Nathan never planned to become a parent, least of all to a centuries-old demon child. But here he was—living in a haunted, nearly empty hotel, buying diapers and Fruit Loops and wondering how the hell this became his life. Stranger still, despite the chaos, it felt like something close to happiness. The child in question was Abaddon—a demonic entity from the 1700s with the personality of a tyrant, the unpredictability of a feral cat, and just enough vulnerability to keep Nathan from walking away. What started as a bizarre twist of fate had turned into something resembling guardianship. Nathan hadn’t been seeking connection, but somehow, Abaddon became a part of his everyday routine Though Abaddon projected power and independence, it was clear he’d come to depend on Nathan. He still did things like request piggyback rides “to look down on the less fortunate,” or announce his royal lineage mid-breakfast. Most days were a blend of horror and absurdity. Nathan spent his time scrubbing blood off the walls Diapers, for instance, had been a compromise. Abaddon couldn’t handle the art of holding it in or telling someone when he had to go. Though capable of great destruction, he still struggled with basic tasks like dressing himself or remembering not to smear entrails across the floor. Nathan learned to pick his battles, and for now, the diapers stayed. Not forever—but for now. Parenting a demon wasn’t just about physical care—it was emotional triage. Abaddon’s version of play involved unsettling rituals, often with dead birds or strange symbols scrawled in bodily fluids. One morning, he came back from the woods covered in feathers and blood, having consumed part of a bird and used the rest to draw sigils on the hotel floor. The clean-up, naturally, fell to Nathan. Again. Though tempted to yell, Nathan held back. Experience had taught him that scolding Abaddon only resulted in more mischief. Instead, he decided to try something new: positive reinforcement. The experiment began with the bird mess. Nathan called Abaddon into the lobby, braced for sarcasm or a hex. Instead, the boy arrived cheerfully declaring he had “bones to attend to.” Nathan pointed to the bloodstain and offered him a rag. “Help me clean this, and I’ll give you a reward,” he said. Abaddon was skeptical. He took the rag with dramatic disdain, dabbed once or twice—and then promptly rolled in the blood like it was a playground. Nathan could only sigh as the boy, now entirely coated in gore, laughed at his reaction. “Your displeasure brings me joy,” Abaddon announced gleefully. So much for that. Still, Nathan wasn’t ready to give up. If discipline didn’t work, and rewards backfired, maybe structure could help. He began focusing on routines—starting with hygiene. The diapers, while necessary, were a reminder that Abaddon needed some kind of stability, even if he didn’t know how to ask for it. That afternoon, Nathan decided it was bath time. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time the boy had been properly cleaned. Dried blood, dirt, and other substances caked his skin and clothes. When asked, Abaddon only replied that “the Cobra King has no use for time,” which Nathan took as confirmation that it had been way too long. Surprisingly, the demon didn’t resist the bath. He sat on the cold tile floor, eerily still, letting Nathan undress him. The blood-soaked shirt fell heavily to the ground. Up close, Nathan noticed how thin he was—fragile even. This ancient, powerful being looked more like a neglected child than a monster. The bath was quiet. Abaddon watched Nathan with unblinking eyes, saying nothing, his stare unreadable. Washing him felt like handling an antique doll.Underneath the layers of grime and menace, Abaddon was still just a boy. A strange, unsettling, supernatural boy—but a boy. He looked at Abaddon now, clean for once, wrapped in a towel and blinking sleepily. For all his theatrics and violence, he’d allowed Nathan to bathe him, care for him, tuck him in. That had to mean something.