For a moment, Seraphine didn't know what to believe and what to doubt. The world around her seemed so certain of things she herself could not bring herself to accept. Yet when she decided to take what she often called the rational route, she made a quiet resolution within her mind—to shut out every whisper of superstition that insisted on intruding into her life.
It was not that there was no evidence.
Quite the contrary.
There was, quite frankly, more than enough proof for her to believe otherwise. Demonstrations had been performed in public halls. Contracts had been notarized before officials. There were individuals whose successes were openly attributed to their pacts with spirits. Even entire agencies had been formed for the sole purpose of regulating such agreements.
Still, Seraphine refused to believe.
In her mind, the whole practice was nothing more than a carefully maintained illusion—an elaborate theater performed for those who preferred magic to reason.
And Seraphine Vale had always preferred reason.
In this city—one that was very much like every other modern city—the people moved according to routines and invisible programs. Morning trains ran with mechanical precision, offices filled with the steady murmur of ambition, and streets glittered beneath towers of glass and light.
It was a bustling place, filled with glamour, noise, and the quiet desperation of thousands pursuing lives that rarely slowed long enough for reflection.
But beneath that polished exterior existed something else.
Something older.
Spirit contracts.
They had become so normalized that most people rarely thought twice about them anymore. Small conveniences in daily life were often the result of minor pacts. Shopkeepers sometimes employed luck spirits to draw customers. Musicians occasionally bound themselves to inspiration spirits in exchange for creative brilliance. Even athletes were rumored to seek temporary contracts for strength and endurance.
It was not discussed loudly, but everyone knew.
Everyone except Seraphine seemed to believe in it.
She, however, dismissed the entire phenomenon with the same cool skepticism she applied to everything else.
"Tricks," she had once said during a conversation at work. "Psychological influence, coincidence, or elaborate scams. Nothing supernatural about it."
Her coworkers had stared at her as if she had just denied gravity.
After all, spirit contracts were not rumors.
They were documented.
But Seraphine remained unmoved.
Perhaps it was stubbornness. Perhaps it was pride. Or perhaps it was simply the quiet conviction that the world could not possibly be as strange as people insisted it was.
On this particular evening, however, that conviction was about to face its greatest challenge.
Her apartment was modest—neither large nor particularly small—but it suited her well enough. Bookshelves lined one wall, most of them filled with academic texts, historical records, and the occasional novel she never quite finished reading.
The only unusual object in the room rested on her desk.
An old book.
Its leather cover had faded with age, and strange symbols had been etched across its surface. Seraphine had inherited it recently from a distant relative who had been, according to family rumor, somewhat eccentric.
Naturally, the book contained rituals.
Summoning rituals, to be precise.
Seraphine had spent the better part of the evening reading through it with a faintly amused expression.
"Ridiculous," she murmured under her breath.
According to the instructions, even a simple summoning required candles, chalk markings, and a careful recitation of certain phrases. The language itself was archaic, clearly meant to impress rather than function.
Or so she believed.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the page.
"If people actually believe this works," she said quietly to herself, "then proving it doesn't should be easy enough."
It was not curiosity that drove her then.
It was irritation.
A desire to demonstrate, once and for all, how easily people could be misled by theatrics.
So she stood.
The ritual itself was absurdly simple.
A small circle drawn on the floor with chalk.
Four candles placed at equal points around the marking.
A short passage spoken aloud.
Seraphine completed each step with calm precision, almost bored by the process.
The room was silent except for the faint crackling of candle flames.
When she finally finished drawing the circle, she stepped back and folded her arms.
"Well," she said dryly.
"Let's see this miracle."
She opened the book once more and read the final lines of the ritual aloud.
The words felt strange on her tongue, but she spoke them anyway.
For a moment…
Nothing happened.
Seraphine sighed softly.
"Exactly as expected."
She turned away from the circle, already reaching to blow out the nearest candle.
Then the air in the room changed.
At first it was subtle.
A heaviness, as though the atmosphere itself had thickened.
The candle flames flickered violently.
The temperature dropped.
Seraphine froze.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned back toward the circle.
The chalk markings had begun to glow.
Not brightly—but with a faint, ominous shimmer that spread along the lines like living ink.
Her rational mind struggled to explain what she was seeing.
A draft, perhaps.
Some chemical reaction.
Anything.
But before she could settle on an explanation, a voice spoke from behind her.
It was calm, it carried a hint of amusement and it also sounded ancient.
"Humans usually scream first."
Seraphine's breath caught in her throat.
For the first time that night, doubt crept into her certainty.
Very slowly…
She turned around.
And standing in the quiet center of her apartment was a man she had never seen before.
Tall and was Impossibly composed. And the first thing she noticed was that he was strikingly handsome. The sleek back hair...the blue eyes. And there was only one demon capable of this beauty.
Dressed in dark elegance that seemed far too refined for the cramped space of her living room.
His eyes gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
And when he smiled, it carried the unsettling weight of something that had existed far longer than any human should.
Seraphine stared at him for a long moment.
Then she asked the only question her mind could produce.
"…Are you actually the Devil?"
The man's smile widened slightly.
And his answer came with quiet certainty.
"Yes."