DxD: Devil’s Advocate

I stared out the window of my corner office on the 46th floor of Horizon Media. The city lights twinkled below like fallen stars, a view I'd earned through years of calculated moves and careful planning. My chest felt tight. Too tight.

"You really thought you could get away with it, didn't you Vincent?"

Marcus Kane's voice came from behind me. My boss. My mentor. The man I'd spent the last five years trying to help modernize our organization's outdated methods.

I turned slowly, fighting the heaviness in my limbs. The room tilted slightly. "The digital transformation plan would have tripled our profits, Marcus. The old ways are dying."

He sat in my leather chair, feet propped on my desk like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. A crystal tumbler of whiskey dangled from his fingers. My whiskey. The one I kept in the bottom drawer for special occasions.

"You went behind my back. Pitched directly to the board." His voice was calm. Too calm. "Made me look like a dinosaur."

"I tried talking to you first." The words came out slurred. My tongue felt thick. The whiskey. Of course. "Six times. You wouldn't listen."

"Because I built this organization from nothing. Twenty-five years of careful relationships, delicate balances. And you wanted to throw it all away for what? Blockchain? AI automation? Cloud-based money laundering?"

The room spun faster. I grabbed the window frame to steady myself. "The feds are closing in. Technology is the only way to stay ahead. I was trying to save us."

Marcus stood, setting down the glass. "No, Vincent. You were trying to replace me. Did you think I wouldn't notice the way you've been cultivating the younger board members? Building your own power base?"

"You're... poisoning me." It wasn't a question. My legs buckled and I slid down the window, the cool glass against my back the only thing keeping me upright.

"Digitalis. From my garden actually. Untraceable." He walked over, looking down at me with something like regret. "You were my best protégé. But you got greedy. Impatient."

"Wasn't... greed." My heart stuttered in my chest, each beat more labored than the last. "The world's changing. We need to change with it."

"Perhaps." He crouched down beside me. "But not today. And not with you."

I tried to speak again but my mouth wouldn't work. The city lights blurred together, creating halos that pulsed in rhythm with my failing heart. Each beat felt like it took hours. The silence between them stretched into eternities.

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I thought about my plans, my carefully crafted strategies for dragging our organization into the modern era. All those sleepless nights running numbers, building models, creating contingencies. Wasted.

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The irony hit me then. I'd spent my whole career manipulating from the shadows, pulling strings without being seen. Now I was going to die the same way - another quiet "heart attack" in a high-rise office. No one would ever know the truth.

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Marcus's face swam in and out of focus. He was saying something but I couldn't hear him anymore. The world had gone silent except for the thunderous sound of my heart struggling to keep beating.

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I wanted to laugh. All my ambition, all my careful planning, and in the end I'd underestimated the most basic thing - an old man's pride. I'd thought Marcus would see the logic, understand the necessity. Instead...

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The lights were fading now. Or maybe that was just my vision going dark around the edges. Each heartbeat felt like it was being torn from my chest.

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I thought of my mother, who'd always told me I was too smart for my own good. Of my father, who'd warned me that ambition without patience was just suicide with extra steps.

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The darkness was almost complete now. Marcus was gone, or maybe he'd never been there at all. Just me and my dying heart, counting down the final moments.

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I didn't want to die. Not like this. Not when there was still so much work to do. The organization needed to evolve. The old ways wouldn't protect us forever. Someone had to...

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The last thing I saw was the city spread out below me. My city. The one I'd tried to save from itself. Then even that faded away.

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I felt myself falling, or maybe floating. Everything was dark now. Empty. But somewhere ahead, there was a light...

And then I was moving toward it, drawn by some force I couldn't understand. The memories of my death - of my life - started to fragment and fade. But one thought remained, burning like a brand in whatever was left of my consciousness:

I wasn't finished.

I had more to do.

I needed another chance.

The light grew brighter, consuming everything in its brilliance until even my desperate thoughts began to dissolve. I felt myself being pulled apart, scattered across an infinite void like ashes in the wind. The last fragments of Vincent Hill – corporate schemer, failed revolutionary, dead man – drifted away into nothingness.

Then came the pressure. An immense force crashed down on what remained of my consciousness, compressing me into a single point of awareness. The void erupted into cascading images and sensations – memories that weren't mine flooding through me like a tidal wave. Golden eyes in mirrors. White hair that marked noble blood. A father's stern disappointment. A mother's gentle touch. The weight of expectations and tradition pressing down on young shoulders.

House Beleth. One of the 72 Pillars of Hell. A dying bloodline clinging to past glories while the world moved on without them. And I was... I was...

I jerked awake, heart pounding. Memories crashed through my skull – not mine, but his. Amon's. The spoiled noble brat whose body I now inhabited.

"Young master?" A soft knock at the door. "Are you awake?"

I sat up slowly, my head spinning as two sets of memories warred for dominance. The luxurious bedroom around me was both familiar and alien – I knew every inch of it from Amon's sixteen years of life, but I was also seeing it through Vincent's more cynical eyes. The silk sheets, the ornate furniture, the magical artifacts displayed like trophies – all of it screamed old money and older power.

"Young master?" The voice came again, more insistent this time. A servant – Amon's personal attendant. Mary? No, Maria. The name surfaced from the jumble of borrowed memories.

"Yes, come in."

A young looking maid entered, her black hair tied back in a neat bun. "Another late night, young master?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she drew back the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, making me wince.

"Something like that." I watched her bustle around, straightening things with practiced efficiency. Through Amon's memories, I knew she'd been doing this same routine since he was a child.

"Your father wishes to see you in his study after breakfast." She paused, giving me a worried look. "He seemed... displeased."

Of course he was. According to the memories still settling in my head, I - or rather, Amon - had blown through another small fortune at the gambling tables last night. The latest in a long string of disappointments.

"When isn't he?" I muttered, swinging my legs out of bed. The marble floor was cold against my feet.

"He wants what's best for you, young master." Maria's voice was gentle. "The whole family does."

I didn't respond. What could I say? That the original Amon had spent years systematically destroying every opportunity handed to him? That he'd turned disappointment into an art form?

Maria laid out my clothes - an expensive suit in deep charcoal. "Breakfast will be served in twenty minutes. Please don't be late. Your mother worries."

After she left, I stood before the mirror, studying my reflection. White hair, golden eyes - trademark Beleth features. The face was young, barely sixteen, but already showing signs of dissipation. Dark circles under the eyes, a slight puffiness suggesting too many late nights and too much wine.

"Well," I murmured to my reflection, "you really fucked this one up, didn't you?"

The memories painted a clear picture. Amon Beleth, third son of a noble house. His eldest brother Cyrus was the perfect heir - talented, ambitious, ruthless. The second brother Damian was the warrior, already making a name for himself in the military. And then there was Amon. The spare. The disappointment. The waste of space.

I dressed quickly, my fingers remembering buttons and clasps they'd never actually touched before. The suit fit perfectly, of course. Everything in this world of privilege did.

The dining room was massive, with vaulted ceilings and long windows overlooking manicured gardens. My mother sat at one end of the long table, elegant as always in a morning dress of pale blue. Lady Camilla Beleth, former beauty queen turned political powerhouse. She looked up as I entered, her smile warm but worried.

"Darling." She gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Come, sit. You look tired."

I slid into the seat, noting the slight tremor in my hands. Withdrawal, probably. Amon's memories suggested he'd been hitting the bottle pretty hard lately.

"Your father is concerned." She reached over, brushing my hair back from my forehead. "These late nights, the gambling..."

"I know." The words came out sharper than intended. I softened my tone. "I know, mother. I'm handling it."

She didn't believe me. Why should she? Amon had been "handling it" for years, spiraling deeper into debt and disgrace.

"The deadline approaches." Her voice was careful, measured. "Your eighteenth birthday. Your father-"

"Has made his expectations clear." I picked up a piece of toast, more for something to do with my hands than any real hunger. "Multiple times."

"He wants you to succeed, Amon. We all do." She touched my arm. "You have so much potential."

"I should go." I stood, unable to bear the weight of her concern any longer. "Father's waiting."

She caught my hand as I passed. "Remember who you are, darling. You're a Beleth. That means something."

I squeezed her fingers briefly, then headed for my father's study. The walk gave me time to think, to plan. I had Amon's memories, his knowledge, but none of his self-destructive impulses. I could see the bigger picture now, the web of politics and power that he'd been too self-absorbed to notice.

Lord Aldric's study was exactly as imposing as Amon remembered. Dark wood paneling, leather-bound books lining the walls, a massive desk that made visitors feel small and insignificant. My father sat behind it, reading through what looked like financial reports.

"Sit." He didn't look up.

I sat, studying him with new eyes. Lord Aldric Beleth, patriarch of a dying house. The memories showed me decades of slow decline, of influence and power slipping away generation by generation.

"Do you know how much you lost last night?" He finally looked up, his golden eyes - so like mine - hard and cold.

"Twelve thousand." The number came easily from Amon's memories.

"Fourteen." He tossed a paper across the desk. "The house sent their bill this morning. Along with their... concerns about your mounting debts."

I picked up the paper, scanning the numbers. "I'll take care of it."

"With what money?" His voice cracked like a whip. "Your allowance is gone until next quarter. Your credit is maxed. Unless you plan to sell something?"

I set the paper down carefully. "I'll figure something out."

"Like your brother did?" His lip curled. "Selling family heirlooms to cover gambling debts? Is that the legacy you want to leave?"

The mention of Markus hung between us like poison gas. Father's younger brother, the first disappointment. Exiled fifteen years ago after nearly bankrupting the family.

"No." I met his gaze steadily. "It's not."

Something flickered in his eyes - surprise at my direct answer? The old Amon would have made excuses, promised to do better, then gone right back to his old habits.

"You have less than two years." He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "Two years to prove you're worth something to this family. To show you can be more than just another parasite bleeding us dry."

I stood, smoothing my jacket. "Is that all, father?"

He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "For now. Don't disappoint me again, Amon."

I walked out, my mind already racing ahead. Two years. Two years to turn this train wreck around, to build something from the ashes of Amon's wasted youth.

Good thing I had experience with impossible deadlines.

The memories kept coming as I walked, filling in gaps, showing me opportunities the original Amon had missed. Connections he'd ignored, power he'd squandered, allies he'd alienated through sheer self-absorbed stupidity.

I smiled, feeling the pieces start to click into place. Amon Beleth might have been a fuckup, but I wasn't Amon anymore. Not really.

I was something new. Something hungry.

And I had work to do.