Damien jolted awake like he'd been hit with a bucket of ice water. His head throbbed with the mother of all hangovers, and his mouth felt like something had died in it.
"What the hell happened last night?" he groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. Flashes of memory returned in broken fragments. Jessica? Jennifer? The woman with the fantastic mouth skills. That whining author. Something about writing a better story.
He sat up slowly, expecting the familiar view of his Manhattan apartment's sleek bedroom. Instead, dark wooden walls surrounded him. The bed beneath him creaked—an actual wooden frame with an actual, honest-to-god mattress that wasn't memory foam. Sunlight streamed through a window with actual curtains.
"The fuck?"
Damien stumbled out of bed, his bare feet hitting cold wooden floors. He needed his bathroom. Needed to splash water on his face and shake off whatever weird dream this was. He moved toward where the bathroom door should be and slammed straight into a large wooden wardrobe.
"Ow! Shit!"
He rubbed his forehead, backing away from the offending furniture.
This wasn't his room. Not even close. Gone were the minimalist furnishings and floor-to-ceiling windows. This place looked like a fantasy novel threw up all over it—stone walls, wooden beams, a four-poster bed with actual curtains.
"I'm still dreaming," Damien muttered, rubbing his eyes. "This is what I get for mixing tequila with rejection calls."
He spotted another door on the far side of the room and lurched toward it, pushing it open to reveal what appeared to be a bathroom. At least, he assumed it was a bathroom. There was a tub and something that might have been a toilet, but everything looked weirdly old-fashioned. Like medieval fantasy old-fashioned.
He found a basin with a copper spigot and twisted what he hoped was the handle. Water flowed, thank god. He cupped his hands under the stream and splashed his face repeatedly, letting the cold shock his system back to reality.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up," he chanted, water dripping from his chin.
He looked up into the mirror above the basin and screamed.
"AHHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!"
The face looking back wasn't his. Well, it was, but... wrong. His normal brown hair was now silver-white. His brown eyes were now golden amber. His thirty-two-year-old face looked younger, maybe early twenties, with sharper features and an aristocratic bone structure he definitely hadn't possessed before.
"This can't be happening," he whispered, touching his face. The reflection mimicked his movements perfectly. "This can't be real."
[Oh, but it is, Master\~]
The sultry female voice came from behind him, purring with amusement. Damien spun around so fast he nearly slipped on the wet floor.
A woman lounged against the doorframe. No, not a woman—something else entirely. Her skin was crimson red. Actual horns curved from her temples. Bat-like wings folded behind her back. A spaded tail swayed lazily behind her.
And she was absolutely gorgeous. Full lips curved in a knowing smile. Golden eyes with slit pupils watched him with predatory amusement. Her body was a fantasy made flesh—curves in all the right places barely contained by what looked like strips of shadow rather than actual clothing.
"What the fuck," Damien breathed, pressing back against the sink. "What the actual fuck."
[Language, Master\~ Though I do enjoy the way your mouth works.] She pushed off from the doorframe and sauntered toward him, her hips swaying hypnotically. [Welcome to your new life. How do you like the accommodations?]
"New life? Accommodations? Lady, I don't know what kind of weird prank this is, but—"
[No prank,] she purred, circling him like a predator. [You made a deal, remember? You were going to write a better story. Show that pathetic author how it's done.]
Memories crashed back into Damien's mind. The phone call. The challenge. His arrogant acceptance.
"That was real?" he whispered, eyes wide.
[Very real.] She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell roses and sulfur. [And now you're living it, Master. You wanted to show how a real protagonist would handle this world? Well, here's your chance.]
"But that's not possible," Damien argued, shaking his head. "People don't just wake up in fictional worlds. That's not how reality works."
[Who said anything about reality?] The demonic woman laughed. [You're in a story now. Your story. And I'm your helpful system interface!]
"My what?"
[I'm Satana,] she introduced herself with a mock curtsy that showed off her impressive cleavage. [Your Depraved System guide. I'll help you navigate this world, earn Infamy Points, and become the greatest villain this story has ever seen\~]
"Villain?" Damien blinked. "I'm supposed to be the villain?"
[Not just any villain,] Satana corrected, her tail flicking excitedly. [The third-rate villain who was supposed to get expelled from the academy by chapter sixty. But with my help and your... unique perspective, we're going to rewrite that fate. Make you the true final boss.]
Damien stared at her, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria.
"This can't be happening. I've lost my mind. I've finally cracked from reading too many shitty manuscripts."
A sudden knock on the bedroom door made him jump.
"Young Master? Are you awake?" A female voice called through the door. "Your father instructed me to ensure you're prepared for the day."
[Ooh, your first conquest arrives,] Satana whispered, her eyes gleaming. [Let's see how you handle this\~]
"Who—"
[She can't see or hear me, by the way,] Satana added, winking. [Only you can. So try not to look crazy talking to thin air.]
Before Damien could process that, the bedroom door opened, and a young woman stepped in. She wore a simple black and white maid uniform that did nothing to hide her incredible figure—slim waist, generous curves, legs that seemed to go on forever. Her long black hair was tied back in a practical ponytail, and her eyes...
Her eyes were blood red.