Prologue — Inside the Demon
Prologue — Inside the Demon
Sometimes, he felt something rotting inside him. Not the body — the soul. It decayed slowly, drop by drop, like poison drifting through his blood, left by an unseen hand.
Damien Vale had long since stopped wondering if he was normal. The day he came home and found his family — lifeless, cold, their faces twisted in terror — he understood: the person he had once been was gone.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He simply stood there until his legs went numb and the hollow in his chest began to hum like static. Later, the police came. They led him away from the scene — a scene that would replay every night behind his eyes. People called it shock. Said it was natural. That time would heal. But Damien knew the truth: something inside him had died before the blood on the floor had even cooled.
The investigation led nowhere. The intruders who had shattered his world vanished without a trace. No fingerprints. No cameras. No witnesses. In court, the judge merely shrugged — as if discussing a clerical error, not a massacre. Damien remembered his face: weary, indifferent. And something within him cracked. Not in rage — in chilling calm.
From that moment, his life changed. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. The darkness came like a slow tide. He studied, laughed, even smiled like everyone else. But inside, there was only silence. He felt like a spectator trapped beneath his own skin. And sometimes, at night, he sensed something scratching deep within, trying to crawl free. He told himself it was grief. Tried to believe it.
Until that night.
It began like so many others — rain on the windows, a book in his lap, the soft glow of a lamp. And then — a voice. Not loud. Not frightening. Just… foreign. It spoke from inside his mind, like a whisper lost between thoughts. Damien froze. For a moment, he thought he was going mad. But the voice didn’t fade. It spoke softly, like an old friend returning after years apart.
But it wasn’t a friend.
It was something ancient. It offered no name. Made no threats. It offered. Not forgiveness. Not revenge. Feeling. Life.
Damien resisted. Told himself it was stress, delusion. But day by day, the voice became clearer. And then, the dagger appeared. It hadn’t been there before. Now it sat on his desk, as if it had always belonged. Curved. Dark. Etched with symbols that pulsed with meaning his mind refused to comprehend. The moment he touched it, he understood — it wasn’t a weapon. It was a key.
He waited. Watched. Researched. His first target was a man who had walked free after committing murder. Damien hesitated, but the voice already knew. It didn’t command. It tempted. And when Damien’s fingers finally closed around the dagger’s hilt, there was no turning back. It wasn’t bloodlust. It was balance.
The man was subdued, taken to the catacombs beneath the cemetery. Everything was ready. Beneath stone arches and suffocating shadows, Damien drove the blade through the man’s chest for the first time.
It wasn’t just a killing.
The victim screamed — not with his mouth, but with his soul. Through the blade, Damien felt everything: fear, agony, the crushing weight of guilt. Echoes of the harm he’d caused others surged through the steel and into Damien himself. He trembled. Vomited. Didn’t sleep for three days. But for the first time in years, the silence inside him was real.
That night, Damien made rules. A code. To stay human. To keep the demon from taking everything. He would only kill the truly guilty. The ones without doubt. He became an investigator, a psychologist, a hacker — a shadow. He listened. Broke into systems. Followed. By day, he stood in court. By night, he passed judgment. Each execution became a ritual. He gathered evidence. Prepared the altar. The bodies vanished, but the consequences remained — grieving families, headlines, attention he didn’t want. Every act carried risk.
But without it, the demon would devour him from within.
Now, each death is a calculated offering. He brings them to the catacombs, binds them, stares into their eyes, and asks one question:
“What do you feel in the face of death?”
He records their name. Their final words. Only then does he strike.
And afterward, there is only ash.
Damien Vale knows what he is. A monster. But among monsters, he chooses who the darkness takes.
And in those rare moments, when the voice — mocking, falsely tender — falls silent, Damien feels, if only faintly, that he is still alive.
