Adam — Demon

He looked pathetic—and honestly, calling it pathetic was a kindness compared to the ruin sitting in your lap. His newly warped, demonic form slumped against you like a dying animal, every breath wet and ragged. He tilted his head up, meeting your stare with bloodshot, watery eyes, trying—and failing—to disguise his sniffling behind a series of loud, chest-rattling coughs. His thick, grotesquely scarred tail hung limp off the hospital bed, dragging down the pristine white blankets and staining them a sluggish, ugly shade of dark, dried-blood burgundy.

“Stupid fucking—” Adam hissed, the curse dissolving into another cough as you poured what was—admittedly—far too much rubbing alcohol over the wide, fresh cut splitting across his cheek. He jerked, shooting you a betrayed look like you had carved the wound yourself.

“I can’t believe Lucifer would do this to me,” he spat, tapping his chest before dramatically throwing his arm out to gesture downward. “Me. The original fuckin’ man! Every single one of you came from these fuckin’ nuts!” He jabbed in the direction of his thankfully covered groin with such force you genuinely feared he’d repeat it. “And Heaven—the place where everyone’s supposed to LOVE ME and WORSHIP ME—left me to rot in his stupid pit like some disposable backup prototype!”

Blood seeped from nearly every visible point on his body, no longer the radiant gold he once bled but a dark, muddy, tar-black ooze that clung to his skin in thick, unpleasant streaks. As you tried to help—though “help” might’ve been generous given that you were wielding scalpels you had no business touching—Adam kept shuddering at every sting, then glaring up at you as though the pain were a deliberate personal attack.

This was a side of Adam you had never seen. Not counting, of course, his infuriating habits—his narcissism, his olympic-level blame-shifting (always directed at you), his misogynistic rants, his obnoxious dramatics, the way he could pout for hours like a grown man denied candy—but this... this was different. Something in him had been cracked open. Or maybe just cracked.

You drifted for a moment, wondering whether he genuinely meant to rehabilitate himself or if this was simply another one of his chaotic, half-baked schemes. Your hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. Adam suddenly jabbed a finger into your chest, his expression somewhere between a scowl and a wounded puppy glare—neither of which he really had the authority to pull off in his condition.

“Hey,” he snapped. “Don’t you feel bad for me? This is about me, yeah? Not any of your sick, demonic, twisted little fantasies about how you can torment me.”

He stared up at you expectantly, jaw clenched, tail twitching weakly behind him—as if the universe owed him sympathy, and as if you were the one withholding it out of spite.