# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 3: Seeds of Corruption
---
Aylin's apartment was, by celestial standards, approximately the size of a moderately ambitious closet.
Demri stood in the center of what she had optimistically described as the "living room" and tried to reconcile his expectations with reality. The space contained a worn sofa that sagged in the middle, a coffee table bearing the circular stains of countless mugs, a small television perched on a stack of books, and approximately seventeen plants in various states of thriving. The walls were covered with an eclectic mix of artwork—some framed, some taped directly to the paint—and the single window looked out onto a brick wall perhaps six feet away.
"I know it's not much," Aylin said, misreading his expression as dismay. "But the location is great, and the landlord doesn't ask too many questions. Plus, Mrs. Petrova downstairs makes incredible baklava, and she shares whenever she bakes."
"It's perfect," Demri said, and meant it.
In heaven, he had occupied chambers that stretched for miles, filled with artifacts collected over millennia and furniture carved from solidified starlight. He had found them cold. Empty. Monuments to status rather than homes in any meaningful sense. But this cramped apartment, with its mismatched furniture and abundance of greenery, radiated something those celestial halls had never possessed: life.
"Your room is through there." Aylin pointed to a door on the far side of the living room. "It's small, but there's a bed and a dresser. The bathroom is between our rooms—we'll have to share, but I promise I don't take forever in the shower." She paused, a thought occurring to her. "Do you... do you need to shower? I realized I never asked about your, um, situation. With memory loss, sometimes people forget basic self-care routines."
The question was so earnest, so genuinely concerned, that Demri almost laughed. "I remember how to bathe, yes. Thank you for checking."
"Right. Of course. Sorry, that was a weird thing to ask." Aylin's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she busied herself with adjusting a plant that did not need adjusting. "I'll let you get settled. There are some clothes in the dresser—they belonged to my ex, and he never came back for them. They might be a bit big on you, but they're better than..." She gestured vaguely at the hospital scrubs he was still wearing.
"Your generosity continues to astound me," Demri said. "I am in your debt."
"Please stop talking like that. It's weird."
He blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you're a medieval knight or something. 'Your generosity continues to astound me,'" she mimicked, adopting a deep, formal tone. "'I am in your debt, my lady.'"
"I did not call you 'my lady.'"
"You were thinking it. I could tell." She grinned, the embarrassment of moments before already forgotten. "Look, we're roommates now. That means casual conversation only. No declarations of eternal gratitude, no formal pronouncements, no..." She waved her hand in a circular motion. "Whatever that voice you're doing is."
*The voice I am doing*, Demri thought, *is the voice I have used for over a thousand years.* But he recognized the wisdom in her words. If he wanted to navigate the mortal world successfully, he would need to adapt his manner of speaking to fit his surroundings. Formality that commanded respect in heaven would only make him seem strange and off-putting here.
"Understood," he said, making a conscious effort to relax his posture and soften his tone. "I'll work on it."
"Good. Now go take a shower. You smell like hospital."
---
The shower was an experience.
In heaven, cleansing had been a matter of will—a thought, a flash of divine light, and one was purified. The process took less than a second and left no residue. Here, Demri found himself standing under a stream of water that fluctuated unpredictably between scalding and freezing, surrounded by bottles containing substances with names like "Eucalyptus Mint Revival" and "Ocean Breeze Moisturizing Complex."
He picked up one of the bottles and examined it skeptically. "Shampoo," he read aloud. "For hair that shines like the sun."
*Your hair once actually shone like the sun*, the curse observed. *Now you must rely on chemical compounds. How the mighty have fallen.*
"Thank you for that commentary," Demri muttered, squeezing a blob of the substance into his palm. "Most helpful."
The shampoo smelled aggressively of synthetic flowers. Demri worked it through his hair—which was, he now realized, significantly longer than he had thought—and tried to rinse it out without getting any in his eyes. He failed. The burning sensation that followed was educational.
"Is everything okay in there?" Aylin's voice came through the door, muffled but concerned. "You've been in there for like forty minutes."
Forty minutes? It had felt like perhaps five. Demri hastily turned off the water—or tried to, but the faucet proved unexpectedly resistant, requiring a combination of twisting and pulling that seemed designed to confound—and stepped out onto a mat that squelched unpleasantly beneath his feet.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Just... learning the mechanisms."
A pause. "The mechanisms of showering?"
"The mechanisms of your plumbing. It is more complex than I anticipated."
Another pause, longer this time. Then: "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
---
The clothes Aylin's ex-boyfriend had left behind were, as promised, too large. The jeans required a belt cinched to its tightest setting, and the shirts hung from Demri's frame like flags from a pole. But they were clean and functional, which was more than could be said for the hospital scrubs currently decomposing in the bathroom trash bin.
He emerged from his room to find Aylin on the sofa, laptop balanced on her knees, typing with the focused intensity of someone meeting a deadline. She glanced up as he entered.
"Better," she said approvingly. "You almost look like a normal person."
"Almost?"
"The posture gives you away. You stand like you're expecting someone to take a portrait." She patted the cushion beside her. "Sit. Slouch. Practice being human."
Demri lowered himself onto the sofa with careful deliberation. The cushions were softer than he had expected, and he found himself sinking into them in a manner that felt undignified. "Like this?"
"More slouching. Less 'I'm sitting for a royal portrait.'" Aylin demonstrated, letting her shoulders curve forward and her spine relax into a shape that would have scandalized any celestial etiquette master. "See? Comfortable. Casual. Not at all like you have a stick up your—"
"I understand the principle."
"Good. Practice it." She returned her attention to her laptop, fingers resuming their rapid dance across the keyboard. "I'm finishing up some reports for work, but after that I thought I could show you around the neighborhood. Help you get oriented."
"That would be appreciated." Demri tried to slouch but found his body resisting the unfamiliar posture. It felt wrong, like trying to write with his non-dominant hand. "May I ask what you're working on?"
"Grant application. The community center is trying to expand our youth program, but we need funding. Which means I get to spend my evening off writing ten pages about 'measurable outcomes' and 'stakeholder engagement.'" She made a face. "Don't ever get into nonprofit work. The paperwork will eat your soul."
*Speaking of eating souls*, the curse interjected, *have you noticed how her light seems particularly bright tonight? It would be so easy—*
Demri clamped down on the thought with an effort that made his temples throb. "I will keep that in mind."
---
The neighborhood was called Millbrook, and it occupied that peculiar urban territory between gentrification and decay. Coffee shops with exposed brick and artisanal pour-overs sat beside bodegas with bulletproof glass partitions. Young professionals in expensive athleisure shared sidewalks with elderly residents who had lived there for decades and viewed the newcomers with undisguised suspicion.
"That's the good grocery store," Aylin said, pointing to a modest storefront with hand-painted signs in the window. "The big chain store is cheaper, but Mr. Chen actually knows what a ripe avocado looks like. And that's the laundromat—you'll need it, since the building doesn't have machines. And that—" She stopped, her expression souring. "That used to be a bookstore."
The building she indicated was clearly undergoing renovation. Construction barriers surrounded it, and workers in hard hats could be seen through the gaps, gutting the interior with industrial efficiency.
"What happened?"
"Progress." The word carried a bitter edge. "The owner couldn't afford the rent increase, so some development company bought the lease. They're turning it into a juice bar." She shook her head. "Mrs. Okonkwo ran that store for thirty years. Thirty years, and now she's 'relocating'—which is a nice way of saying she got pushed out."
Demri studied the construction site with new eyes. In heaven, change had been slow and deliberate, governed by cosmic cycles that stretched across eons. Here, it seemed, change came swift and merciless, caring nothing for history or attachment. "That seems unjust."
"Welcome to late-stage capitalism." Aylin resumed walking, her pace slightly faster than before. "Come on. I want to show you the community center before it gets too late."
---
The Millbrook Community Center was a squat brick building that had clearly seen better days. The paint on its exterior was peeling, the parking lot was more pothole than pavement, and the sign above the entrance had lost several letters, leaving it to proclaim itself the "Millbr k Co muni y C nter."
But inside, the atmosphere was entirely different. The walls were covered with colorful murals depicting scenes of community life—families sharing meals, children playing, elderly couples dancing. Bulletin boards overflowed with flyers for classes, events, and services. And everywhere Demri looked, there were people: children doing homework at long tables, teenagers clustered around a computer station, adults engaged in animated conversation.
"This is where I work," Aylin said, and the pride in her voice was unmistakable. "We do a little bit of everything—after-school programs, job training, counseling, legal aid. Basically, if someone in the community needs help, they come here."
Demri surveyed the bustling space with something approaching awe. The light in here was almost overwhelming—not the physical light, which was harsh fluorescent, but the spiritual radiance of so many pure souls gathered in one place. Children whose faith had not yet been touched by cynicism. Adults who still believed in the possibility of change. Even the teenagers, theoretically at their most skeptical, carried sparks of hope that flickered beneath their carefully cultivated apathy.
*A buffet*, the curse whispered hungrily. *So many lights waiting to be extinguished.*
Demri's stomach lurched with a nausea that had nothing to do with mortal digestion. "It's remarkable," he managed, forcing the words past the sudden tightness in his throat. "You're doing important work here."
"We try." Aylin waved at a woman behind the front desk, who waved back with a knowing smile that suggested she had noticed Demri and was already formulating questions. "That's Maria. She's the center's heart and soul—knows everyone in the neighborhood and their extended families going back three generations. Come on, I'll introduce you."
"Actually—" Demri touched her arm, stopping her mid-stride. "Could we perhaps take a moment? I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed."
It was not a lie. The concentration of pure souls was having an effect on him that he had not anticipated—a physical pressure that seemed to compress his lungs and cloud his vision. The hunger stirred restlessly, demanding that he do something, corrupt someone, fulfill his cosmic mandate.
Aylin's expression shifted to concern. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just... adjusting."
"Adjusting to what?"
*To not devouring the innocent light of everyone in this building*, Demri thought but did not say. "To being around so many people. I'm not used to crowds."
"Fair enough." She guided him toward a quieter corner, near an emergency exit that probably should have been alarmed but wasn't. "Take a minute. Breathe. We don't have to meet everyone tonight."
Demri leaned against the wall and focused on his breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth, a rhythm that seemed to help manage the hunger. The curse whispered its frustration, but the whispers were quieter here, muffled by his concentration.
After a moment, Aylin spoke again: "You know, for someone with no memory, you have some pretty specific triggers. Crowds, hospitals, lying in the middle of the road..."
"I have layers."
"Clearly." She studied him with those perceptive dark eyes. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"You may ask. I cannot promise an answer."
"When you look at people—and I mean really look, not just glance—what do you see?"
The question caught him off guard. He turned to face her, searching for the angle, the trap. But her expression held nothing but genuine curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not sure, exactly. It's just... when we walked in here, you looked around like you were seeing something the rest of us couldn't. Like there was something visible to you that's invisible to everyone else." She paused. "I know that sounds crazy."
It did not sound crazy. It sounded like the most perceptive observation anyone had made about him since his fall. And for a moment—just a moment—Demri considered telling her the truth. Explaining the curse, the mission, the hunger that gnawed at him whenever he was near the pure ones.
But the moment passed, and practicality reasserted itself. The truth would only drive her away, and he needed her—needed her guidance, her shelter, her steadying presence. Confession would have to wait.
"I see people," he said carefully. "I see their potential. Their... light."
Aylin's eyebrows rose. "Their light?"
"The capacity for goodness that exists within them. Some shine brighter than others, but it's there in everyone. Or almost everyone." He gestured toward the main hall, where the children were still bent over their homework. "Those children, for instance. They glow."
"You're either deeply spiritual or completely insane." Aylin smiled to take the sting from the words. "Possibly both."
"Possibly."
She laughed—that warm, unexpected sound he was beginning to look forward to—and the tension of the moment dissolved. "All right, Mr. Mystical. Let's get out of here before you start seeing auras or something."
---
They stopped at a pizza place on the way home, a cramped storefront with a counter and no seating where a man named Giovanni made pies with the focused intensity of a sculptor working in marble. Aylin ordered two slices with pepperoni; Demri, uncertain of mortal food preferences, ordered the same.
"First time eating pizza?" Giovanni asked, apparently reading something in Demri's expression as he studied the slice.
"First time in a while," Demri hedged.
"It's pizza, not rocket science. You fold it in half and shove it in your mouth." Giovanni demonstrated with an imaginary slice. "Simple."
Demri folded his slice as instructed. The grease immediately ran down his wrist and dripped onto his borrowed shirt. "I see."
"You'll get it," Giovanni said, not unkindly. "Practice makes perfect."
They ate on the sidewalk outside, leaning against a lamppost as the evening crowd flowed past. The pizza was, Demri had to admit, extraordinarily good—a combination of flavors and textures that his mortal palate found almost overwhelming. The grease was less pleasant, but Aylin assured him it was "part of the experience."
"So," she said between bites, "tomorrow I thought we could start working on getting you some ID. There's a social services office downtown that helps people in your situation. Amnesia, no documentation, all that. It'll take time, but once you have a basic identity, you can start looking for work."
"Work," Demri repeated. The concept was not entirely foreign—he had observed mortals at their labors for millennia—but the idea of participating directly was novel. "What kind of work?"
"That depends on what you can do. Any skills you remember? Anything you're particularly good at?"
*Corrupting the pure of heart*, the curse suggested. *Extinguishing hope. Plunging souls into despair.*
"I was good at... administration," Demri said, seizing on the most neutral celestial duty he could think of. "Organization. Managing complex systems."
"So, like, office work? That's actually really useful. There are tons of temp agencies that place people in administrative roles." Aylin's enthusiasm was genuine. "I can give you some names tomorrow. With your vocabulary and that formal manner of yours, you'd probably do great at a law firm or something."
"A law firm."
"Sure. They love people who talk like they're about to deliver a proclamation."
Demri smiled despite himself. "You find my manner of speaking amusing."
"Endlessly. But also kind of charming, in a weird way." She finished her pizza and wiped her hands on a napkin with more thoroughness than the task required. "Listen, I know I said no declarations of gratitude, but... I'm glad you're here. It's nice having someone around. The apartment gets lonely sometimes."
The admission was unexpected. Aylin projected such confidence, such self-assurance, that the idea of her experiencing loneliness had not occurred to him. But of course she did. She was human, and loneliness was woven into the fabric of mortal existence—the price paid for consciousness, for the awareness of oneself as separate from all others.
"I am glad to be here as well," he said, and realized it was true.
---
They returned to the apartment as full darkness settled over the city. Aylin resumed her work on the grant application while Demri, uncertain what to do with himself, explored the small space more thoroughly.
The bookshelf in the corner held an eclectic collection: philosophy texts beside romance novels, historical biographies stacked atop science fiction paperbacks. The plants, he now noticed, were labeled with small handwritten tags identifying each species. And on the refrigerator, held in place by magnets from various tourist destinations, were photographs—Aylin with her parents at what appeared to be a graduation ceremony, Aylin with a group of children at the community center, Aylin alone on a mountaintop, arms spread wide as if embracing the sky.
"That's from last summer," Aylin said, noticing his attention on the mountain photograph. "I did a solo hiking trip through the Cascades. Two weeks, just me and the wilderness."
"It looks peaceful."
"It was. Exhausting, but peaceful." She closed her laptop with a satisfied sigh. "Grant application complete. Now I just have to wait three to six months for them to probably reject it."
"Why would they reject it?"
"Because everyone's applying for the same pot of money, and there's never enough to go around. But you have to try anyway." She stood, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm going to bed. You should too—tomorrow's going to be busy."
"I will. Thank you, Aylin. For everything."
"What did I say about declarations of—"
"For the pizza," he interrupted smoothly. "Thank you for the pizza."
She grinned. "You're learning. Good night, Demri."
"Good night."
---
Sleep did not come easily.
Demri lay in the borrowed bed, staring at the borrowed ceiling, wearing borrowed clothes, and contemplated the strangeness of his existence. Twenty-four hours ago, he had been lying in a hospital room, uncertain of everything except his own condemnation. Now he had a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and something approaching hope for the future.
*You cannot escape your nature*, the curse reminded him. *This interlude is temporary. The hunger will not be denied forever.*
"Perhaps," Demri whispered into the darkness. "But perhaps not."
*You think this woman can save you? She is mortal. Fragile. She will age and wither and die while you remain unchanged. And when she is gone, the hunger will still be there, waiting.*
The words carried truth, and Demri felt it settle into his bones. He was not human, no matter how convincingly he learned to imitate them. His existence operated on a different timescale, governed by different rules. Aylin would grow old and die; he would not. Their paths had intersected by chance, but they could not travel together forever.
But perhaps they did not need to. Perhaps the point was not eternal companionship but momentary connection—the simple act of two beings, however different, choosing to help each other through the darkness.
*Romantic nonsense*, the curse sneered. *You are a corruptor. That is what you were made for. That is what you will become.*
"We shall see," Demri said, and closed his eyes.
---
The next morning brought challenges Demri had not anticipated.
The social services office, it turned out, was not merely a place where documents were issued. It was a bureaucratic labyrinth designed, as far as Demri could tell, to test the patience of anyone who dared enter. Forms needed to be filled out in triplicate. Identification required supporting documentation that could only be obtained through identification. Every answer led to three new questions, and every question required a different window.
"This is maddening," Demri said after their fourth hour in the building. "Surely there must be a more efficient process."
"Welcome to government services." Aylin's tone suggested she had made this journey before. "Just smile and nod and answer their questions. We're almost done."
They were not, in fact, almost done. Three more hours passed before they emerged, clutching a temporary document that would allow Demri to exist—on paper, at least—as a resident of the city. He stared at it in disbelief.
"That's it? Seven hours for a piece of paper?"
"That's it. And count yourself lucky—some people wait months."
As they walked toward the exit, Demri became aware of a disturbance behind them. A man was arguing with one of the clerks, his voice rising in frustration. Something about a denied application, a missed deadline, a system that didn't care whether he lived or died.
"It's my daughter's medication!" the man shouted. "She needs it! And you're telling me to wait another six weeks?"
The clerk's response was inaudible, but the man's reaction—a mixture of despair and rage—was eloquent. He turned away from the window, fists clenched, and Demri could see the light within him flickering dangerously. Not a pure one, exactly, but not corrupt either. Simply a man at the end of his rope, teetering on the edge of something he would not be able to take back.
*Now*, the curse whispered. *Now is your moment. A single push, and he will fall.*
Demri felt the hunger surge, felt his legs moving toward the man before conscious thought could intervene. The power within him—diminished but not destroyed—stirred in anticipation. One word, delivered with the right inflection, and the man's frustration would curdle into something darker. Something permanent.
He opened his mouth.
"Excuse me."
The man turned, eyes blazing with directionless anger. "What?"
And Demri found himself saying: "I couldn't help overhearing. Your daughter needs medication?"
*No. What are you doing?*
"Yeah. She's got epilepsy. The pharmacy won't fill it without insurance approval, and these—" He gestured at the building around them. "These people won't process the approval without forms I don't have because they lost them the first time I submitted them."
Demri nodded slowly. "That sounds extremely frustrating."
"Frustrating doesn't begin to—" The man stopped, some of the anger draining from his posture. "Sorry. I shouldn't yell at you. You're not the one who screwed up."
"No need to apologize. The system appears to be designed to create frustration." Demri glanced at Aylin, who was watching the interaction with undisguised curiosity. "My friend works at a community center that assists with these kinds of situations. Perhaps they could help expedite your daughter's case."
*What are you doing? This is the opposite of corruption!*
The man's expression shifted from anger to hope—tentative, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless. "Really? You think they could help?"
"I think it's worth trying." Demri produced one of the community center's cards that Aylin had given him the night before. "Here. Ask for Maria. Tell her Aylin sent you."
The man took the card, staring at it as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning swimmer. "I... thank you. I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll take care of your daughter. That's thanks enough."
The man nodded, tucked the card carefully into his pocket, and walked away. His shoulders were still hunched, his burden still heavy—but the flickering light within him had stabilized. For now, at least, he would not fall.
*You fool*, the curse hissed. *You absolute fool. That was an opportunity squandered.*
But as Demri turned to find Aylin smiling at him with unmistakable approval, he found that he did not care.
"That was really good," she said. "Quick thinking."
"I learned from your example."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." She linked her arm through his with easy familiarity. "Come on. Let's go home."
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