every damn conclusion reached a hundred times over.
He fucked up. Badly.
His soul had already been dragged through every bit of it—his crimes, his victims, his tormentors, his sister. Every sin, every act of violence or lust, had spun in his head, turning over and over until there was nothing left but acceptance.
Now, all that was left was the walking.
Crunch. His feet sank deeper into the snow with every step, the cold biting through the soles of his feet like blades.
A wolf's howl echoed somewhere around him. It was closer than last time.
He was going to die soon. Again.
And then he'd wake up. Same as always.
Another gust of wind, colder than the last, cut through him, making his body shudder. He pulled his coat tighter, hoping to trap whatever sliver of warmth was left, though he knew it wouldn't last.
Maybe, when he resurrected next time, he'd find something else to keep him warm. Another piece of clothing like the last couple of times. Or maybe he'd be lucky enough to hold onto this coat. He liked it. It was kinda cute, honestly.
He smirked at that thought, or tried to. What the hell, right? At least the first Dick knew how to dress a guy. Maybe the only thing the big guy ever did right.
And just like that, he felt warmer.
But... why did his cheeks feel warm too? And why did his eyes sting?
The cold hadn't broken that much, had it?
He stopped for a second, realizing that it wasn't the coat or the cold easing up. His face was wet. His breath hitched, and he blinked, feeling the sting behind his eyes get sharper. Tears were freezing on his skin, and he hadn't even noticed. He couldn't even remember when they started falling.
He chuckled bitterly, or at least tried to, but it came out as more of a gasp, a jagged sound that got caught in his throat. His legs kept moving, but his mind was pulling him somewhere darker.
Guilt.
His crimes. His victims. The lives he'd ruined, the bodies he'd used up, tossed aside. The ones he'd hurt for his own selfish needs and cowardice.
He sniffed, dragging his hand across his face, wiping away the frozen tears. They'd come back anyway, same as always. Same as everything else. But for now, he just kept walking, his mind circling around the same thoughts again.
His crimes. His victims. His tormentors. His sister.
And Salvation.
Somewhere, out there, it was waiting. He didn't know for sure. But there was nothing left behind him. Everything he had destroyed was far away, in a past, he couldn't change.
He kept moving, his body rocking with each step until his legs finally gave out. He collapsed into the snow, his knees hitting the frozen ground hard enough to send a jolt of pain through his body, and he tumbled forward, the impact of his body hitting the ground sending a dull thud through the frozen earth.
His chest heaved, breath escaping in ragged gasps that turned to steam in the air.
And then, he heard it—the soft padding of paws. The wolf had found him.
Its feet appeared next to his face, large and covered in thick, white fur, blending with the ice and snow. He blinked slowly, breath misting in the air, and for a moment, all he could see were those paws. The beast stood there, silently watching him, waiting for the inevitable.
But when he blinked again, the image changed.
The paws morphed, twisting into something more human—black leather shoes, polished but worn at the edges, the kind that reeked of wealth and violence. Above them, the bottom of a long, woolen coat dusted with snow came into view, tailored to perfection, draping down.
He blinked again, eyes locked on those polished shoes, the tailored coat. It was all so familiar, in a sickening kind of way. The kind of look he'd been drawn to once upon a time—back when dressing sharp was as much armor as it was a statement. But this wasn't the kind of style you wore to impress. This was the kind of style you wore to control, to dominate.
Heh, not like it mattered anymore.
He glanced up again, trying to focus, trying to see past the shoes and the coat. Who was it standing over him? Was it someone from before, one of his tormentors? Maybe it was Val himself, come to twist the knife one last time.
The barrel of a Tommy gun gleamed in the pale light.
"'Nothin' personal, sweetheart," Anthony's breath hitched. That voice...
God, that voice... it was smoother back then. Much more confident. At least, he was trying to be. But if to anyone who listened listened, really listened, it wasn't confidence. It was fear. Fear, wrapped up in bravado, buried under layers of cowardice.
Anthony's lips twitched in a bitter, humorless smirk. He knew that tone well—he'd lived it, faked it, clung to it.
It was all an act.
Anthony's eyes flicked to the Tommy gun, its barrel gleaming in the cold light, as familiar as the voice behind it. He remembered that weapon—too well. The weight of it in his hands, the way it had felt so powerful, so final. And now, it was pointed right at him.
Of course, it was.
His past self was staring him down. The man he'd been—smooth-talking, cocky, and oh-so-good at pretending nothing could touch him. Anthony wanted to laugh. He'd been a joke back then, hadn't he? Trying so hard to act tough, when deep down he was always just scared.
"Nothing personal," the old him repeated, more to himself than his victim. The gun held steady, but Anthony could see the slight tremble in his hands now.
Yeah, nothing personal. Just business, right?
"Go ahead," Anthony croaked, his voice barely more than a rasp. He wasn't afraid anymore. Not of himself. Not of that pitiful version of him standing there, trying to act like he had control. He was done with that. "Do it."
The wind cut through the silence, carrying with it the crack of the gunfire. Anthony didn't flinch, didn't blink. the bullets that tore through him was nothing compared to the bite of the cold but even then, there was no shock, no terror. Just that dull ache, that familiar burn spreading through his body.
He stared up at the shadow of his old self, who stood there with the Tommy gun still smoking, expression unreadable. But Anthony saw it clearly now. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't anger.
Before, there would have been fear. But the fear was gone now, replaced by something else.
Determination.
Anthony vowed, right then and there.
No matter how many times he was knocked down, no matter how long this twisted punishment lasted, he was going to make it out of here.
And when he did, he'd be more than just the ghost of the man he used to be.
He'd be better.
Whatever happens, he will meet them once again.
Tahat- The Abyss- First World.
Henry Johnson was a smart kid, good with numbers, loved by his teachers, and always ahead in class.
His Ma always believed he'd be something big—maybe a lawyer or a businessman—but he let her down time and again.
She saw a bright future for him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was destined for something else, something less noble.
Because Henry was really good with numbers.
He discovered gambling early, and it lit a fire in him. The thrill of the game hooked him, pulling him in deeper.
He loved the rush of victory, the cheers of friends, and the clinking of chips, but he never really cared about the money.
Well, he did care.
He just liked winning a lot more!
In dingy basements and smoky rooms, he quickly learned to hustle, always searching for the next big score.
But every win was just a setup for the next loss, and he found himself chasing that fleeting high, ignoring the warning signs.
His ma would watch him slip away, worry lines etching deeper into her face, wondering where she went wrong.
When he got drafted into Vietnam, he felt a strange sense of relief. He didn't care about the war; he just wanted to escape his old life.
Surrounded by chaos, he felt out of place, far from the thrill of cards and dice, replaced by the roar of gunfire.
One night, he deserted, slipping away under the cover of darkness.
He didn't have a plan, just a need to get away from it all, believing that freedom lay beyond the battlefield.
Running was easier than facing the mess he'd made of his life; at least out there, he could pretend he was starting fresh.
He found none of it.
One night, he deserted and slipped away under cover of darkness.
Somehow, he ended up on a cargo ship.
He made his way to China.
Then he traveled to Korea.
From there, he hopped from port to port.
The place changed, but the game remained the same.
Ended up in Russia, where he started hustling, cheating in back-alley card games, and dragging others down with him.
From there, he conned his way through Italy and Spain, scamming people left and right, betraying trust for a quick buck.
By the time he hit Vegas, Henry was running schemes, rigging games, and swindling mobsters—never satisfied with what he had.
His crimes caught up to him—bad deals, stolen money, and lives ruined; he was a parasite, sucking the joy from others.
Then one day, it all went wrong, and he ended up dead, just another loser who couldn't win.
His Hell was paradise, everything he ever wanted, but it felt hollow and empty.
He woke up in Greed, where he found paradise in Hell, a cruel joke for a fool like him.
But who was he kidding? He was still a loser.
Dragged to Pride, he hit the ground running, believing he could change, but he was a fool.
An overlord in less than a decade,
An overlord for less than a decade.
A slave to the Radio Demon for less than a decade.
A gambler from the start, for an eternity, chasing losses like they were wins.
A loser from the beginning to the end, stuck in a cycle of self-destruction and regret.
Until he was simply nothing more than a Husk of what he could have been.
Once more, Henry simply gambled and lost.
Husk sat back, staring at his cards with a vacant look. The shade across from him didn't move, its form barely distinguishable from the gloom of the war-torn clearing. He ignored all screams and cries around him, paying no attention to any sound except for the faint shuffle of cards, the light click of chips, and the occasional, dull exhale from Husk as the game dragged on.
He wasn't sure how long they'd been playing. Hours? Days? Hell had no clocks.
The sound of gunfire and bombs echoed on the battlefield around him.
He tossed a few more chips forward, the clatter meaningless to him. "Raise," he muttered.
The shade's hand moved, lifting its chips, and pushing them into the pile. Husk didn't know how it knew, but somehow, it always matched him, always played in perfect silence. He had never heard it speak, and he doubted it could.
A stray bullet tore through his earlobe. He gritted his teeth and focused on the game.
The cards on the table weren't in his favor. He barely glanced at them before folding his hand. The shade, without hesitation, gathered the chips in front of it, not a whisper of satisfaction in its blank face. Husk sighed, rubbing his eyes, as if that might change anything.
Another round began. Husk drew his cards, glanced at them, and pushed more chips forward. "Call," he said quietly, though there was no reason to. The shade didn't care. No one did. It raised without a word, again, and Husk matched it, feeling the pile in front of him shrink bit by bit.
He wasn't winning. That was clear now. Each hand seemed to bleed chips from his dwindling stack. The shade's movements were mechanical, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Husk couldn't tell if it was luck or if the shade actually had skill, but it was always just one step ahead. The hands blurred together as he lost, bit by bit.
The cards changed. The game didn't. Husk threw in more chips, almost lazily, not caring if this hand might save him or sink him deeper. "Bet." The shade's response came in silence, just a shift in the dark as its chips joined his in the middle. The chain on his chest felt smaller, tighter, but not in a way that bothered him.
Another loss. More chips gone. Husk leaned back, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table, his stack visibly shrinking. The shade remained still, barely even shuffling its cards before the next hand began. Husk drew his cards, glanced at them, and tossed them down without a second thought. "Fold."
The shade gathered the winnings again. Husk didn't care.
Another hand. Another loss. Husk placed another small bet, half-heartedly pushing the chips into the pot. "Check," he muttered, almost too low to hear. The shade raised. Husk called. The result was the same: more chips gone.
His stack was now dangerously low, barely enough to stay in the game. He played another hand, and then another, each time losing, each time pushing his remaining chips toward the center. He couldn't even muster frustration as the shade's pile grew larger. There was no end in sight, just the same dark, the same game.
Husk drew again, looked at the cards, and pushed what remained of his stack forward. "All in." His voice echoed hollowly through the room. The shade, without pause, matched him, its chips sliding forward with the same dead certainty it had shown every hand.
The cards were revealed. Husk stared at them, his expression unchanged. Another loss. The shade collected the final chips in silence. Husk sat back, rubbing his temples.
Husk placed his cards down and leaned back in his ratty chair. The chair creaked under his weight, its worn fabric rough against his skin. He didn't need to look at the cards to know the result.
He lost.
Again.
The familiar sound of scales creaking filled the air. Two old, rusted scales appeared in front of them on the cracked table, wobbling slightly as if they'd topple over at any moment. Husk stared at the one on the left—the one that belonged to him
It was already leaning, burdened by its contents, but now it grew more lopsided. Dark, thick sludge, tar-like in its appearance, dripped from the shade's scale and oozed onto Husk's, adding more weight. Slowly, on the other side, tiny golden specks floated in the air from HJusk's scale, drifting like dust before they landed in the Shade's scale.
His loss was more than just chips. Money meant nothing here. So did power, prestige, and even favors. None of it mattered. They were gambling something far more important—the only thing that apparently mattered in this hell.
Deeds.
Good and Bad.
Husk's scale groaned as the weight on his soul increased, the thick sludge pooling deeper, darkening the tarnished metal. He felt it immediately—an invisible pressure settling inside him, like a boulder pressing on his chest. The pain crept up the back of his neck, spreading slowly to his skull, and then like a spike being driven into his mind, it struck.
The ache clawed at his thoughts, gnawing and tearing at his sanity. It was always there, always festering. But every loss made it worse. He could almost hear it, the sound of his mind cracking, splintering under the weight of the sins he'd just taken on.
The shade didn't move. They never did. The shades just came, won, fucked him over, and then fucked off, only to be replaced by another. Husk wasn't even sure if it noticed when it won, though its scale always tipped a little more evenly after every game.
He'd call it a lucky bastard, but that'd only be half right. There were no lucky people in this shithole—just bastards.
No words passed between them. No looks. Just silence. The shade didn't even bother to acknowledge the moment it stripped more from him.
Then, like a snake shedding its skin, the shade shed its shadow.
This one looked human enough. Eastern European, maybe. Husk could tell from the bits of thought still permitted by the constant throb of pain in his skull. He didn't recognize the bastard, but from the human look of him, it was definitely someone he'd fucked over back when he was alive.
Husk squinted at him through the agony, trying to place the face. He couldn't. His mind wasn't clear enough, and even if it had been, he'd screwed over too many people to remember them all. The Soviet Union, maybe? Yeah, probably. Probably during that brief stint hiding out in the East, running from one nightmare to the next.
But whoever he was didn't matter now.
It was what he represented that really mattered, the sin that had passed between them in the previous game. Husk didn't need to ask. He knew.
Worship of False Idols.
A fucking Satanist. Of all things.
Just his fucking luck.
Without warning, Husk's soul ignited. Flames burst from the core of his being, licking up his chest, and engulfing him in an instant. His flesh followed, burning away in the heat of his new burden.
Husk screamed as the flames tore through him. They weren't just fire—they were something worse, something alive. The heat didn't just burn; it scorched its way through his veins, bubbling up inside his flesh. His skin blistered, cracking and peeling away, but the fire wasn't done. It sank deeper, like claws raking at his muscles, tearing through every fiber.
Divine Flames meant to burn out the sin of those tainted by the Devil's influence. Some poetic justice or cleansing bullshit. It was all about irony in this place. But Husk didn't care. All he felt was pain.
The pain was everywhere, twisting through his veins like molten metal. He clawed at his chest, nails tearing through blistered skin, but it didn't matter. The fire wasn't on him; it was in him. His breath came in jagged gasps, harder to catch with each one as the flames were eating away at his lungs. Time stretched, each second dragging as the agony deepened.
The clearing might as well have been silent when compared to his own ragged screams. The shade across from him stood still, barely noticeable through the haze of pain. Husk couldn't bring himself to look at it. The battlefield around them was far away, lost in the heat, and all that mattered was the fire eating him alive.
He tried to push himself up, but his body wouldn't listen. His hands slid through the dirt, fingers clawing uselessly as another wave of pain shot up his spine. He let out another broken scream, the sound raw and desperate, like an animal caught in a trap.
Husk's thoughts were beginning to finally shatter. Sanity slipped from his grasp as the flames devoured him, twisting deeper inside. His soul felt like it was bound in chains, tightening, pulling him apart piece by piece.
And just when he was on the edge, when the madness was about to swallow him whole, the golden chain around his heart flared to life.
It wasn't sudden. The fire didn't stop, the pain didn't fade. But something pulled him back, something cold and distant, dragging him from the brink. His body went limp, collapsing into the dirt, the flames still burning through him, tearing at what little was left.
For a moment, he saw something—just beyond the fire, through the haze. A glimmer, faint, almost familiar. Maybe it was his mother's face, worn but smiling, calling him in from the cold. Or maybe it was a memory from some long-gone night, laughing with comrades over cheap drinks, the world around them fading into nothing but warmth and noise.
He was back at the Hotel
It was there, somewhere deep in the flames, blurry but clear enough to bring the smallest bit of relief. Like an old dream, slipping away just as he reached for it. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't need to. It soothed him, even as his skin burned and his mind teetered on the edge of madness.
Maybe salvation, maybe something else.
He wanted to see them
For that moment, it was enough.
He didn't know, and it didn't matter. He kept staring at it, his eyes locked, even as the fire continued to devour him.
Darkness finally swallowed everything.
When he woke again, he found another shade.
And he played again.
And he lost again.
And he died again.
Over and over.
Not once had he won.
Whether the shade was better than him,
or a stray bullet tore through his brain before he put down the card,
or an artillery shot obliterated his hiding place.
Never once had he won.
Never once was he allowed to win.
The only things he gained were the sins of others.
Different sins and different deaths.
Through it all, he kept hold of that hope of salvation.
"I lost," he muttered to the shade, throwing his cards on the table with a sigh.
Once more, the scales appeared, and the exchange happened. The shade received whatever little good deeds Husk still had—he wondered what would happen if all the golden specks of dust disappeared—and the shade's sins were added to Husk's burden.
A thief, the shade in front of him was.
It was almost anticlimactic after the last dozens of serial killers, terrorists, and even overlords before it.
The shade's shadow peeled away, revealing a young man with brown hair and brown eyes.
Again, Husk could not recognize the person in front of him.
The young man placed a cup on the table, filled with a dark blue liquor, and pushed it across to Husk.
He took it with no hesitation.
Acid, he recognized.
He looked up once more at the young man.
Nope. Still no clue. He couldn't even begin to remember what he had done to the boy, aside from the fact that he had clearly ruined his life somehow.
Even so, Husk felt the weight of guilt settle in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.
He pushed the drink back in one shot.
Whether it was the tiredness or something else,
It didn't hurt as much as he expected.
He wanted to be with them once more.
Tahat- The Abyss- Second World
The storm crashed down like the wrath of some pissed-off god—probably was, knowing his luck. Valentino had a knack for pissing off divine beings, especially after that disaster with the First Dick. Should've known better than to cut deals with that sanctimonious asshole, but of course, the other two idiots went ahead anyway.
What the actual fuck had Vox said to set the First Shithead off so badly?!
The wind shrieked through the air, rattling the splintered wreckage of the ship, each gust making the remains creak and groan like a beaten whore crying out for mercy. "Shit! What the fuck did I do to deserve this, you bastard!? I was on your side!" He yelled at Adam… in his head. He wasn't stupid enough to curse a god—was he a fucking god now? How was that fair?!
Why did those winged chuckle-fucks get all the good shit while Valentino was stuck here, powerless and lost? He clenched his stomach and gritted his teeth, trying to tap into his powers, but the only thing that promised to happen was him nearly shitting himself.
Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!His powers were gone! All those tens of millions of souls he'd worked for, all the leverage he had—gone! Just like that!
And his body—shit, it was human again. Soft, vulnerable, weak. His nails were still sharp, his face still flawless—he'd always be beautiful, no matter what form he took—but his fucking powers!
He could feel the difference, the emptiness where all that dark energy used to hum inside him. Now? Nothing. Just flesh, blood, and panic.
It wasn't supposed to be like thi—!
Another crash rocked the ship, sending him stumbling. The sea, the sky, and the battered remains of the ship felt alive as if the very place was about to collapse and swallow him whole. Each wave crashed against the hull like a vengeful monster, urging him to surrender to the storm.
As if he had time to worry about that shit. The fucking storm was the least of his worries.
He wasn't just running from the storm. No, something else was out there. Something worse. He could feel it—lurking just beyond the edge of the wreckage, in the black, churning water. And it wasn't just watching; it was hunting.
Him! A prey?!
"No! Not like this!" Valentino screamed He was not going to let it end here, trapped in this chaos. There had to be a way out!
He gasped, heart racing, skin crawling. Panic surged through him like the waves crashing against the wreck. What had he been thinking? What if this was it—his end? He couldn't die like this. Not out here, drowning in storm and fear!
"Come on, come on! Think!" he shouted at himself, eyes darting around wildly. Every shadow played tricks o his senses and twisted into something monstrous.
"Pinche madre," he hissed, eyes scanning the waves, adrenaline spiking through his chest. Years as an Overlord in Hell had sharpened his instincts for danger, and this—this was the worst kind of bad. Worse than a double-cross. Worse than dealing with the fat lard Mammon. Worse than waking up with a ruined manicure!
The wind lashed at him, dragging his soaked clothes tighter against his tanned skin. He grimaced, tugging at the drenched fabric of the sailor uniform clinging to him. The First Fuck even had the gall to dress him in this cheap-ass costume. His nose wrinkled as he thought of the lack of feathers, the absence of fur. Valentino's style didn't do low-rent! He missed his fur coats, his silk, his opulence. Could've at least had somethin' with flair, but no—this filth wasn't even waterproof.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the scene for a blink. In that flash, he thought he saw it—a shadow, lurking just beneath the surface, slicing through the water like a blade.
It knew exactly where he was.
He sniffled, brushing the rain from his golden locks with a flick of his wrist, muttering curses under his breath as his soaked hair clung stubbornly to his face. His heart pounded in his chest, hard enough to hurt, but he wasn't sure—maybe it was just his nerves, or maybe it was that thing out there. That thing that wanted him dead.
He wasn't built for this. What the hell was he doing out here?!
What the fuck was out there?
Yet, somehow, a part of him felt like this entire place was somewhere he knew.
Something exploded behind him—wood splintering and the water boiling like something big had just slammed into it.
He didn't look. He didn't dare look.
Instead, he scrambled back, slipping and falling onto the wet planks, barely catching himself on a broken piece of railing.
Another crash—closer this time. Too close.
Something huge slithered beneath the water, just out of sight, but he could feel it, his skin crawling like ants were crawling under his flesh.
It fucking hurt
This wasn't natural. This was fucked.
This was so fucked.
"Shit... ¡Mierda! What is that thing?" His voice cracked, barely audible over the storm.
He couldn't stay here.
Couldn't sit still.
Val stumbled forward, his boots sliding on the rain-slick wood.
No plan, no direction, just moving, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever was out there, hunting him.
The ship was falling apart around him, and all he could do was run. Run like a scared kid.
And he was scared—fucking terrified.
Something in the water shifted again, and a massive tail—thick, scaled, glistening—smashed against the wreck, sending debris flying.
It missed him by inches. He could feel the air pressure from it as it swept past, close enough that the spray of seawater slapped him in the face.
He wiped his eyes frantically, breath coming in harsh, panicked gasps.
"Shit—shit, shit!" he wheezed, his voice barely a rasp.
He was gonna die out here. No, worse.
He was gonna get caught out here.
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the air, and for a split second, the storm lit up with a flash of lightning.
That was when he saw it. A head.
Or...something like a head.
Its eyes glowed a dull, sickly yellow just beneath the water. Watching him.
Its mouth was full of jagged teeth just barely visible before the lightning's glare died, plunging him back into blackness.
His whole body seized up in panic. His pulse hammered so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.
"Oh, no, no, no, no..." His voice was shaking now, raw with fear. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
He could feel it moving closer. Something in the air shifted every time it did.
Like it was playing with him.
A sound. No, a scream. High-pitched, warbled, and wrong. Echoing across the storm.
Val clapped his hands over his ears, but it was inside his head now, crawling into his skull.
He stumbled, and collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"
The scream cut off, but the water hissed, sloshing against the broken hull.
It was still coming.
Still there.
Another explosion of water—a second too late, right where he'd been crouching.
He scrambled back on his hands and knees, panting, heart racing like it was trying to jump out of his throat.
Lightning flashed again, and this time, he saw it clearly.
The thing. The monster. Rising from the waves, tall and grotesque, scales glistening, eyes glowing, its mouth hanging open in a wicked grin.
It was laughing.
"Fuck, fuck!" Val choked, staggering to his feet, slipping and sliding as he tried to get away.
But there was nowhere to go.
He was trapped on this goddamn sinking ship with something straight out of a nightmare.
And it was hungry.
Valentino's legs gave out under him again, knees slamming into the soaked planks. The ship groaned, splintering beneath the weight of the storm and the thing that was stalking him.
He crawled backward, one hand sliding uselessly on the slick wood as he dragged himself away from the edge, where the beast had risen.
"Fuck, fuck, this can't be happening..." he whimpered, voice raw and broken.
The rain poured harder, drumming on the wrecked deck as if mocking him. He tried to steady his breath, to think straight, but his mind was a scrambled mess of panic and exhaustion. The world around him was chaos—howling winds, the endless pounding of waves, and...that screech. That horrible, blood-curdling screech.
His back hit something solid—what was left of the ship's railing. He was cornered.
Another massive wave crashed, sending cold spray up into his face, but this time, he could see her.
The creature. The monster. Rising slowly from the black water, scales shining like oil slick in the lightning flashes.
It had a body—vaguely human, but wrong. So wrong.
Twisted arms that stretched unnaturally long, claws sharp as knives.
A serpentine tail coiling around the debris of the ship, and that face.
It was...almost beautiful.
Yet, more than anything else, it looked...familiar.
But its mouth...those rows of jagged teeth, slick with brine and God-knows-what.
It was smiling.
"Valentino..." The sweet and sickly voice slipped through the howling wind.
His blood ran cold. Oh, fuck...
He pressed his back harder against the railing as if he could will himself through it. "Get the fuck away from me!" His voice was high-pitched now, breaking like a cornered animal.
It laughed.
The sound was like broken glass scraping across stone. It echoed around him, everywhere at once.
"You don't run from me..." It cooed, voice slithering like a snake around his mind, wrapping tight.
He tried to close his ears, but it was inside his head, creeping deeper.
Val's breath hitched.
Another crash. Another wave, and the ship lurched, the deck tilting sharply beneath him. He barely managed to keep himself from sliding over the edge.
Her tail whipped out of the water, coiling around the wreck, tightening, squeezing the life out of it, splintering the hull even more.
The ship was going under, and he was sinking with it.
"Oh, fuck me..." he gasped, shivering. His lips trembled as he tried to find an escape—any escape—but all that greeted him was open sea and her.
"Give me what I want..." the creature hissed, slowly crawling forward, her long, slender fingers tracing the edges of the wreck. "Give it to me, and I'll let you go, Valentino..."
He swallowed hard, shaking his head, eyes wide with terror. "I ain't got nothin' for you!" he shouted, his voice cracking again.
Another crash. This time, a huge splash of water erupted right next to him, wood and debris flying through the air. She'd struck the ship right beside him, close enough that a shard of wood sliced across his cheek.
She was toying with him.
Val tried to crawl backward again, but the rail was already at his back. Nowhere left to go.
"You're lying..." her voice sang, now low and mocking, dragging out every word.
"Your soul reeks of lust... desperation... I can smell it on you. You've always been mine, Valentino..."
He froze again.
That same sense of déjà-vu hitting him once more.
She was right in front of him now, towering over him, her shadow swallowing him whole.
"Just give me what's mine..."
Her voice slithered through the air, oily and thick like the sea itself whispered his doom. Her fingers stretched out, long and sharp, as if they could slice through flesh without effort. Cold, unnaturally cold, they trailed down his cheek, leaving a sting in their wake. The blood from the cut mixed with the saltwater, burning.
Val's breath hitched. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to move, but he was frozen, trapped in her gaze, drowning in those empty eyes.
"Go to hell... bitch!"
With a surge of panic-fueled strength, he shoved her hand away, his heart pounding so hard it made his ribs ache. He didn't wait to see her reaction. He just ran.
Ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
He didn't know where he was going—just away. Away from her, away from that voice, that thing that wanted something from him he couldn't give.
The ship was barely a ship anymore, just jagged ruins in a sea of black water, but he kept running, slipping, and stumbling across the wreckage, his lungs burning.
Behind him, the waves roared, crashing violently, as if the ocean itself was trying to pull him back.
Then he heard it again.
That hum.
A deep, monstrous rumble beneath the surface.
She wasn't far. He could feel her, moving beneath the water, circling him like prey.
"Dios mío... no, no, no, no..." His voice trembled, spluttering through the rain, half in prayer, half in panic.
Another bang shook the air, louder than the thunder, and the already splintered ship burst in two.
Wood exploded, shards flying like shrapnel, the vessel ripping apart violently.
Then, with a crack of thunder and a deafening splash, she struck again—but this time, she wasn't aiming for the ship.
The tip of her tail snapped from the water like a whip, catching him square in the midsection.
Val's eyes widened as a sharp, searing pain tore through his gut.
Before he could even scream, he was launched into the air, weightless for a moment, blood spraying out in an arc.
The world spun, and all he saw was black sky, rain, and a sickening blur of his own body.
He hit the water hard, the impact forcing what little breath he had left out of him.
Pain shot through him like fire, his hands instinctively clutching at the shredded remains of his stomach.
Blood oozed between his fingers, mixing with the saltwater, turning the sea red around him.
He struggled to breathe, each gasp more shallow than the last, as he floated in the dark water, helpless.
Somewhere behind him, she laughed.
"You're not getting away that easy."
Val's scream tore through the water, but only bubbles rose from his throat as the acidic sea flooded in. The hand gripping his leg tightened, bones grinding, snapping like brittle wood. He clawed at the water, desperate, but there was no escape, no surface—just the unrelenting pull dragging him deeper into the abyss.
Her laughter echoed around him, cold and cruel. She was enjoying this.
His lungs were screaming for air, but all he got was the burn of salt and blood in his mouth. His flesh was peeling, layers sloughing off in the biting water, leaving exposed muscle and bone. He could feel his body coming apart piece by piece, but the real terror was the feeling that his mind was next—she was in his head.
That pull... it wasn't just his body being dragged down. Something deeper, something worse was being ripped from him.
And then, out of the blackness, she appeared.
No longer hidden by the water, her form was a grotesque nightmare. Scales shimmered under what little light reached this far down, her massive tail snapping through the water like a whip, circling him, caging him in. Her face was a twisted mockery of beauty, her eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.
Before Val could even register the horror of it, she struck.
Her teeth—razor-sharp, jagged—latched onto his face with a sickening crunch. His jaw was wrenched apart. His scream was silenced as his flesh was torn from bone. Blood exploded in the water, turning the dark sea red, his own face hanging in tatters.
She wasn't kissing him. She was devouring him.
Val thrashed wildly, his hands scraping against her scaled skin, but it was like trying to fight stone. His fingers clawed at the water, at her, at anything, but she ripped into him, teeth shredding his jaw, tearing away chunks of his flesh with sickening ease.
The pressure below crushed his chest, his ribs cracking under the force, lungs collapsing as the water flooded in. His vision blurred, his body convulsing as blood and seawater filled him.
And yet, through the agonizing blur of pain, Val knew: this wasn't just death.
She wasn't letting him go.
As the last flickers of consciousness slipped away, her voice slithered through his mind one last time, mocking, twisted:
"You'll be mine, forever."
And for what felt like an eternity—be it years, decades, or centuries—he was hers.
Valentino, the king of lust, surrendered in the end.
Yet, before the madness could fully claim him, the golden chain around his chest flared bright, cutting through the dark abyss.
Then, everything went black.
When he woke again, the air was thick and musty. He blinked against the dim light and found himself in a cave, damp walls glistening with moisture, shadows dancing around him.
A sound of chittering behind him startled him, and Val crawled back with a cry.
He turned around.
In front of him stood a massive spider, its white fur streaked with splotches of pink. A heart-shaped mark adorned its back, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. The creature's red eyes, surrounded by a haunting black-and-white sclera, bore into him.
Its jaws snapped open, dripping with venom, and its growl reverberated through the cavern.
"VaAal..." it hissed, the sound dripping with a chilling familiarity.
At last, Valentino understood the nagging sense of familiarity.
This was his Hell.
Hey everyone, sorry for the delay! As I mentioned before, I'm cutting the fic short, and this delay is just proof that I've been way busier than I expected now that October is here.
I know you were all looking forward to that convo between Adam and Lilith, and I really wanted to nail it, so I've been rewriting it a ton. When I finally got it right, it felt off with the rest of the chapter, so I decided to save it for next time. It'll fit better with Adam's kids and Eve's POV.
I've already planned out the next chapter, so I'm hoping to get it out a lot faster! Thanks for hanging in there with me!