Lena Park had exactly $12.47 in her bank account when the devil knocked on her door.
She knew the number by heart.
Not because she was good with money—but because she checked it obsessively, like it might magically grow out of shame.
It didn't.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment—if a windowless storage unit with peeling paint and a flickering ceiling light could legally be called an apartment—refreshing her analytics page for the hundredth time that night.
32 views.
The number blinked back at her, unmoving.
One of them was her mom.
One was her second email account.
The rest were probably accidents.
"Pathetic," Lena muttered.
She tossed her phone onto the mattress that doubled as her couch, bed, and emotional support system. The springs groaned in protest. Everything in this place groaned—pipes, walls, her soul.
She had done everything right.
Posted consistently.
Used trending sounds.
Smiled when she didn't feel like it.
And still—nothing.
Just another invisible girl screaming into the internet and getting silence in return.
That was when the knock came.
Three sharp taps.
Lena froze.
No one ever knocked here.
Her landlord texted.
Delivery drivers left packages outside.
Friends—what few she had—called first.
The knock came again. Calm. Certain. Like whoever was on the other side already knew she'd open the door.
Her stomach tightened.
She grabbed the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon—a cracked phone charger—and crept toward the door.
"Hello?" she called.
No answer.
She opened the door, already rehearsing an apology for late rent or a firm no to religious pamphlets.
Instead, she found a man standing in the hallway like he belonged there.
He was tall. Impossibly well-dressed. Black suit, perfectly tailored, no wrinkles. The kind of suit that didn't exist in her world—or her tax bracket.
It probably cost more than her entire life.
His hair was dark, his features sharp, his expression relaxed in a way that felt deeply unfair.
He smiled.
Not friendly.
Not polite.
He smiled like sin.
"Lena Park," he said smoothly. "You're trending."
She stared at him.
Then she laughed. A short, sharp sound. "Wrong girl."
"No," he said. "Very much the right one."
Before she could stop him—or herself—he stepped inside.
The air changed instantly. The room felt warmer. Heavier. Like the walls were leaning in to listen.
"Hey—" Lena turned to protest, then stopped.
Her phone was vibrating.
Violently.
She snatched it off the mattress, her heart hammering as notifications stacked faster than she could read them.
Likes.
Shares.
Comments.
Follows.
Hundreds. Then thousands.
Her latest video—the half-joking rant she'd filmed three hours ago about capitalism, burnout, and surviving on instant noodles—was climbing at an impossible speed.
Ten thousand views.
Twenty.
Fifty.
Her hands started to shake.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
The man watched her with open interest, like this was his favorite part.
"I fulfilled your wish," he said, producing a thin contract from inside his jacket.
It glowed faintly. Not bright. Just enough to be wrong.
"You wanted to be seen."
Her throat went dry.
"I didn't—" She swallowed. "I didn't wish for anything."
He tilted his head. "You posted. You hoped. You begged the universe quietly enough that you could pretend you weren't desperate."
Lena clenched her jaw. "And the price?"
That smile widened.
His eyes flickered red.
"I own your downfall."
The words slid into her skin like a promise carved in bone.
She took a step back. "This isn't funny."
"Oh, I know," he said, stepping closer. Too close. His voice dropped, smooth and dangerous. "That's why it works."
He leaned down until she could smell something dark and electric beneath his cologne.
"My name is Asher Vale," he said. "I work for Hell."
Her phone buzzed again. Louder. Relentless.
"And you," he continued softly, "are about to become famous."
Somewhere outside, sirens wailed. Police. Ambulance. The city burning in its usual ways.
Inside her apartment, Lena Park looked at the numbers climbing higher and higher on her screen.
And smiled.
"Then you picked the wrong girl," she said. "Because I don't plan on falling."
For the first time in over a century—
Asher Vale's smile faltered.