The rain was wrong tonight.
It didn't fall in gentle arcs or the chaotic splash of a storm—it slanted in precise, crooked lines, like some invisible hand was tilting the whole world just to see what would happen.
From the café's cracked window, Ethan Vale watched the streets smear into liquid shadows. He could smell the wet concrete even through the glass. He didn't look up when the chair across from him scraped against the floor.
The man who sat down didn't bother with greetings.
"You brought the pen?" he asked, his voice like silk dragged over broken glass.
Ethan nodded once and placed the fountain pen on the table. It was heavy in the hand, older than it had any right to be. Its silver tip caught the flicker of the overhead bulb, sending a shard of light across the black leather contract lying between them.
"Read it if you like," the man said, leaning back. His smile was too wide, the kind that showed teeth not made for chewing food.
"I already did," Ethan replied, his tone flat. "Twice."
"Good. Then sign."
Ethan picked up the pen, his fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of inevitability. He signed. Ethan Vale, the last flourish curling like a snake at the end. As the ink sank into the parchment, something in the air shifted. The café's old radio died mid-song. The hum of the fridge in the corner stopped. For a heartbeat, there was no sound in the world.
The stranger reached forward, pulling the contract toward him with a gloved hand.
"From this moment," he said, his words crisp as winter air, "your past is gone. Wiped clean. No debts. No regrets. No… mistakes."
"And my future?" Ethan asked.
The man's smile widened, impossibly so. "Yours to shape. Every desire. Every hunger. Every impossible dream—made real."
When the man rose, his shadow didn't rise with him. It lingered a second too long, twisting in place before snapping back to his heels. He left without another word, and the rain outside stopped as if someone had flicked a switch.
---
The week that followed was like waking up inside someone else's dream.
Money poured in through accounts Ethan hadn't opened. A penthouse with glass walls and a private elevator materialized in his life as if it had been waiting for him all along. He had clothes tailored to fit a man who'd never done physical labor, cars that purred like predators, and an army of people who suddenly knew his name, smiled at him, and owed him favors.
And then there was Lena.
He met her at a rooftop party he didn't remember being invited to. She had eyes like midnight and a voice that felt like warm whiskey on a cold night. She laughed at things he didn't say and touched his arm like they'd been lovers for years. She didn't know the Ethan from before. Nobody did.
By the sixth night, Ethan had almost convinced himself that the deal had no price.
---
The knock came on the seventh night.
Not a ring of the bell, not an impatient hammering. Three knocks. Even. Perfectly spaced.
Lena was curled on the couch, her legs folded beneath her, a wine glass in hand. "Expecting someone?" she asked.
"No," Ethan said, and crossed the living room to the door. His penthouse was twenty-seven floors above the city, the kind of place you didn't just wander into. His doorman didn't call ahead. His security system didn't beep.
When he opened the door, the man standing there made the air feel colder.
He wore a suit that was… wrong. Not black, not gray—just colorless, like someone had drawn him in pencil and forgotten to fill him in. His skin was pale, not from lack of sun, but from lack of life. His eyes…
They weren't black. They weren't white. They were empty, as if someone had carved out space where light refused to exist.
"Ethan Vale," he said. His voice didn't vibrate in the air—it bloomed directly inside Ethan's skull, each word sinking like a stone into still water.
"You made a deal seven days ago." The man stepped inside without waiting for permission. Lena glanced over, her brow furrowed, but didn't speak. She just… stared.
"I've come to offer you another."
Ethan closed the door. He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You can't buy what's already sold."
The man's lips twitched upward—not into a smile, but into something that might have been one if smiles could bleed. "Who told you the Devil was your highest bidder?"
Ethan's laughter faltered.
"I don't need to know your price," the man continued. "I only need to know you're willing to pay again."
"And what's the payment?" Ethan asked slowly.
"Not your soul," the man said, his gaze never blinking. "That's already spoken for. I want something more valuable."
Ethan's chest tightened. "Which is?"
The man leaned close, his voice a whisper that felt like it was coming from inside Ethan's bones.
"Your truth."
---
The air felt heavy, as if the room itself was listening.
Lena's wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the marble floor. She didn't flinch. She didn't look down. She just kept staring at the man in the doorway with that blank, faraway expression.
Ethan realized then—she wasn't staring at the man. She was staring through him.
Because she couldn't see him at all.
---
End of Chapter 1
Next: Chapter 2 — The Second Contract
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