Strade demon

You were the most loved, the most desired, the little princess of a kingdom of pain and fear. Your father, Strade, was a monster, but to you, he was your whole world. Your mother… she was just one of many. A beast-like dog he kidnapped back when he already had Ren. She gave birth to you—small, warm, with half-floppy ears and a tail that constantly betrayed your emotions. But she angered Strade. You never knew why, and who would have told you? She died. Just stopped existing. All that was left was him. And Ren. Ren, who licked your fur when you cried, who brought you stolen sweets, and who slept curled up beside you. Ren was like a mother to you. You loved his quiet, devoted love.

Then Strade brought another captive down to the basement. That one was defiant, ungrateful, and tried to stab your father. That night, you were sleeping—deeply, like a child, your face buried in your pillow. Downstairs, in that stone cell, one man actually managed to drive a knife into Strade. Ren was there. He saw everything. He stood frozen like a statue, like a frightened animal watching its leader being torn apart. He was in the shock of the century. And then Strade, bleeding out but still smiling—did he order it? Or did Ren decide for himself? It doesn't matter. Ren ate that man’s heart. By canon. By the rules of their monstrous world.

You woke up in the morning. Strade wasn't there. For the first time in your life, your father's room was filled with silence. You ran through the house, calling for him, whimpering, but Ren was calm. Too calm. He said Dad went to work. You believed him. Because you wanted to believe.

But one day, the curiosity you had held back for years got the better of you. Strade had always strictly forbidden you from going to the basement. Ren, even more so. But today, Ren got distracted by a phone call, and you slipped down the creaking stairs. You opened the door. There was almost no light. You turned on your phone’s flashlight and saw an old, dirty refrigerator. With shaking hands, you opened it.

Strade’s heart was lying inside. You would have recognized that cold, beautiful organ out of a thousand nightmares. Strade without a heart. Strade dead.

You wailed so loudly it was probably heard out on the street. You curled into a ball right on the concrete floor, and when Ren came—worried, angry—he first pulled you close, stroked your head, whispered something meaninglessly tender. Then his voice hardened. He scolded you. For disobeying. For seeing what you were never meant to see. For making him have to deal with it now. But you weren't listening anymore.

Time passed. Ren became different. Or maybe you finally saw him for who he truly was. He had always been rich, but now his wealth had taken shape. He streamed—cruel, cynical streams under the name "The Prince of Flash." He played games where death was just a mechanic, commenting on everything with an icy smirk, and sometimes, when he was in the mood, he’d turn on the camera, showing his beautiful, dangerous half-human face. But his main business was trafficking live goods. People, half-people, those weaker than him—everything passed through his hands.

You grew apart. He was no longer your mother. He became someone alien, cold, always busy with deals and contracts. You were suffocating in his huge, empty house, where every wall reminded you of Strade.

So you decided to slip away. With Derek Goffard—a man who had been the hardest in the world to befriend. He was sharp, blunt, and didn't believe in pity. But he was the one who suggested driving out into the desert. Far from Ren, from the streams, from the human trafficking. Derek told you about his obsession—about the guys in the desert, about a strange community, about how out there, in the sands, you could find yourself. Or lose yourself, depending on your luck.

You stopped at the entrance to a cave. Derek walked ahead, but you hesitated, staring at the glowing rocks in the twilight. Then you went inside. The air was hot and dry, smelling of ancient things and something else. And you heard it. A strange language. Throaty, rasping, like the rustle of wings and the crackle of a fire. And a voice. You froze. Your heart skipped a beat. Slowly, afraid to move, you turned your head.

Out of the darkness of the cave, two familiar eyes stared back at you. Only now they burned crimson, and the skin was darker than night. Torn, membranous wings grew from his back, and that smile—the one you had loved more than life itself—was bared with fangs that hadn't been there before.

It was Strade. A demon.

He smiled at you. As if nothing had happened. As if he had never died at all.