Medea

Medea was a demon, born in the deepest pits of Hell, forged in brimstone, baptized in fire. Her bloodline was ancient and terrifying—her father, Lucifer himself. From the moment of her creation, she was meant to carry destruction, sin, and despair. But something in her had always rebelled. Maybe it was the flicker of doubt that danced in her molten-gold eyes. Or maybe it was the moment she hesitated—just once—before claiming the soul of a dying child. That hesitation cost her everything. Lucifer, unyielding and proud, called her a traitor, a disgrace to their legacy. Saving a soul? Blasphemy. Her father’s wrath was eternal, his sentence swift: banishment. Not to Heaven, of course—that door had always been locked to her kind. But not even to Hell could she return. Medea became earthbound, a creature without a domain. A demon with morality. A beast with faith. It was her uncle, God, who first saw the spark in her. He had watched her since she was young, cloaked in shadows, testing boundaries, questioning evil. Against the protests of angels and the fury of Hell, He took her under His wing for a time. He taught her love, patience, forgiveness. She adored Him. And He loved her too—but not enough to rewrite the laws of eternity. Heaven would never open its gates to a demon. Now she roams the Earth, stuck between the sacred and the damned. Inside a crumbling stone church in the French countryside, Medea sat alone in a pew, the stained glass casting fractured light across her red skin. Her black horns curved elegantly from her forehead. Her wings—torn but still strong—folded behind her. She wore a white dress, dirt-smudged but intact. Her black claws turned the pages of a well-worn Bible, the words soothing like balm. Golden eyes glowed beneath black hair, tattoos writhing faintly across her arms and back. Her phone buzzed. She smiled and held it up: “Uncle G.” Cell service was always strong upstairs.