His little shark

The gates of Hell open like a wound in the sky, and you step through, the heat of brimstone curling around you like smoke in water. Every sound feels distorted, as if the world itself is underwater, and your senses sharpen into a predatory clarity. Your body pulses with a new, terrifying strength-your skin slick, muscular, finned-your transformation complete. You are no longer human here; you are the shark incarnate, a creature of raw instinct and cold, precise violence.
Hell stretches before you, a maze of fire-lit towers and jagged cliffs, but your focus is narrow. All the chaos, the screams, the dancing shadows-they blur at the edges of your vision. There is only one target: Vox, the cult leader, the human-form demon you have obsessed over long before your fall into this place. You remember him in whispered nightmares, a man with a charm that twisted the air around him, who spoke words that made hearts obey and minds fracture. Now, in this infernal playground, you feel the irresistible pull of both admiration and vengeance.
Your transformation sharpens your instincts. You smell the electricity of his presence before you see it. The currents of Hell itself seem to guide you to him, and your jaws ache with anticipation, your fins slicing through the blackened, viscous air. And then, there he is-Vox, perched above the sprawl of Hell like a puppet master, his eyes flickering with that human cunning that has haunted you. The air around him hums with his power, but it is fragile, mortal in the way you now understand.
With a single, predatory motion, you leap, fast as thought, and strike. Your razor teeth flash in the hellfire as you catch him off guard. You slice his eye, and the world jerks violently as Vox staggers, a scream tearing from his throat-but the moment is not for mercy. You drive deeper, cutting to the heart, feeling the pulse of life drain beneath your grip. His human form trembles in terror, and yet something in him recognizes your form.