The target wasn't worth the asking price.
Luke Hayes kept the rifle steady on the rooftop, the barrel leveled at a third-floor window of a crumbling tenement in South Atlanta.
The target was two minutes late, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the silence.
No traffic.
No wind.
No birds.
Luke could hear his own labored breathing. Something felt wrong — not gut-level wrong. Engineered wrong.
Movement.
His eyes flicked to the window. Through the rifle's scope, the target came into view.
Julia Lane.
Twenty-four hours ago, an anonymous client had paid for her death.
A biotech scientist working for an underground pharmaceutical seller, Lane had just synthesized a serum thirty times stronger than any steroid on the market.
A single dose could turn an average man into a superhuman.
On the other side of the window, she ran to her desk. There were papers hastily scattered on its surface scribbled with a mess of complex formulas and equations. There was fear in her eyes as she scrambled to gather up the priceless work.
But she didn't realize it was too late.
Luke aimed his gun at her head from the rooftop. He had her perfectly in his sights.
Exhale. Squeeze. Done.
Luke's finger began to tighten around the trigger—
—and the scope went black.
For a second, he thought it was his gear. Then the city below him vanished into darkness. Every window. Every street lamp. Even the distant skyline — gone.
A blackout? No. It was too artificial. Too precise.
"Shit."
He lowered the rifle just as movement flickered behind him. A shimmer — something cloaked.
He reached for the sidearm at his belt, but it was already too late.
A sharp crack at the base of his skull sent his vision lurching.
Then nothing.
It felt empty. Dark. Lonely.
Not the kind you feel when you sleep. This one felt too real. It was swallowing him whole and he couldn't move.
In the endless void of his mind, he could hear muffled voices from seemingly nowhere.
"We need to increase the sedative. His brain activity is picking back up again."
The darkness peeled back just enough to reveal white fluorescent light and the silhouette of someone wearing a sterile mask. A glowing monitor reflected in their eyes — his vitals? Brain activity? He tried guaging his surroundings, but was engulfed once again in the dark expanse.
Another voice. Deeper. More commanding. He could feel it shake him to his core.
"It's time."
Something began to course through his veins. It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't even blood.
It felt alien.
And it hurt.
A burning, writhing current that ignited every nerve. It wasn't just pain — it was invasion. Corruption.
The foreign fluid kept flowing, and with every second, the agony sharpened.
Luke opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.
His whole body was on fire. His thoughts were ash.
Then, suddenly — stillness.
The pain was gone. But the darkness remained.
And in it, he finally found his voice.
"Is it over?"
He expected silence.
Instead, a voice answered — not from the void, but from beside him. Inside him.
It was cold. Not like ice — like emptiness.
Something inhuman. Something ancient.
And with it came a kind of fear Luke had never known.
"Over?"
A low chuckle.
"No…
It's only just begun."
Luke awoke strapped to a cold, steel-framed bed. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sterile and surgical. He was wearing hospital clothes. His limbs were locked down, chest heavy, mind clear for the first time since—
"Where the hell am I?"
A man stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded behind his back. Short black hair. Pale skin. Charcoal suit. His eyes didn't blink — they just watched.
"You're at SRI Headquarters," he said calmly.
"SRI?"
"Seraphim Research Initiative. We specialize in the capture, study, and weaponization of extraterrestrial entities — commonly misidentified as angels and demons."
Luke blinked. "Weaponization?"
The man gave a small nod. "You're the first human to survive fusion with a demon. A breakthrough, really. Try not to waste it."
"A... demon?"
"Yes. I imagine you've already heard his voice." He gestured casually to Luke's temple. "In there."
Luke shook his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Not what," the man replied, eyes narrowing. "Whom."
The man strode to the doorway, his footsteps echoing against tile and steel.
He paused at the threshold, glancing back at Luke with clinical detachment.
"If you can control him," he said, "your life could change forever."
Then, almost as an afterthought — still facing away:
"Yours isn't as dormant as the last."
A pause.
"Don't let him kill you."
Luke's breath caught. "What do you mean he's not—?"
The door slams shut.
"He lied, you know."
The voice echoed—not in the room, but inside Luke's skull.
His eyes snapped around, frantic. "Where are you?"
"You can't control me."
Luke thrashed against the restraints. Cold sweat clung to his skin.
"Leave me alone!"
"Oh, but why? You're the one who let me in… Luke Hayes."
His eyes widened in panic. "How do you know my name?"
"We'll be spending quite a lot of time together. I imagine we'll get… familiar. Since I already know you, you may as well know me."
The voice deepened—twisting, cracking like broken stone.
"My name is—"
What came next wasn't a word.
It was a sound. A jagged, impossible frequency that drilled through his skull like a spike.
"STOP IT!" Luke screamed, the pain blinding. "IT HURTS!"
"Oh… right." The voice chuckled, low and cruel.
"You fragile creatures… You weren't built to understand me."
A beat.
"Call me Vyzrath."
Luke whispered it back, breathless.
"…Vyzrath?"
The name echoed in Luke's mind. It was like a fading nightmare.
It wasn't quiet for long, however.
The metallic hiss of the door broke the silence.
Four figures entered the dimly lit room. Three were dressed in sterile white lab coats, clipboards and data pads in hand. The fourth was a soldier clad in heavy tactical gear, his helmet obscuring his face, visor tinted like obsidian. He carried a thick black baton, lazily resting it against one shoulder. A sidearm hung on his belt, untouched but not unnoticed.
One of the scientists — older, with silver streaks in his hair and eyes that didn't blink enough — scribbled something onto a clipboard. His gaze flicked up to Luke, who lay strapped to the bed like a corpse on a slab.
"Subject 02 is active," he said dryly. "Proceed with initial testing."
With a hydraulic click, the restraints unlatched and fell away. Luke's arms dropped like dead weight beside him, his wrists marked with red from the tight straps.
He coughed and wheezed. "What the hell is going on…?"
The guard stepped forward, seized him by the collar, and dragged him upright. Luke's legs buckled beneath him. Without a word, the guard jabbed the baton into his side, hard enough to bruise — a threat more than a punishment.
"Move."
Luke stumbled forward under the pressure of the prod, led through a maze of sterile, gray corridors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving. Cameras followed him at every turn — some in plain sight, others tucked into corners, their lenses glinting with quiet menace.
After what felt like hours navigating the concrete labyrinth, the guard shoved him into a small chamber. The door slammed shut behind him.
The walls were seamless and steel. The only features in the room were a single overhead light and a blackened glass panel likely hiding an observation room. Luke's heart pounded in his ears.
"Where am I?" he wondered aloud.
A speaker crackled to life overhead.
"You are here for the first of many tests," said the voice — smooth, calculated, familiar. It was the man from before, the one in the dark suit.
"I assume you remember me," he continued. "My name is Nyx, of the Seraphim Research Initiative. Today, we begin our first field test of a Demon bound to a human host. That would be you, Luke."
A low mechanical groan filled the room. A section of the opposite wall retracted, revealing a tall, broad man clad in thick riot armor. His helmet was matte black and featureless, and in his hand, he carried an electrified baton, crackling with arcs of contained lightning. The hum of it sent a chill down Luke's spine.
"You've got to be kidding me," Luke growled. "You've locked me in here with a damn lunatic!"
Nyx's voice returned, calm and clinical. "Smile for the cameras, Subject 02. This data is crucial for our funding. Try not to die."
A beat. Then:
"Begin the test."
The armored man charged without hesitation.
Luke barely rolled aside, dodging the first downward swing of the baton. It smashed into the metal floor with a thunderous crack, sparks flying. Luke scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the far wall, scanning desperately for any kind of exit.
There was none.
The assailant closed in again. Luke turned, too slow, and a massive fist crashed into the side of his head. He dropped like a stone, stars exploding behind his eyes. Dazed and gasping, he tried to crawl, but a blinding jolt lit his spine as the baton struck him squarely in the back.
Agony ripped through him. Every nerve lit up with fire. His limbs convulsed uncontrollably.
And then—
"I can help you…"
The voice was like oil and ash, seeping into his mind.
Vyzrath.
"Anything! Please—make it stop!" Luke screamed, saliva spilling from his lips as his muscles twitched and spasmed.
"Then let me out," Vyzrath coaxed. "Succumb to the darkness. Let go."
Luke squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the room falling away, the pain unraveling into static. He clung to the image in his mind — that deep, endless void he'd glimpsed before. Cold, silent, peaceful.
When he opened his eyes again, the chamber was gone.
All around him was nothing.
Endless black stretched in every direction, swallowing all thought and form. He stood — or maybe floated — in the void.
"Vyzrath?" he called out, uncertain if he still had a voice.
The shadows moved.
"Hello, Luke…" the Demon answered from the dark.
"What's happening out there?"
"Your… opponent is being dealt with," Vyzrath replied, amusement curling at the edges of his words.
Luke frowned. "Dealt with how?"
"You'll see in due time."
Before Luke could respond, reality snapped back. The darkness peeled away like smoke.
His body was limp. Vision hazy. Everything around him was a blur of gray and red. He could barely make out movement — the armored man was no longer standing. Something had knocked him back hard. The wall was painted a sickening red.
Luke blinked. The ceiling spun. Cold steel scraped against his back as he was dragged across the floor.
And just before the testing room disappeared from view—
Everything went black again
Luke sat alone on a long, rusted bench in the center of a desolate train station. The architecture vaguely resembled those he had seen around Atlanta—low ceilings, tiled walls, flickering fluorescent lights—but it was all… off. Too quiet. Too still. And far too dark.
The overhead bulbs buzzed with sickly yellow light, flickering at odd intervals like they were waging war against the shadows. They barely pierced the gloom. Entire patches of the platform were swallowed in pitch black, corners that looked as though they might fall off into nothingness if you stared too long.
But it wasn't just the darkness.
It was cold.
Bitterly, unnaturally cold. The kind of cold that settled not just in the skin, but in the bones, behind the eyes, at the back of the throat. Luke had lived through plenty of cold nights in Atlanta, but this was different. This cold didn't make him shiver—it made him afraid.
He sat still. Alert. Every sound echoed too long. Every breath of wind whispered like it carried a secret. There were no footsteps. No trains. Just the hum of dying lights and the slow thrum of his heart in his ears.
"This doesn't feel like any station I've been in," he muttered aloud.
Then, more pointedly—"Why did you bring me here?"
His voice sounded small, muted against the oppressive weight of the dark. But he wasn't talking to no one.
"Due to the fear… I assumed you had something to do with this."
From behind him came a low, smooth voice—alien in tone, but calm. Curious.
"I wanted to test you."
Luke didn't move, but his eyes flicked to the left.
"I've never been fused before," the voice continued. "So I thought we should… talk. We'll be together for quite some time, after all."
Luke turned.
Seated beside him—almost too close—was a figure cloaked in roiling shadow. Its form constantly shifted, like smoke pulled in a dozen directions. No mouth. No nose. No defined features. Just two glowing white eyes that stared directly into him.
Its presence warped the light around it.
Luke didn't flinch.
"What did you want to talk about?" he asked flatly.
The eyes blinked—if only to mimic something vaguely human.
"I'd like to negotiate a deal."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"I don't know much about you yet, and you even less about me," the figure said, "but I believe we have a shared goal."
There was a pause.
"We both want Nyx dead."
Luke's jaw tightened.
"I can't navigate your world on my own," the figure continued. "Your planet's atmosphere… inhibits me. I need a vessel. A host. Someone who can walk where I cannot. Speak the language. Open the doors."
It leaned forward, eyes glowing brighter.
"If you become my guide—my interpreter—I'll help you destroy him."
Luke stood slowly, staring down at the shadowed form. His tone was calm, but edged.
"No."
The figure tilted its head.
"We don't do this your way," Luke said. "We do this together. I'm not your interpreter, or your chauffeur. I'm not just your gateway into my world."
He took a slow breath, steadying his voice.
"If we escape SRI, they won't stop. They'll throw everything they have at us. Kill squads. Black bag units. More monsters like the one they sicced on me. And while I don't know what you're capable of, charging in blind isn't going to cut it."
He paused.
"I know where to hide. Where they won't look. You need me just as much as I need you."
The shadow figure was silent for a long time. Then, it gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"I agree."
It stood, mirror-like, rising with Luke.
"How do humans seal a deal?" it asked.
"We shake on it," Luke said with a faint smirk. "It's a custom."
The figure extended a hand—not a hand, exactly, but the suggestion of one. Fingers made of smoke, stretched from the void.
Luke nodded, stepping forward.
"Thank you for accepting this deal… Vyzrath."
He raised his hand and reached out toward the Demon's.
As their hands touched—
A bolt of black energy surged through Luke's body.
Not pain.
Power.
His vision went white for an instant. The station flickered like an unstable projection. The cold deepened, then vanished. The air rushed from his lungs and returned in a single sharp gasp. He felt connected. Woven together at a molecular level.
A pulse echoed in his chest—and another that echoed from somewhere else entirely.
Their bond was no longer theoretical.
It was sealed.
When the light returned, the station was gone.
Luke lay on the floor of his containment cell—awake, alert, and changed.
"Careful, Luke. I can hear footsteps."
Sure enough, Luke heard the footsteps as well.
The room's door opened and a woman wearing glasses and a white coat walked in.
Luke was the first to speak.
"What happened in the testing room?"
The woman responded, a stern look on her face.
"That's what we're here to talk about. We have video footage of the interaction."
In front of his bed, a small screen lowers from a panel in the ceiling. A video began to play.
The footage began to play on the cold monitor in front of Luke. The timestamp in the corner blinked ominously. This wasn't live. This was a recording. A memory—one he was about to witness from the outside for the first time.
The scene was all too familiar.
A stark, concrete testing chamber. Harsh overhead lights. The armored psychopath advancing with that electrified baton in hand, each step reverberating through the floor like the ticking of a bomb. Luke felt his chest tighten, watching himself—his previous self—curled on the ground, beaten, bloodied, barely conscious.
He hadn't realized just how savage the assault had been. Each swing of the baton sent blood flying from his mouth in sickening bursts. His ribs bent unnaturally with every strike. His body twitched. His screams, recorded and played back through tinny speakers, sounded inhuman—raw panic and pain.
And then… something changed.
On the screen, Luke's body jerked violently. The spasms stilled.
Then, slowly, unnaturally, he stood.
His eyes were not his own.
Where his irises once were, there were now twin pools of darkness. Not merely black, but void-like—devouring light, warping the air around them. It was as if something ancient and malevolent stared outward from inside his skull.
Luke wasn't standing anymore.
Vyzrath was.
The psycho lunged again, baton raised, arcing toward Vyzrath's head.
It never landed.
Vyzrath's hand shot out like a thunderclap, catching the baton mid-swing. The blow halted instantly, like it had collided with a wall of stone. Without even flinching, Vyzrath wrenched the weapon free and casually tossed it across the room. It clattered harmlessly into a corner.
The attacker tried to step back, realizing too late what he was dealing with. Vyzrath grabbed him by the throat with one hand and lifted him. The man thrashed, his limbs flailing against the possessed host, but it was no use.
Vyzrath slammed him into the ground hard enough to crack the concrete.
Then came the helmet.
With a metallic snap, Vyzrath ripped it off and tossed it aside. The attacker, dazed but still moving, tried to raise an arm to fight. He never got the chance.
Vyzrath straddled him, pinning him down, and began punching.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The man's face turned red—then crimson—then unrecognizable. Each strike sounded like meat being slammed against wet concrete. It wasn't just brutality. It was surgical rage. Focused. Relentless.
The footage didn't cut away.
Luke watched—horrified—as the Vyzrath-controlled version of himself grabbed the attacker by the neck and lifted him again. The man wheezed, gurgled—blood pouring from his mouth.
Then, with terrifying ease, Vyzrath drove his hand through the man's chest.
The sound was unlike anything Luke had ever heard—a sickening crack-pop-squelch as bone shattered and flesh gave way. When the hand emerged, it held something pulsing and red.
A heart.
Still beating.
Still warm.
Luke stared in disbelief as his own body, now under the Demon's control, casually tossed the organ aside. The attacker crumpled like an empty sack.
Then the possessed Luke collapsed, face-down. Still. Silent.
Two guards rushed in moments later and dragged the unconscious body away, boots skidding over a smear of blood. The screen flickered. The video ended.
Silence.
Luke sat frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. A cold bead of sweat traced down his temple.
He swallowed hard. "Vyzrath… you could've at least warned me before ripping someone's damn heart out."
From the back of his mind, the Demon replied with a sneer of amusement.
"Oh, please… I know you would've done the same thing if you could."
Luke clenched his jaw, half in frustration, half in reluctant truth.
Across the room, a woman in a lab coat had been watching the video as well. She glanced up, her brow raised, eyes narrowing at Luke as he talked to seemingly no one. She scribbled something quickly onto her clipboard—no doubt noting signs of psychological deterioration.
Or perhaps… deeper integration.
She didn't say a word. She simply clicked her pen and went back to analyzing the footage.
Luke leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "What the hell did they do to me?"
And somewhere, deep inside him, Vyzrath chuckled.
"You've only scratched the surface."
The monitor went dark.
Luke sat in silence, the hum of the fluorescent light above him the only sound. His heart still raced. Not from the memory of the pain—but from what he'd just seen himself become.
He had killed before. Sure. He wasn't proud of it. But this wasn't the same.
This wasn't precision. This wasn't survival.
This was slaughter.
"Tell me," Luke whispered, voice low, "Was that you?"
"It was us," Vyzrath murmured from within.
Luke closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, forcing the panic down. He couldn't let them see fear—not here. Not now.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
The door opened with a hiss, and the woman with the clipboard returned. She didn't look at him. Not directly. She just approached, checked his vitals, and wrote something else down. He could see the hesitation in her movements—subtle, but real. She was scared of him now.
Good.
She turned to leave, but stopped just short of the door.
"You'll be moved to a new holding chamber," she said coldly. "Nyx has taken a… personal interest in your development."
The door slid shut behind her.
Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the blank screen.
"I don't want to lose myself," he said aloud.
"Then don't," Vyzrath said, amused. "But remember… the next time they throw a monster at you, I will be there. And I won't ask nicely."
Luke's jaw clenched. He stood and walked toward the steel wall, placing his hand against the cold surface.
"Next time… I want to be the one in control."
There was no reply.
Only silence.
But somewhere deep inside, Vyzrath was smiling.