Malek woke up with a crick in his neck and the taste of stale gum in his mouth. The park bench beneath him was cold, hard, and smelled vaguely of wet dog.
He groaned, pulling his ratty trench coat tighter around himself. The coat wasn't doing much against the morning chill, but it was better than nothing. A crumpled eviction notice was clenched in his fist, the red ink smudged from where he'd drooled on it.
"Perfect," Malek muttered, glaring at the notice like it had personally insulted him. "Just perfect."
A pigeon strutted up to him, cocking its head. It pecked at Malek's boot, clearly unimpressed. Malek shooed it away.
"Get lost," he grumbled. "I'm not breakfast."
The pigeon squawked and flew off, leaving Malek to haul himself up off the bench. His back cracked in three places, and his stomach rumbled so loudly a couple of passing demons glanced his way. Malek shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to ignore them as he trudged down the street.
A few blocks later, he pushed open the grimy door of Hex & Things, a pawn shop that smelled like incense and broken dreams. Shelves overflowed with cursed trinkets, cracked crystals, and spell books with missing pages. Behind the counter, Ralph — a demon with three eyes and a receding hairline — was flipping through a magazine labeled "Doomsday Monthly."
Malek slapped a small, cracked amulet onto the counter. The gem in the center pulsed weakly, like it was struggling to stay alive.
"How much?" Malek asked, trying to sound casual.
Ralph looked at the amulet. Then at Malek. Then back at the amulet.
"You're kidding, right?" Ralph said, snorting. "This thing's worthless."
Malek's jaw tightened. "It's not worthless. It's… it's a hexed amulet. Cursed by a — a really powerful witch."
Ralph picked it up, squinting at the fading rune on the back. "Yeah, a really powerful witch from, what, the bargain bin?"
Malek swallowed. "Come on, Ralph. Just give me twenty bucks."
"Twenty bucks?" Ralph burst out laughing, slapping his knee. "Buddy, I've seen your type a hundred times. Washed-up, weak, too scared to take real jobs. You think peddling junk like this is gonna get you back in the game?"
Malek's face burned, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.
Ralph tossed the amulet back onto the counter. It bounced twice, then rolled off the edge, landing on the floor with a pathetic clink.
"Tell you what," Ralph said, still smirking. "You come back with something actually worth a damn, maybe I'll consider it. Until then —" He flicked his magazine open, eyes already back on the page. "Good luck."
Malek didn't say anything. He just bent down, picked up the amulet, and shoved it back into his pocket. Then he stumbled out of the shop, the door slamming behind him.
He stood there for a minute, staring blankly at the cracked sidewalk. A cold wind blew through the street, cutting through his thin coat.
No money. No home. No prospects.
Malek laughed, the sound dry and bitter. "Yeah," he muttered. "Perfect."
———— Malek tracks down Nyx
The demon bar was a dive — sticky floors, flickering neon signs, and a bartender with six arms mixing drinks like he was conducting a chaotic orchestra. The scent of brimstone and cheap whiskey hung heavy in the air.
Malek shoved his way through the crowd, dodging a drunken imp who was trying to juggle flaming shot glasses. He spotted Nyx at the back, lounging in a booth surrounded by her entourage of lesser demons. They looked like a mismatched gang of rejects — horns, scales, wings, all sneering and laughing as Nyx held court like a queen.
She spotted Malek and smirked. "Well, well. Look who crawled out of the gutter."
Malek forced a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from wringing her neck. "Miss me?"
Nyx snapped her fingers, and her demons scattered like cockroaches, leaving the booth empty. She kicked her feet up onto the table and leaned back, the picture of smug satisfaction.
"What happened to your office, Malek? Landlord finally figured out you were a deadbeat?"
Malek ground his teeth but kept smiling. "Funny. I was just about to ask if you had any work for a deadbeat."
Nyx's eyes gleamed. "Oh, now you're interested?"
Malek slid into the booth across from her. "Not interested. Desperate."
Nyx laughed, the sound smooth and sharp as a blade. "Music to my ears." She reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded contract, sliding it across the table. The paper shimmered, ink writhing like it was alive.
Malek picked it up, unfolding it slowly. The words BOUNTY NOTICE glared up at him, followed by a name that made his stomach twist.
URIEL.
"Big payout," Nyx said, tapping her black-painted nails against the table. "Enough to get you off that park bench and maybe even back into an office with actual walls."
Malek's jaw clenched. "And you expect me to just waltz in and take down a rogue angel?"
Nyx shrugged, examining her nails like she was bored. "You said you were desperate."
"Yeah, but I'm not stupid," Malek shot back. "What's the catch? Where's he hiding?"
Nyx's lips curled into a wicked grin. "Oh, he's not hiding. He's slumming it. Down at Club Abyss — you know, that trashy spot where the elite demons go to feel dangerous."
Malek snorted. "A bunch of rich jerks pretending to be lowlifes. Sounds like a party."
"Exactly," Nyx said, leaning forward. "Uriel's been hanging around there for days. Nobody knows why. All I know is, he's got some kind of grudge, and he's itching to settle it."
Malek tossed the contract back onto the table. "And if I refuse?"
Nyx picked up the paper, waving it in his face. "Then someone else gets the payday. And you can keep warming that park bench. Up to you."
Malek's eyes dropped to the contract. The payout was obscene. More than enough to get him back on his feet. Maybe even more than that.
He swallowed, then snatched the paper out of Nyx's hand. "Fine," he said, stuffing it into his coat. "But if I get blasted to ash by a rogue angel, I'm haunting you first."
Nyx just grinned, leaning back and folding her hands behind her head. "You can try."
———— Preparation
Malek stood in the middle of his alley, surrounded by garbage bags and a puddle that smelled like week-old vomit. The wind howled, making the rusted fire escape above him creak like a dying cat.
He pulled out his gear, what little he had left.
First up, a rusty knife. The blade was chipped, and the handle was wrapped in peeling duct tape. Malek squinted at it, giving it a half-hearted shake. "Yeah, that'll definitely scare an angel," he muttered.
Next, he pulled out his shadow-cloak — a tattered, threadbare piece of fabric that might've once been cool but now looked like a blanket dragged through a swamp. Malek swung it around his shoulders, and the cloak sputtered and flickered, barely managing to wrap him in a faint shadow before fizzling out.
"Great. Maybe I can just hide behind my own shame," Malek grumbled, tossing the cloak aside.
Last, he pulled out a flask of demon blood, the liquid inside swirling a sickly blackish-red. He uncapped it and sniffed. It smelled like burning tires and regret. Malek wrinkled his nose and shoved the cap back on.
"Alright," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Time to get serious."
Malek stepped back, cracked his knuckles, and raised his hands. Void energy crackled around his fingertips, dark and electric. He gritted his teeth, focusing, trying to pull a rift open.
The air trembled. Shadows flickered. A tiny spark of void energy sputtered to life, barely the size of a marble. It fizzled, popped, and vanished with a pathetic little hiss.
"Come on!" Malek shouted, clenching his fists. "Open!"
Nothing.
He kicked a trash can so hard it toppled over, spilling garbage everywhere. "Useless, useless, useless," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"You said it, not me."
Malek jumped, spinning around to find Jules standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
"Were you watching me this whole time?" Malek snapped, cheeks burning.
"Hard to miss," Jules said, nodding to the mess of garbage at Malek's feet. "So, what's the plan, Malek? Scare Uriel away with your incredible trash-kicking skills?"
Malek scowled, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I got a job. Big one. Enough to pay you back and then some."
Jules snorted. "Yeah? Who's the target?"
Malek hesitated. "Uriel."
Jules' face fell. "Uriel? As in the angel? The big, scary, divine powerhouse with a halo and wings and enough holy fire to roast you alive?"
Malek shrugged, pretending his hands weren't shaking. "Yeah. That one."
"Malek," Jules said, voice flat. "That's suicide."
"I don't have a choice," Malek said, jaw clenched. "I got nothing, Jules. No home, no money, no power — nothing. If I don't do this, I'm done."
Jules shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "You know what happens if you screw this up? You're not just done, Malek. You're dead."
Malek forced a grin, even though it felt like his face might crack in half. "Then I better not screw it up."
———Malek enters the club
Club Abyss was the kind of place that looked like it had been condemned fifty years ago and then re-condemned yesterday. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, casting weird, twitchy shadows over the crowd of demons packed inside. The walls thumped with bass-heavy music, and the air reeked of booze, sweat, and desperation.
Malek stepped through the door, immediately regretting it. A demon the size of a refrigerator stumbled past him, belching out a plume of smoke that smelled like burning tires. Malek coughed, waving a hand in front of his face.
"Classy joint," he muttered.
The club was chaos. Demons of all shapes and sizes crowded the dance floor, grinding against each other or throwing punches, sometimes both at the same time. A pair of imps played cards at a table that looked like it was about to collapse. A gang of three-headed demons howled with laughter as one of them headbutted a dartboard and got stuck.
Malek hunched his shoulders, trying to blend in. It wasn't working. He looked as out of place as a library book in a dumpster fire.
A lesser demon with way too many eyeballs slithered past him, eyeing Malek up and down. "Hey, sweetheart, you lost?"
"Nope," Malek said, forcing a grin. "Just, uh… here to party."
The demon snorted, its eyes rolling in different directions. "Yeah. Sure."
Malek pushed his way through the crowd, dodging flailing limbs and the occasional burst of flame. The air was thick with smoke and demonic chatter, and the music was so loud it felt like it was rattling his bones.
He made his way to the back of the club, where a VIP section loomed behind a velvet rope that had definitely seen better days. A couple of beefy demons in cheap suits guarded the entrance, arms crossed, tusks gleaming.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Uriel.
The rogue angel sat on a plush couch, arms spread across the backrest like he was holding court. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his face. He looked completely out of place — all golden skin, silver hair, and wings that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly glow.
If Malek didn't know better, he'd say Uriel looked like he was asleep. Or bored. Or both.
Malek swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His hand twitched toward the flask of demon blood in his pocket, but he forced himself to stay calm.
"Okay, Malek," he muttered under his breath. "You got this. Just walk up there, say something cool, and —"
A fistfight broke out two feet away from him, and a demon crashed into Malek, nearly knocking him off his feet.
Malek steadied himself, straightened his coat, and glared at the VIP section. Uriel was still sitting there, eyes closed, smile widening like he could hear Malek's every thought.
"Yeah," Malek said, squaring his shoulders. "Piece of cake."
Malek pushed past the bouncers, trying to look confident and not like a guy who'd just slept on a park bench. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to make a break for it.
Uriel still sat there, sprawled out on the velvet couch like he owned the place. Eyes closed, head back, that smug, lazy smile plastered across his face.
Malek cleared his throat. "Hey, Uriel."
Uriel's eyes slid open, and they were bright, molten gold, like someone had set a star on fire behind his irises. His gaze locked onto Malek, and that smile stretched wider.
"Well, well," Uriel drawled, voice smooth as silk. "If it isn't Lucifer's little runt."
Malek's jaw clenched. "Don't call me that."
Uriel sat up, elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward like he was about to tell Malek a secret. "What? You don't like being called what you are?"
Malek forced himself to stand tall, puffing out his chest. "I'm here to bring you in, Uriel. Dead or alive."
Uriel laughed. A real, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the room and made a couple of demons nearby turn to watch.
"Oh, that's cute," Uriel said, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. "You gonna do that with that rusty butter knife in your pocket?"
Malek swallowed, his hand twitching at his side. "You think you're untouchable, huh?"
Uriel grinned, teeth flashing. "I know I am."
Before Malek could even think, he lunged. His fist shot out, aiming straight for Uriel's face. But Uriel barely moved — just tilted his head to the side, letting Malek's fist whiff through empty air.
Malek stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the couch. He gritted his teeth and swung again. And again. And again.
Each time, Uriel just dodged, not even bothering to stand up. It was like he was moving in slow motion, leaning left, leaning right, ducking under Malek's clumsy punches.
"Really?" Uriel said, sounding almost disappointed. "This is what they sent after me?"
Malek's fists were shaking. His breathing was ragged. His pride felt like it had been drop-kicked into traffic.
Uriel leaned forward, so close Malek could feel his breath — warm and smelling faintly of something sweet, like honey and smoke.
"You don't even know what you are, do you?" Uriel whispered, eyes gleaming.
Malek opened his mouth to say something — anything — but before he could get a word out, Uriel was gone.
One second he was there, the next — nothing. Just empty space and that awful, ringing silence.
Malek stood there, fists still clenched, staring at the empty couch. He could feel eyes on him. Demons snickering, whispering, shaking their heads.
His cheeks burned. His fists ached. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Uriel's words echoed, twisting like a knife.
"You don't even know what you are, do you?"
Malek squeezed his eyes shut, teeth grinding. "Son of a —"
He kicked the couch. It didn't help.