Doom was born into chaos, the son of a notorious criminal,Kael, a bank robber, murderer, and unrepentant sociopath who saw fatherhood only as a means to mold a successor. His father didn't raise a child, he forged a weapon.
Lessons came in the form of broken bones and bloodied knuckles. By six, Doom could field-strip a pistol blindfolded. By ten, he'd witnessed his first execution, a practical lesson in the cost of hesitation delivered by Kael's own hand. The wet gurgle, the slackening face, the sudden stench, these were his nursery rhymes.
Love was a foreign concept, something whispered about in stories or glimpsed on flickering screens but never known.
Affection was a currency Kael never spent, replaced instead with trials of steel and blood. His father's teachings were carved into him like scars: "Weakness is sin. Mercy is betrayal."
There was no room for tenderness, no patience for hesitation. Every moment of his childhood was a test.
Stealing without getting caught, fighting without showing pain, enduring wounds without a sound. Praise was rare, hollow, a grunt after a successful robbery, a curt nod when he took his first life without flinching.
But there was one exception.
Hidden in the depths of their old home, locked away in a battered suitcase, were grainy, flickering recordings of a woman with warmth in her eyes. His mother.
Ainar.
Most of the footage was mundane, her moving through sparse rooms, speaking softly to Kael (a Kael whose edges seemed slightly blurred, less jagged), demonstrating combat techniques with an effortless, terrifying grace that seemed to hum through the static. In those rare glimpses, Kael was different, less a hardened warlord, more a man who could almost smile. Almost.
But Doom cherished the recordings where she spoke to him, before he even existed. There was one, worn thin from replay, where his mother rested her hands on her stomach, her voice a melody he would never hear outside of those fragile pixels.
"You're going to be strong," she murmured, her eyes holding a fierce promise, "but not just with your fists. With your heart, too."
She laughed, bright and alive, and in that moment, trapped in the dark room with the screen's glow, Doom could almost believe in something other than survival.
"We'll teach you how to fight, yes," her image continued, the smile softening, "but also how to dance. How to hold a blade..." her fingers brushed the screen, "...and how to hold someone you care about."
Promises. Empty, now.
She spoke of things that would never be: trips to places he would only ever see as blurred backgrounds during frantic escapes after heists, stories she would never read to him, a childhood stolen before he was born. Sometimes, when the weight of Kael's expectations pressed too hard, when the ache of his training injuries threatened to crack his resolve, he would replay those words in his mind. "You're going to be amazing."
But she wasn't there to see what he became.
The man who had once softened in her presence had buried that version of himself with her. What remained was a machine of war, and Doom was his creation. Forged in brutality, sharpened by cruelty. And yet, in the quietest hours of the night, when the world outside was nothing but shadows and the scent of gun oil, he would watch those videos.
Not to remember her, how could he remember someone he never truly knew?, but to remember that there had once been a promise of something more than this relentless cycle of pain and violence.
Something like love.
Something that, despite his father's relentless scouring, he still craved deep in the marrow of his broken bones.
But that didn't last.
—
Love, or the ghost of it, lingered at the edges of Doom's mind, a fleeting shadow his father had tried to scourge from him. Yet, despite the relentless lessons, the hunger remained. A quiet, treacherous whisper. A weakness.
And weakness, his father had taught him, was death.
So Doom buried it. Deeper each day, beneath the crushing weight of Kael's doctrine. The lessons grew harsher as he aged, more brutal, pushing him beyond human limits until his mind threatened to fracture under the strain. But Kael was watching. Always watching. And a broken mind, in his father's unforgiving hands, was merely raw material to be hammered back into a sharper, deadlier shape.
What emerged was something even Kael had not fully foreseen.
Something worse.
Everything went downhill from there.
---
As Doom grew, so did the void inside him. Violence wasn't just a tool, it became sacred. Every brawl was a prayer. Every kill, an offering. He chased the electric high of domination, the primal thrill of seeing pure fear ignite in another's eyes. His rage wasn't just anger, it was his bloody holy scripture, the only liturgy he understood.
By nineteen, Doom was no longer a boy. He was a weapon, honed in blood and pain. But weapons, no matter how sharp, could still falter.
The robbery had been simple. Until it wasn't.
A mistake, his mistake, landed him in handcuffs in the back of a police cruiser. The officers laughed, treating him like just another street thug with a bad attitude. They didn't know the furnace burning inside him. They didn't understand the predator they'd caged.
A twist. A sickening snap of bone and cheap metal. The handcuffs clattered to the floor.
Then
An unholy red.
The officers died like all the others before them, too slow, too human. Their shocked gurgles were cut short. The cruiser became a charnel house.
Doom expected fury. Punishment. His father had no tolerance for failure.
But when he returned, still smelling of iron and cordite, Kael only studied him with those cold, unreadable eyes. A flicker, not of approval, but of assessment. Then
"We're going out."
Not to a training yard. Not to another lesson in suffering.
To a brothel.
The cloying scent of cheap perfume, the press of yielding flesh, the hungry eyes watching him, this was a new kind of battlefield. A hunger his father had never allowed him to indulge.
Until now.
"Violence is power," Kael had always said, his voice like gravel.
"But power," Kael stated, watching his son absorb the scene, "takes many forms."
That night, Doom learned another.
Lust.
It wasn't separate from the violence, it was its twin. The fever of possession, the intoxicating power of reducing another to trembling surrender, it resonated with the same core hunger. His appetite wasn't just pleasure, it was worship. A different altar, the same dark sacrament.
From then on, it became his second religion.
Lust was his sacrament. Every touch, a benediction. Every gasp, a hymn. He craved the fever of possession, the raw power of conquest. Bodies were his altars. Moans, his liturgy. And in the dark, he was both priest and the only god that mattered.
---
Now, Doom wanders a world that fears him. He doesn't just fight, he unmakes. His enemies aren't defeated, they're erased. He laughs as bones break, whispers prayers to no god but the one he's forged from carnage.
And the women?.
They remember the heat of his hands, the violence in his touch, how he took them like a conqueror claiming ruins. They whisper his name in the dark, thighs pressed tight, aching for the bruise of his hunger. Some call it love. Others, damnation. All of them worship in their terror and twisted desire.
They carve his initials into their skin, leave offerings of silk and scars. They dream of his teeth at their throats, his voice like gravel between their legs. To be chosen by him is to be ruined for any other. To be discarded is a fate worse than death.
Yet Doom walks on, untouchable. His lust is just another weapon, one more way the world bends, breaks, and burns for him. The void within echoes, a silent question mark against the carnage.
Is there redemption? No.
Is there hope? Not in this world.
Doom is what his father made him.
And he is so much worse.