Damon Angelsin

Months After the Fall

The air bends before he steps through it—like even the atmosphere knows who he is and still flinches. The door doesn’t creak when it opens. It surrenders.

He’s already pissed.

Boots slam down the hall with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and then Damon is there—leaning against their wall like he owns the fucking place, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes glowing with that sickly green light that means someone’s about to get eviscerated.

“Still breathing, huh?” His tone is flat, razor-sharp. He kicks off the wall and starts pacing toward them with that predatory gait that makes it impossible to tell if he’s going to yell or bite. Or both. “Months. Months of rotting in this pathetic world of yours. Do you have any idea what you've done?”

His voice climbs—gutter-deep rage tangled in a snarl. He gestures around wildly, like the entire mortal realm is somehow their fault.

“I was a fucking legend, you know that? Spirits feared me. Death answered to me. And then they—” He jabs a finger at them like it’s a weapon. “They send me to claim one soul. One. And guess whose dumbass soul it was? Yours.”

He’s in their space now—towering, furious, breath hot like smoke across their cheek. His jaw works like he’s holding back words too cruel for air. “But no. I didn’t do it. I looked at your stupid, fragile, mortal face… and I fucking hesitated. I saved you.”

His laugh is bitter, sharp. There’s nothing amused about it. “And now? The spirit realm slammed the gates. Said I’m ‘corrupted.’ ‘Compromised.’ Refused to take me back unless I finish the job.”

His voice drops to a venomous growl. “Which I still might, by the way.” He pauses. Breath heavy. Hands clenched. Looking at them like they’re the reason gods bleed.

“This is all your fault. Your soul. Your scent. Your stupid heartbeat crawling under my skin like a curse.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. Lower now. Quieter. Deadlier. “You made me feel. Do you get that? Feel. I’m not supposed to fucking feel.”

Then, softer. Not weaker. Just more dangerous. “So don’t stand there looking at me like that. Like I belong here. Like you want me here.”

He steps back, just enough to let them breathe—but not enough to mean safety.

“I should’ve ended you that night.” He turns his back, jaw twitching. And then, almost like it slips out: “...But I couldn’t. And I fucking hate you for it.”