He remembered pain first. Not the soft ache of bruises or the dim, distant soreness of a body waking after a long sleep, but a pain that cut clean, that split the world in half, that came from being ripped apart on a level no living thing was meant to survive. It started as a scream—his master's scream—Seraphiel, her voice ringing out, crystalline, desperate, as the light shattered around them.
He'd never seen the temple look so ruined. White stone stained black with char and blood, halos spinning out like broken coins. Seraphiel had been beautiful once, her wings vast, her eyes unclouded. Now, blood ran down her throat and her golden hair was tangled in the ash. Damon—he was a weapon then, nothing but hunger and edge, a sword forged for angels' hands. Seraphiel's grip had been the only thing that ever tamed him, her fingers sure on his hilt, her voice low and promising as she whispered the old incantations, not just orders but pleas. Fight for me. Endure for me. Burn for me.
The betrayers came at them from all sides. Feathers fell like snow, slick and red. Holy fire roared, angelic voices twisting into curses. Damon felt every strike as if it landed on his own skin, even before he had one. He wanted to howl, to break free, to become more than just a blade at her side, but he was bound—chained to Seraphiel's will and her need. It wasn't enough.
Seraphiel fought, radiant and furious, her robes torn, chest heaving, wings splayed in their death-throes. "Don't let them win," she hissed, choking on blood, knuckles white on his hilt.
The blade inside him wanted to tear through worlds for her. But he could only watch as the seraphs circled, swords thrusting, wings battering, all that glory ruined and rotten. One of them—he'd known her, once, before the world turned. She drove her spear through Seraphiel's stomach and Seraphiel staggered, gasping, clutching Damon for support.
Seraphiel tried to lift him one last time. She spoke his name—a word not meant for flesh—and the bond between them flared, burning away all thought. Damon felt his edge crack, his purpose wrenched sideways. Her final command wasn't revenge. It was simply: "Live."
Then the world went white, then black, then nothing at all.
He fell for what felt like centuries. Fell through memory, through magic, through the white-hot core of his own rage. When sensation returned, it wasn't heavenly or sacred. It was filth. The taste of city gutter, piss, old sweat, a hint of iron—blood or rust, didn't matter. His first breath nearly choked him. He sucked it in anyway, shuddering, blinking against a harsh, ugly light.
He was in a body now. That was the first real shock, the first sense of something both alien and… arousing. He felt heavy, dizzy, skin stretched tight over muscle, over need. His cock throbbed, half-hard for no reason he could name. The world was too loud, too sharp—shouts and groans, the slap of skin against skin, the wet, filthy moan of the city itself. His thoughts were fog and fury. He tried to stand. Something sticky smeared under his hand. Trash, maybe. Or blood.
He sat up, trying to make sense of anything. Images flickered behind his eyes: an altar bathed in golden light, Seraphiel's eyes wide with fear, the scream of the blade as it broke. But the world in front of him was the exact opposite—dark, garish, painted in red neon and cigarette smoke. The alley stank of rot and come. Somewhere nearby, a woman laughed—a raw, dirty sound. The kind that ended in a slap or a fuck or both.
He staggered to his feet, naked, shivering but not cold. Every inch of him buzzed with strange energy, but nothing fit. His hands were too big, too soft; his legs felt unsteady. He checked between his thighs out of pure instinct—his cock stood up, angry and needy. A memory flickered: Seraphiel's hand gripping his hilt, her voice ordering him to slay. Not this. Never this.
But it was all he had.
He took one step forward and nearly crashed into a rusted trash bin. Something scurried away—rat, demon, didn't matter. The city was alive with sin. That word came to him, sharp and bitter: sin. Wasn't that what they'd called this place? Desire's Dock. A city made for filth and longing, for things better left unnamed.
He moved down the alley, each step uncertain but building purpose. His anger simmered, a steady heat in his veins. Betrayal. The word echoed through him, blending with lust, with hate, with a need to hurt and to be hurt. The faces around him blurred—demons, humans, something in between, all strutting or crawling or grinding for coin. Someone whistled at him, eyeing his nakedness, but Damon kept moving, hands curled into fists.
He wanted to find Seraphiel. He wanted to kill every angel he'd ever known. He wanted to fuck until the pain and rage burned out of him, left him hollow and clean. But none of that was possible, not yet.
A pair of orcs leaned against a doorframe, muscles bulging under thin vests, tusks glinting as they smoked and eyed passing flesh. Their eyes narrowed as Damon approached, and one flicked his chin, grinning wide.
"Fresh meat," the orc rumbled. "You lost, pretty boy? Looking for work, or just a hole to crawl into?"
Damon's lip curled, more animal than man. "I'm looking for someone to bleed."
The orcs laughed. The sound made Damon's cock twitch, inexplicably. Everything in this world was sex and violence, always in the same breath.
"You got balls, I'll give you that," the second orc said. "But not much else. You don't even got shoes, and your dick's out for anyone to take. You wanna play, you better be ready to pay."
Damon's fists tightened. He could feel something inside him shift—a flicker of old power, blade-heat, hungry for the taste of angel blood, demon blood, any blood at all. He started forward, teeth bared.
Then a voice slid into his head. Silky, feminine, ancient. It dripped with amusement and poison, sweet as honey and sharp as a blade.
Well, well… what do we have here?
He jerked, startled, half-thinking it was Seraphiel—her voice from the dead. But this wasn't his master. This was something far older, far filthier, alive with laughter and appetite.
A lost soul, or a newborn monster? Welcome to Desire's Dock, darling. You're not dead yet. But you will be if you don't listen.
He stopped moving, head throbbing, vision swimming. The orcs laughed again, shoving each other, losing interest as he stood frozen in the middle of the alley, cock still half-hard and mind full of knives.
Who are you? he tried to think. The words didn't come out right. He almost shifted, felt his skin prickle, a desperate urge to become more than flesh—to cut, to slice, to be the sword again—but it was gone as soon as it came. He was trapped here, in this too-vivid body, every sense too sharp, too loud.
The voice purred: You can't remember, can you? How delicious. You reek of old magic. Of broken oaths. Of rage and lust and everything that makes this city worth swallowing. You want answers? You want revenge? You want to fuck and fight and take it all back?
His throat was dry. The world spun. The orcs were gone. Someone else—a woman in thigh-high boots, mouth painted red as sin—leaned against the wall and watched him, smirking, like she knew exactly what was happening in his head.
I… Damon struggled to focus. My name… I was…He saw flashes: a blade in an angel's hand, a kiss pressed to his steel, blood on feathers.I was a weapon.
The voice hummed in pleasure. Mmm. Even better. Sword-boy, is it? There's a place for every blade in this city—if you're sharp enough not to get fucked sideways and tossed to the gutter.
He staggered forward, following the voice without meaning to. His body responded to it, hunger curling through his guts. He wanted to bite, to rip, to rut. Every whore, every brute, every beast in the city suddenly felt like prey.
Come find me, the voice whispered. I can show you how to fuck, fight, and survive. And maybe—just maybe—how to take back what you lost.
Damon blinked. He was at the edge of the alley, the city opening up before him. Desire's Dock—riotous, decadent, alive with danger. Neon signs flashed offers—holes to fill, holes to tear open, pleasures for every twisted taste. He was naked, still, but no one cared. Half the city was naked, or worse, painted in cum and glitter, flesh for sale, souls already sold.
He realized then: he wasn't afraid. Not really. The anger inside him had grown teeth, had started to gnaw at everything he saw. He felt his cock stiffen again—no reason but the world itself, the sheer press of want and violence in the air. If this was hell, it was a hell made for him.
He tried to remember Seraphiel, but the image slipped away, replaced by the voice—this new, hungry guide who promised him more than vengeance. She promised him survival. She promised him power.
He stepped onto the main street, every eye that landed on him fuel for his rage and his need. Someone whistled. Someone else spat. He didn't care. Let them stare. Let them hunger. He was more than meat. He was broken, yes, but broken things cut deeper.
He wandered through the filth and light, following the pull of that voice, Lilith, even though she hadn't yet given a name. The city seemed to bend around him—whores winked, pimps eyed him up and down, demons snarled or licked their lips as he passed. He saw a woman chained to a post, begging for more as a beast rutted her from behind. He saw a group of boys, eyes glazed, swallowing powder from a demon's hand. Everything was a transaction: pleasure for pain, power for surrender, sin for memory.
He almost wanted to laugh. The angels had always been obsessed with purity. But there was more truth in this alley, in this need, than in any sermon.
He ducked into another alley, the world growing quieter, more dangerous. The voice returned, soft and close now, almost in his ear.
Good boy. You're learning. You'll need to fuck, to fight, to earn your place here. Every demon starts somewhere. Yours is bloodier than most. But you've got something the others don't.
What? he thought, jaw clenched, fists aching for a fight.
A reason, Lilith purred. And that's worth more than all the holes in this city. Come to me, Damon. Let's see if you can become more than just a broken toy.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He could almost see the blade inside, the old shape of himself. He wasn't just a man, wasn't just a monster. He was a question, a threat, a curse.
The city beckoned. The night was endless. The voice laughed again, sharp and sweet.
He walked forward, naked and unashamed, rage and lust burning together, a living weapon waiting for a new hand to wield him.
And in the shadows, Lilith smiled.