Chapter 6: Devil's Bargain
Bright didn't trust free things.
Life had drilled that into him early—nothing came without a price.
If someone gave you food, they wanted something. If someone gave you kindness, they were probably lining you up for a favor. And if a random girl with a gun handed you a key with an address scrawled on it for no reason?
Yeah. That was some next-level suspicious shit.
But Bright was cold, hungry, and out of options—so against every screaming instinct, he went to check it out.
---
The address led him uptown—where the city turned quieter and cleaner, like someone had picked it up and scrubbed off all the grime.
The building stood three stories tall, tucked behind iron gates and blooming jasmine vines. Not flashy. Not obvious. Just nice—in that way rich people liked when they didn't want to look rich.
Bright stood outside for a long time, staring at the polished brass number plate.
212 Blackwood Street.
The key weighed heavy in his palm.
"This is a trap," he muttered.
But he was tired. Too tired to be smart.
He tried the key.
It turned smoothly.
---
The apartment smelled like lavender and something faintly floral.
Not lived-in, but not abandoned either.
The furniture was minimalistic—dark wood and soft fabrics. A couch too expensive to actually sit on. A single bed tucked into a small bedroom. The whole place felt... waiting.
Bright wandered from room to room, checking drawers and closets. No cameras. No hidden bodies. Just a stocked fridge, clean sheets, and running water.
It made no damn sense.
He sat on the couch, clutching the key in both hands like it might disappear.
---
He woke up hours later, sunlight cutting sharp lines across the floor.
The hunger was a gnawing ache in his ribs. The fridge had instant noodles, bottled water, and a half-eaten carton of dumplings.
Bright wolfed down whatever he could find, half-expecting the whole place to dissolve into smoke the second he was full.
It didn't.
---
The door creaked open while he was halfway through his third cup of noodles.
Bright nearly choked.
Emily walked in like she owned the place—because apparently, she did—carrying coffee and a paper bag.
"You found it," she said, flicking her eyes around the room like she was inspecting a rental property.
Bright wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"You left the address on the key."
Emily smirked. "Figured you'd be smart enough to follow it."
Bright glared. "Or dumb enough."
---
She set the bag on the counter—dumplings again, still warm.
Bright stared at the food.
"You trying to fatten me up before you sell my kidneys?"
"If I wanted your kidneys," Emily said, sipping her coffee, "I'd have taken them while you were snoring like a busted radiator."
Bright couldn't argue with that.
He ate the dumplings anyway.
---
After breakfast, Emily leaned against the counter, arms folded.
"You can stay here."
Bright's fingers curled around the key still warm in his pocket.
"And what do I owe you?"
Her smirk sharpened.
"I'll let you know."
There it was. The catch.
Bright's stomach twisted.
But he didn't throw the key back.
Because the bed was real. The food was real. And Emily...
Well, she was definitely real.
A pain in the ass. But real.
He could figure out the price later.
For now, he had a place to sleep.
Even if the devil owned the lease.