Days Before the Forest Incident —
The night was heavy with silence, save for the distant hum of a flickering streetlamp and the occasional SCREECH of tires on wet asphalt.
A cold wind curled through the sleeping city like a whisper from the void.
Beneath the hazy amber glow of the streetlights, Adam walked alone — his steps deliberate, his eyes blank. Possessed. Driven.
His body was just a vessel now. A soulless shell wrapped in blood and skin, carrying out the will of something far darker.
He moved like a ghost tethered to a mission — breath shallow, gait eerily smooth, his skin pale and bloodless beneath the silver of the moonlight. Not even the bite of the cold night air could stir a tremble in him.
As he turned into a narrow alleyway — a slit between two mid-rise buildings weathered with rust and mildew — his footsteps ECHOED against the cracked concrete, then fell into stillness.
The lane was a suffocating corridor of shadow, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight from the main road. Deeper within, the light vanished entirely, swallowed by blackness so complete it felt alive — like a mouth waiting to devour the unwary. Still, Adam walked into it, unblinking.
Shapes began to emerge ahead as his vision adjusted. Movement first — like flickers of flame. Bodies shifting, swaying in rhythm.
Then came the heat. The sound. The scent of sweat, perfume, and something baser.
A young couple stood pressed against the damp brick wall, lost in the intoxication of one another.
The woman — fierce in presence and unapologetically sexual — wore a skin-tight red dress, the color of fresh blood and just as provocative. It clung to her like molten wax, revealing more than it concealed. Her dark chestnut hair was a cascade of silk down her back, wild and deliberate, catching the occasional breeze like tendrils of smoke.
The man, cocky and rough-edged, was clad in a weathered denim jacket and dark jeans. His hands wandered her body without shame — one gripping her waist, the other buried beneath her dress, fingers kneading greedily. His mouth was glued to hers, then to her throat, then to her collarbone, as if he couldn't decide what part of her to devour first. His leg was wedged between hers, grinding in rhythm, mimicking the act that was inevitable.
Her lips parted with muffled moans
"mmmffhh..."
Their mouths met again in wet kisses
"slrk–smck..."
The man shifted, the scrape of denim rasping against bare skin.
"shrrkkk..."
She let out breathless laughter
"hahhh–hahhh..."
Pulling his hair, urging him closer, deeper.
Adam stopped. His expression unreadable. One brow rose, not in judgement — but in faint, cold amusement. His eyes lingered only for a second.
Then he spoke — and the sound of his voice sliced the moment in half.
"We need to talk."
The man froze, lips still hovering above the woman's skin. He turned slowly, irritation creasing his face.
"Who the fu—?"
His voice died as his eyes locked on Adam — standing there, still, silent and empty.
"Who are you?" the man demanded.
Adam gave no answer. He only stared — a look that didn't merely unsettle; it pressed down on the chest, made breathing shallow and jagged. It was wrong in a way that vibrated under the skin.
"Listen, bro," the man sneered, stepping forward with bravado masking nerves. "I don't know what circus of creeps you rolled out of, but you've got about two seconds before I rearrange your face."
He planted one hand on Adam's shoulder — mocking, confident — then tapped his own cheek as if scolding a child. "What's with those dead eyes, huh?"
He drew back his arm, ready to swing.
The air shifted — a razor-quick whisper of motion — and his punch NEVER landed.
His body convulsed, seized as if gripped by invisible hands. He locked mid-move. Then —
SPLAT.
A breath later, his head detached cleanly from his shoulders, flying into the air like some grotesque prize, trailing a ribbon of bright blood. It spun weightless for a heartbeat, frozen in a macabre tableau — the scowl still twisted on the face.
When it hit the ground the sound was hideous: a wet, heavy THUD. Blood geysering outward, painting the alley walls in frantic, violent strokes.
The headless body remained upright for a stunned second. Arms still raised. Final motion forever suspended.
His last thought — the last whisper before consciousness dissolved — was: "When did this happen?"
Then the limbs loose as string-cut marionette, the body slumped, collapsing to its knees and then to the concrete with a sickening CRUNCH.
Adam lowered his gaze to the woman.
She stood a little back in the shadow, trembling, mouth open, shock carved into her features. Her chest heaved in sharp, shallow breaths, the steam of each inhalation fogging the cold night air.
Slowly — like frost melting from stone — the terror drained from her face.
A smile unfurled.
Not a simple smile. A wicked, sultry, slow-spreading grin that reeked of something ancient and deeply wrong.
"I already know it's you," Adam said, voice low, unnervingly calm. "Stop pretending, Lilith."
The woman's lips curled further. A soft, throaty giggle rippled from her throat and echoed off brick.
"A mere human... with demonic power... and you saw through my disguise?" she purred, voice smooth, temptation laced with steel.
Her skin shimmered, reality seeming to peel at the edges. In a heartbeat the woman dissolved.
Where the red dress had been, Lilith now stood — infernal beauty made flesh.
Her skin held the color of blood kissed by moonlight. Hair darker, longer, whipped by an unseen wind into living shadows. Horns curled like black bone from her skull; her eyes burned a seductive, molten crimson.
She was desire, not the soft kind, but the ravaging kind — the sort that drove kings mad and saints to their knees.
"It's me, Volkov," Adam said — bitterness like ash in his tone. "You lustful succubus."
Lilith tilted her head, teeth bare in a smile too sharp to be anything but menace.
"Ahhh... so that's why I didn't recognize you," she mocked. "That pathetic meat sack you're walking around in."
Volkov's — Adam's — eye twitched once.
"I need your help," he said, measured and low. "The son of the Vampire Lord — he's here. In this city."
Lilith's tongue flicked across her lip, amusement sliding into curiosity.
"Judging by your face... your original body is already dead," she intoned, mock-sympathy dripping like velvet.
He clenched his hands until his knuckles sharpened.
"That's why I came. This body — it's not enough. But I have a plan."
Lilith arched an eyebrow, folding her arms beneath her chest like a queen amused.
"Let me guess — I'm the bait," she purred.
"You'll take the form of someone he loves. I'll set the stage. When his guard falls... you strike. Quick. Clean. Final." His voice trembled with dark promise.
Lilith laughed — a sound both musical and cruel as it rolled between the bricks. "Oh, how charming. A suicide mission in pretty packaging."
She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper that caressed like poison. "What's in it for me?"
Volkov stepped up into her space, eyes hard with hunger and calculation.
"What won't you gain?" he breathed. "You become the demon who slays the son of the Vampire Lord. You will be praised. Worshipped. Feared."
There was another, quieter thought buried under his lust for power:
"And once he's dead... I claim his body. That vessel. That perfect, powerful shell will be mine."
A slow, satisfied smile crawled across his face — equal parts triumph and madness.
Scene changed as old scene dissolved in the other one—
The night air was heavy, thick with an eerie silence that stretched across the city like a veil of unease.
At the rear of an apartment complex, a lone figure emerged from the shadows—his presence silent, yet suffocating.
Adam stood beneath a flickering streetlamp (BUZZ... FLICKER), cloaked in a long black leather trench coat, its hem fluttering faintly with the midnight breeze. A wide-brimmed hat concealed most of his face, but the glint of cruel anticipation in his eyes burned through the veil of darkness.
His gloved hands were clasped behind his back as he strode forward—then stopped.
VOICES.
From the front of the apartment building, faint but audible over the wind, came the muffled sound of casual conversation.
A man's voice, teasing but warm:
"Alright, tough gang member, you're officially off duty for the night."
A woman laughed in reply—light-hearted and genuine:
"Good night, guys! Get some rest!"
Adam tilted his head slightly, taking cover behind the wall, his breath steady. Like a predator observing prey, he leaned just enough to glimpse the figures near the gate.
His eyes narrowed.
It was her.
Lopez.
She stepped out of a car, waving at someone inside before turning and entering the building through the front entrance.
The car slowly rolled away
SOFT ENGINE HUM... FADING.
A moment passed.
Then, with chilling precision, Adam slid his hand into his coat and retrieved a sleek, full-face black mask—one shaped like a stylized feline. Its surface was smooth, its eye slits narrow, reflecting no light.
He placed it over his face with mechanical calm.
Through the mask, only a faint glimmer of his eyes remained visible—but that glimmer carried more weight than a thousand glares. His gaze was the embodiment of silent rage and purpose.
He whispered, his voice unnaturally layered—two voices echoing in unison, one deep and monstrous, the other unmistakably his:
"This... is where Joseph's end begins."
With that, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. Toward the building's front entrance—where innocence had just crossed and where chaos now approached.
Meanwhile — The Demonic Realm
Beneath a sky choked with crimson clouds and thunderous rifts
RUMBLE... CRACKLE
The Demonic Palace loomed like a wounded god—towering, grotesque, and alive with whispers of long-forgotten evil.
Inside, the Demon General walked alone, his heavy footsteps echoing against the black marble floor (THUD... THUD...). Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of unease growing in his chest.
He paused as he neared a tall pillar, hearing voices—two guards whispering with a mixture of excitement and fear.
The first demon's voice crackled like embers:
"I was on watch near the throne room last night... I heard the Lords. They said the invasion of the human world will begin soon."
The second hissed in disbelief:
"The full army? That's not even possible. Our kind can't fully manifest there anymore. Not like before..."
The first demon scoffed, leaning in:
"I thought the same. But someone—someone ancient—offered a solution. A new plan..."
"What plan?"
"Sacrifices. Demons who still possess the strength to cross realms will abduct humans—draining their life force, converting it to raw energy. Enough to open a stable portal."
The second guard stiffened:
"That's forbidden! It nearly destroyed us last time!"
The other voice grew quieter, darker:
"They don't care. And... there's more. The one who first gifted this realm to the Demon Lords? They've returned. And they've made a new pact. With them."
A moment of silence.
"And the vampires?" the second whispered.
"No. Not anymore. Vampires aren't on the humans' side this time. They've been silent. Waiting. And 'they'... whoever they are... have promised the Demon Lord their aid."
The second guard let out a low, guttural chuckle:
"So it begins. No more rotting in this realm between worlds. The real world... soon, it'll burn again."
From the shadows, the Demon General clenched his jaw. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze.
"This... this is madness. Are we really going to repeat the same mistake? Again?"
"The Lord will never listen. He won't even tell us who these mysterious allies are."
"No... this isn't alliance. This is manipulation. Just like before. They're using us."
His inner voice tightened:
"If I can't stop the Lord... maybe I can find help elsewhere. Before it's too late."
Present Time —
Joseph's eyes snapped open.
His lungs fought desperately for air.
"Aaarrghh... Huff... Huffff..."
He gasped like a drowning man breaking the surface. Panic surged through his veins.
Darkness. Endless, smothering darkness.
"Hello?"
His voice cracked.
"Anyone...?"
"Hello... ello... llo..."
The sound came back—twisted, multiplied, like whispers from unseen mouths.
"Anyone... yone... one..."
A sharp RINGING filled his ears. His head throbbed.
No shapes. No outlines. Just void.
"Where am I...?"
He rose slowly, muscles aching as though he'd been crushed under rubble. His hand clutched his side—expecting blood. But he found only torn cloth.
His body... was intact.
"My wounds... I was bleeding... Wasn't I?"
The pain still lingered, phantom-like, but no trace of the damage remained.
Confused, he staggered forward. His foot caught on something.
"Ugh—dammit!"
He stumbled, crashing face-first onto the unseen ground. His palms scraped against something rough. Stone? Or grass?
He tried again to stand—
And the world shifted.
Light.
Not harsh. Gentle. Silver.
Moonlight spilled across a breathtaking vision.
A garden.
Joseph spun around, breath caught in his throat.
"What...? I was just in a void—now this...?"
He stood at the center of a dreamscape. Soft grass beneath his feet. White stone pathways stretching in four directions, converging at a grand marble fountain where crystal water danced in the air.
Above him, blue jacaranda trees swayed in a silent wind, their petals drifting down like snowflakes. Flowers filled the garden in surreal bloom—roses, tulips glistening with dew—yet lining the paths like guardians were pink spider lilies, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Joseph stepped forward, eyes wide, entranced.
"This... This place..." he whispered. "It's beautiful."
Then—
FOOTSTEPS.
Light. Hurried. Approaching.
His instincts flared. He pressed his back against the nearest tree, peering out, breath held.
A five-year-old boy darted into view, racing down the stone path toward the fountain. His oversized beige tunic with tied strings at the collar swayed with each step, trousers loose, giving him an almost ancient look.
Joseph frowned.
"What is this? Some... ancient era? Did I time-travel?"
Before he could think further, a voice echoed across the garden.
"Come back to Mumma!"
The boy shouted back angrily, stopping at the fountain, arms crossed:
"No! You always lock me in this mansion! I want to go out and play!"
Moments later, a woman appeared, rushing after him. She wore a light pink gown, flowing in elegant folds. Her long, dark-brown hair curled softly at the ends.
Joseph froze.
His breath hitched.
As her face came into full view—his eyes widened in disbelief.
And then—
PAIN.
A sudden, crushing wave ripped through his skull. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his head.
"Aaarrgghhh!"
Visions blurred.
The woman's face again—
But now pale. Weak.
She lay on a bed, her breathing shallow.
Her hand reached toward him, caressing his cheek with a trembling gentleness.
Her lips moved, whispering with her final strength:
"Don't blame yourself, honey... What is written in destiny is bound to happen."
Her words dripped with pain—yet overflowed with love.
Joseph's chest heaved, his vision swimming between the garden and the memory—past and present colliding.
The woman's gaze lingered in his mind, as his childhood agony resurfaced.
To Be Continued...