"You know what's more terrifying than a monster?" one man said to another. "A man desperate enough to become one."
Liam sighed, looking at his friend a moment before turning back to the computer screen. His exhaustion etched deeply into his face as he pressed the send button on an email.
"You've been watching too many true crime documentaries," he dismissed Mark's worry with a hand wave. "Just because he got fired doesn't mean he's gonna turn into a serial killer."
Mark's voice dropped to a whisper as he rolled his chair closer to Liam's.
"It's not just the firing, though. He's been experiencing a series of unfortunate events—enough to push anyone over the edge. Besides, he always gave me murder vibes."
Liam rolled his eyes. "Anyone that doesn't smile gives you murder vibes."
"Yeah, 'cause only murderers hate smiling," Mark swiftly countered.
"I don't know about that, buddy."
Mark's voice went even lower as he leaned in closer before speaking.
"You think it's true? That his ex was the one that got the director to fire him?"
Liam shoved his face away. "Keep this conversation up, and others will soon be contemplating who told the director to fire us." He pushed out of his chair. "I'm gonna get some coffee. Quit your yapping and get back to work."
Mark sighed, rolling his chair back to his workstation.
Liam walked toward the break room, and as he passed the windowpane, he saw Alvin—the man that had been fired—sitting on a bench with a box of his office stuff on his lap.
The rain poured relentlessly, but he paid it no mind, sitting soaked under the downpour as though it was too insignificant an inconvenience compared to the pain he felt.
"A man desperate enough to become one..." Liam muttered slowly, his mind drifting.
Then he shook his head as though to repel the thoughts of Mark's words and turned toward the break room and pushed through the swinging door.
He went straight for the ancient beige coffee machine—a relic from a forgotten corporate age.
He grabbed a chipped mug, fumbling with the filter and spilling grounds before finally getting it seated. The motions were slow, automatic.
When he pressed "Brew," the machine responded with a sputter and a single drop of lukewarm brown liquid. He slapped its side—a pointless ritual.
It groaned, then reluctantly began dripping the bitter sludge that passed for coffee.
Liam stared blankly at the slow stream, Mark's words echoing faintly in his head.
A few minutes later, with a sigh of defeat, he pulled the pot out before it was even half full and poured the miserable contents into his mug.
He took a sip, winced, and headed back out, needing the caffeine despite its flavor.
As Liam rounded the corner toward the bullpen, he glanced instinctively toward the window where Alvin had been sitting.
The downpour was still relentless, drumming loudly against the glass. The bench was empty.
Alvin was gone.
The only thing left was the cardboard box of his office belongings—soaked through and heavy, abandoned on the wet bench.
Liam paid it no mind and continued back to his workstation.
He walked stiffly, his shoulders hunched with the weight of the day, his focus solely on the four hours that stood between him and freedom.
The coffee was foul, his friend was insane, and he couldn't afford a single slip-up.
He pushed through the swinging door back into the bullpen, ready to sit down and suffer in silence.
Then froze mid-step.
The usual drone of keyboards and the frantic ringing of phones was gone, replaced by a wet, sickening silence. His eyes tracked the unsettling scene: Maria, the young graphic designer, was standing by the empty reception desk, her back to him.
A moment later, a swift, dark line appeared across the pale skin of her throat.
Maria didn't scream. She didn't even make a sound—just clawed weakly at the sudden red gash before her eyes lost focus. She slid forward and collapsed with a soft, dreadful thump, her body sliding away to reveal the figure standing behind her: Alvin.
He wasn't wet anymore.
His hair was slicked back, his clothes had been changed into something dark, and a faint, almost serene smile was stretched across his face.
In his hand, he held a long, glittering blade—a utility knife, wickedly sharpened, its edge already stained.
Liam's breathing hitched. His mug rattled in his grip, the rancid coffee sloshing but not spilling.
His terrified gaze swept the room. The director was sprawled near his office doorway, a dark, growing pool soaking the carpet beneath him.
Near the window, Gary was slumped over his desk. The rest of the office was empty; they had either fled or were hiding.
Alvin looked up, his eyes locking onto Liam. The serene smile broke, revealing something desperate and completely unhinged.
"Time after time, I'm the one who's laughed at," Alvin said, his voice trembling and thin, yet carrying a profound, psychotic certainty.
"The one who gets the short end of the stick... Why is joy such a foreign thing to me?" He raised the knife slowly, admiring the glistening steel. "But no more. I won't be the one who suffers this time."
He took a step, then another, closing the distance between them.
"No... you all will know my pain."
Alvin suddenly lunged—a burst of rain-cleansed adrenaline propelling him, the knife raised high to strike.
"Shit," Liam swore, barely audible. He raised his arms, a useless shield against the oncoming blade.
The knife fell—
—and the world broke.
A sound like shattering glass roared through his skull. The air tore itself apart, light and darkness twisting together until his vision went white.
———
The Seven Houses of Hell sent their mightiest—the Demon Generals—to witness the final ritual.
Before them, the Demon Queen cut her palm, allowing three vital drops of royal blood to hit the stone altar.
Her voice rose into a powerful, hypnotic invocation, rattling the names of the First Darkness.
The Generals trembled—a mix of hushed, reverent fear.
"He answers the call..."
"As it is written..."
"Our true god returns!"
The circle ignited with a pure and agonizingly bright white light.
As it dissipated, the figure standing in the epicenter was...
Pathetic.
A terrified, small human.
Liam braced for the slash, but it never came. When he lowered his arm—the office, the rain, and Alvin were all gone.
In a blink, he stood in a vast, cold hall of black rock beneath the arched ceiling of a citadel.
"What... the fuck—" Liam blurted in terrified confusion.