The Demon in me

The moon reflected in the dark room, lighting up the old wooden cracked bed, the leaking ceiling, and the torn curtains. The room gave off an icy cold energy that would make anyone freeze in a second. Lucious stood in front of the window, thoughts running through his mind. It had been 800 years, and Lucious didn’t know who he was. He often heard stories about a man who came out of nothing, not molded, not made, just came out of nothing and made heaven and earth. He often thought he was "God," but his dreams and actions said otherwise. Lucious had been having terrible nightmares he couldn’t control, no matter how powerful he was. He was feared. People didn’t need words or actions; just a stare, or his aura, and they were already dead. Ironically. He was the son of the Devil and the son of the most beautiful witch in the coven—the witch who caught the Devil’s eye, not with her powers, just by her looks. Not everything was perfect. Yes, his looks were to die for. Even men who claimed to be straight doubted themselves. But his personality? Lucious was worse than the Devil. He was ruthless, manipulative, unforgiving, unlovable. He saw love as a waste of IQ between two mortals. And worse, he used people’s thoughts to his own advantage. Buried in his own thoughts, the sun began to rise, and his eyes began to change color to mint green. As usual, he hadn’t slept for the past 750 years. As a hybrid, a little human remained in him, which made him a bit tired. The sun set. The sun shone brightly on his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. He went to the bathroom to freshen up and continue his day like any other. He was the most powerful and richest man on the whole continent. Of course he was rich—when you can read people’s thoughts and take their “hard-earned” ideas, wealth comes easily. In a two-bedroom flat, a dying man lay on a mat. Mr. Alex was suffering from a stroke, with no money and no family to help him. Adira walked into the room to check on her father. “Good morning, Dad,” she said, bending over to feel his temperature. “Better than last night, thank God,” she said in relief. “Dad, I might be a bit late. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be staying over at Scarlet’s,” she lied. Adira’s world had been cruel and bitter. When she was 19, she, her parents, and her cute little sister were coming back from a movie when their car was chased by other cars. One truck crashed into her parents’ car. The world stopped for her in that moment. Screeching metal, shattering glass, the smell of smoke and blood—everything burned in her memory. She saw her mother’s hand reach out for hers and her little sister’s small, terrified face pressed against the seatbelt. And then—silence. Her mom, her sister… gone. Her father barely alive, screaming but trapped. People crowded around, some frozen, some indifferent. She screamed for help, clutching her sister’s lifeless body, her tears mixing with the blood on her hands. No one helped fast enough. No one could save them. The universe had been cruel. Everything happened too fast, too sharp, too real. She worked hard to survive. She worked at clubs, slaughterhouses, restaurants, and even Photoshop. Nothing ever worked out. Today, she was going to work at a company she applied to two months ago. They had finally called her in for an interview.