Doom was born into chaos, the son of a notorious criminal, a bank robber, murderer, and a 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. By ten, he'd witnessed his first execution, a practical lesson in the cost of hesitation.
Love was a foreign concept—something whispered about in stories but never known. Affection was a currency 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 nod when he took his first life without flinching.
But there was one exception.
Hidden in the depths of there old home a suitcase, locked away from the world, were the videos and other trinkets. Grainy, flickering recordings of a woman with warmth in her eyes, his mother. Most of the footage was mundane: her moving through rooms, speaking softly to his father, demonstrating combat techniques with effortless grace. In those rare glimpses, his father was different, less a hardened warlord, more a man who could almost smile.
But the ones Doom cherished most were the ones where she spoke to him, before he even existed.
There was a particular recording, worn from how often he had watched it. His mother, her hands resting on her stomach, her voice a melody he would never hear outside of those pixels. "You're going to be strong," she murmured, "but not just with your fists. With your heart, too." She laughed, bright and alive, and in that moment, Doom could almost believe in something other than survival. "We'll teach you how to fight, yes, but also how to dance. How to hold a blade—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 when they moved to new city after every heist, stories she would never read to him, a childhood stolen before he was born. Sometimes, when the weight of his father's expectations pressed too hard, when the ache of his training injuries threatened to break him, 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, 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 something more than this.
Something like love.
Something that, despite his father's teachings
Something he still craved.
But that didn't last.
—
Love or something like 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 weight of his father's teachings. The lessons grew harsher as he aged, more brutal, until his mind fractured under the strain. But his father was watching. Always watching. And a broken mind, in his father's hands, was merely raw material.
What emerged was something even his father had not 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 high of domination, the electric thrill of seeing fear in another's eyes. His rage wasn't just anger, it was his bloody holy scripture.
By sixteen, 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 thug with a temper. They didn't know.
They didn't understand.
A twist. A snap. The handcuffs clattered to the floor.
Then—an unholy red.
The officers died like all the others before them: too slow to scream.
Doom expected fury. Punishment. His father had no tolerance for failure.
But when he returned, still smelling of iron and sweat, his father only studied him with those cold, unreadable eyes. Then—
*"We're going out."
Not to a training yard. Not to another lesson in suffering.
To a brothel.
The scent of perfume, the press of flesh—this was a new kind of hunger. One his father had never allowed him to indulge. Until now.
"Violence is power," his father had always said.
"But power takes many forms."
That night, Doom learned another.
Lust.
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 intoxicating power of reducing a woman to trembling surrender. His appetite wasn't just pleasure—it was worship.
Bodies were his altars. Moans, his liturgy. And in the dark, he was both priest and god.
---
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 made of carnage.
And the women? They remember.
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.
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.
Is there redemption? No.
Is there hope? Not in this world.
Doom is what his father made him.
And he is so much worse.