Demon Contract

The lights in Dorm-7 buzzed faintly as they shifted into their artificial dawn cycle. The glow was too clean, too measured, like sunrise reconstructed from memory rather than experience. Nothing about it carried the warmth of morning; it was simply brightness, imposed on the room.

Max stood at the kitchenette, a mug in his hand, staring into the swirl of half-dissolved powder as though the coffee itself had done him wrong.

Alyssa, sprawled sideways across the couch, glanced at him over her arm. "It still amazes me that this place can map the resonance of our souls to the decimal, but it can't manage to brew coffee that doesn't taste like someone burned disappointment into a cup."

Max didn't answer. He barely blinked. The shadows under his eyes had little to do with sleep and everything to do with the weight he'd carried since Grimm's words in the Truth Room.

On the far side of the room, Chloe sat cross-legged in the air. She wasn't floating so much as slipping out of step with gravity; the edges of her form flickered in and out of focus, as though the room couldn't decide whether she belonged to it. Dan stood behind her, arms folded, watching the distortion with the careful patience of someone who had already noticed more than she wanted him to.

"You're drifting again," he said gently.

Chloe blinked, then snapped back into focus with a jerk that reminded Max of a film reel skipping a frame. She shook her head once. "I didn't feel it."

"That's exactly the problem," Dan said, his tone quiet but firm.

The door opened, and Victor strolled in barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, shirt half-buttoned like he hadn't bothered to finish dressing. He carried a towel over one shoulder and a battered copy of The Art of War in his other hand, the spine creased and the margins cluttered with notes. Without ceremony, he dropped it onto the table.

"It's still relevant," he said as he moved toward the couch.

Max muttered without looking up, "Sun Tzu didn't write about demons."

Victor shrugged, settling into a seat with his usual ease. "He wrote about people. Same difference, when you get down to it."

The couch groaned faintly under his weight. Alyssa glanced down, raising an eyebrow. "Did you just crack another tile?"

They were in an unofficial tile-cracking competition. Victor grunted, neither confirming nor denying it.

Dan drifted over to the counter, picked up Max's mug, and gave it a cautious sniff. His face twisted almost instantly. "You could probably interrogate someone with this."

Max said nothing.

Dan poured the coffee down the sink, rinsed the cup, and leaned against the counter beside him. "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

The silence stretched. Finally, Max said, voice flat but honest, "No."

That drew the others' attention. Alyssa sat up a little straighter. Chloe lowered her feet to the ground. Even Victor, who usually had a smirk ready, stilled.

"You didn't sleep again," Chloe said quietly. It wasn't a question; she could see it in the weight under his eyes.

Max shook his head.

Alyssa's voice softened. "Why not?"

He hesitated before answering, then exhaled. "Because the second I close my eyes, it's all there. What I've done. What I've dragged you into. It's worse here—like the walls remind me I can't protect you from any of it."

For a moment no one spoke. Even Victor's usual deflection didn't come. He leaned back, glancing at the ceiling. "Well, that would explain why this place feels like a padded cell. Like the echoes die before they even leave your mouth."

Chloe's gaze flicked around the room, her tone clinical but edged with unease. "They do. The air eats resonance. It isn't silence—it's suppression."

Dan nodded, folding his arms. "Dr. Adisa explained it to me. She called it 'soul-insulation'. Same system they use when they're locking something away."

Max gave a small, humourless smile. "Which means we're the ones they've locked up."

No one disagreed.

Victor leaned back, arms stretched across the top of the couch. "A coffin with amenities."

Max finally moved away from the counter, setting the mug down on the low table. His hand twitched as he did, the tremor sharper now. A faint shimmer of gold fire traced his veins before retreating again.

Dan's eyes caught it immediately. "You're burning again."

Max gave a slight nod. "It's always there. And I can't afford to let it out."

Victor leaned forward. "Yeah, well, you don't get to keep it bottled forever. It's not going to ask for permission."

Dan spoke again, gentler but no less direct. "You're changing."

Max exhaled slowly. "So is everything."

For a moment the room held its breath. Then Alyssa broke the tension, pushing herself upright and raking a hand through her hair. "So, what do we do? Sit here until Grimm decides to cut us open, or go hit a wall until Kane pops in with his usual cryptic nonsense?"

"Training's soon," Max said. "We've got to control these powers. He'll come later."

Chloe stood, the flicker at her edges smoothing for the moment. "Then we should be ready."

Victor rose too, cracking his knuckles as though the act alone might anchor him. "Define ready."

Max looked at each of them in turn, his voice quiet but certain. "Ready means this time, no one dies."

The words settled heavily in the room. No one argued, because there was nothing left to argue.

They began preparing in silence, each in their own way — stretching, grounding, bracing themselves. They were fractured, raw, but not broken.

And outside their door, unseen but certain, two white-cloaked figures stood in the hall, motionless as statues. Watching. Waiting. Logging every breath.

***

The training hall wasn't much to look at. White walls, a floor scored with faint rune-lines, and ceiling lights that buzzed faintly as if even they were tired of the job. It felt too sterile, like someone's idea of a school gym stripped of colour and soul.

Alyssa stepped inside first, hands shoved into her pockets. She scanned the empty benches along the walls and muttered, "Great. Same vibe as P.E., just with worse lighting."

Victor smirked. "I hated P.E."

"Yeah, you look like you struggled with exercise," Alyssa shot back.

Before Victor could respond, a pair of Grimm's aides appeared behind the glass partition. Their voices crackled over the intercom: "Calibration drill commencing. Explore resonance output. Begin when ready."

No other instructions. No Kane, no sparring drones. Just a room and an order.

The group hesitated. The silence stretched until Alyssa gave an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto one of the benches. The wood groaned, then cracked clean in half beneath her weight. She staggered upright, blinking down at the wreckage.

"…Not my fault," she muttered.

Victor chuckled. "You broke a bench by sitting. That's a talent."

"Shut up." But there was the faintest curve to her mouth as she brushed splinters off her pants.

Chloe moved to the centre of the hall, brow furrowed. She tried to focus, letting her body relax into that odd half-state she never quite controlled. For a moment she blurred at the edges, then flickered — vanishing and reappearing two paces away.

Victor stepped forward to steady her, but she blinked again and phased straight through his arm. He swore, shaking out the gooseflesh. "Warn a guy before you do that."

"I didn't even notice," Chloe said softly. The uncertainty in her tone lingered.

Dan was already at her side, his hand brushing her shoulder. A warm pulse bled out of him, golden and steady, sinking into her resonance. The shimmer around Chloe stilled, her outline locking into place like film snapping back into focus.

Her breath steadied. "How did you—?"

"I don't know," Dan admitted, blinking down at his hand. "I just… felt you slipping, and it adjusted."

A new voice cut through the intercom. Grimm himself, calm and precise: "A remarkable use of your powers, Daniel. Regulation through halo resonance — a stabilising effect. Most unexpected."

Silence followed, the kind that pressed against the ribs. Then Grimm's voice returned, smooth and detached: "And Mr. Jaeger… nothing. Curious, that the one who burned brightest leaves no trace when asked. I wonder how long restraint will serve you."

The intercom clicked off, but the words lingered.

The others glanced at each other uneasily. Even when he wasn't in the room, Grimm was watching.

Victor rolled his shoulders and stepped up next. "Fine, my turn." He focused, jaw clenched, and his right arm rippled grotesquely as muscle surged and bones lengthened. Claws pushed out where fingers had been, thick and black.

He grinned, flexing. "Not bad, huh?"

The grin faltered when the change stuck halfway, his forearm grotesquely thickened while the rest of him stayed human. He shook it, growling. "Okay, that's… less cool."

Alyssa snorted. "You look like you lost a fight with a blender."

Victor finally forced the arm back into shape, scowling good-naturedly. "Yeah, laugh it up."

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Through it all, Max stayed at the edge of the hall. His arms were folded, eyes locked on the others, but he didn't step forward. He hadn't tried.

Alyssa noticed first. "What about you?"

Max shook his head slightly. "Not here."

It wasn't anger in his voice — just weight. Restraint heavy enough that the others didn't press further.

The aides logged data behind the glass. Grimm's silence lingered.

And in the middle of the sterile chamber, the five of them stood together — awkward, uncertain, but together. For a moment, it felt less like a lab and more like a classroom on the first day of term, when no one knew what they were doing but at least no one was alone.

***

Dorm-7 had never looked cozy, but that night it came close. Someone had dragged the beanbags into a loose circle, and the overhead lights had been dimmed low enough that the walls felt less like a hospital ward. The air carried the faint, comforting stink of something cheap and familiar — instant noodles.

Victor slurped from the cup with a kind of reverence. "Now this," he announced, "is the real performance enhancer."

Alyssa wrinkled her nose. "You're eating like a college dropout."

"Correction," Victor said, raising his fork in mock dignity, "almost a dropout. But I clawed my way through. Which means—" he tapped the side of his cup with his fork, "—you address me properly from now on. Dr. Drake. Has a nice ring to it, yeah?"

Alyssa snorted. "Only if you start prescribing protein shakes."

Chloe let out a soft laugh. Even Dan cracked a smile, shaking his head.

The conversation drifted until Alyssa leaned back against the beanbag and said, "So. Powers. Anyone else want to admit they feel… weird?"

Victor pointed at her. "You first."

She groaned but gave in. "Fine. It's like carrying a skyscraper on my back. Every second, it's there. Pressing down. Heavy. But the crazy part? I like it. Makes me feel… solid."

Dan nodded. "Grounded."

"Exactly."

Chloe hesitated, fingers curling in her lap. Her voice was quiet. "When I phase… sometimes I don't know if I'm real. Like, what if I flicker out and don't come back? What if I already didn't?"

Max's jaw tightened. He wanted to say something, to reach across the space and anchor her with words, but nothing came. He just shook his head once, as if refusing to let the idea exist. The silence between them carried more weight than any denial.

A hush followed, not uncomfortable but heavy enough that everyone felt it. Dan leaned forward, steady as ever. "You're the most solid person here, Chloe. Trust me."

Her eyes met his, and for the first time that day she smiled without effort.

Victor broke the tension with a grin. "Meanwhile, my power's just my inner gym bro finally getting a body. All he wants is to bench press a car and flex at demons until they run crying."

Alyssa groaned, but the laughter that followed was real this time. For a moment, they weren't experiments or soldiers. Just kids, sitting around with bad food and worse jokes.

Max sat apart, on the edge of the circle. He hadn't touched the noodles Victor shoved at him earlier. His arms were folded, gaze distant.

Victor caught it. "You gonna sit there brooding like a B-list Batman, or are you gonna admit you're scared too?"

The others turned, waiting.

Max's jaw tightened. He almost brushed it off — but the weight inside him was too sharp to swallow. He exhaled. "I'm terrified."

No one spoke, so he went on, voice low. "When I awakened you… I didn't just light a spark. I lit a beacon. Every demon out there felt it. Every one of them knows we exist now. I made you all targets. I don't know how to take that back."

Silence followed, but it wasn't rejection. Alyssa leaned forward, eyes hard. "So what? You gave us a chance to fight. I'd rather be a target with teeth than prey without them."

Chloe's voice was steadier this time. "We're still here, Max. That has to mean something."

Dan nodded. "You didn't make us victims. You made us a team. There's a difference."

Victor raised his cup like a toast. "And if the demons don't like it, they can fight me and my inner gym bro."

The laughter broke through again, softer but real. Even Max's shoulders eased, just a fraction. The fear didn't leave him — it never would — but for the first time in days, it felt like maybe the weight wasn't his alone to carry.

***

The training dome had changed again overnight. The obsidian floor gleamed like wet glass, the walls seamless and watchful. No benches this time. No false windows. Just a black expanse that hummed faintly underfoot.

They waited in silence until the stone doors closed behind them. That was when Kane appeared — not with an entrance, just there, leaning in the far shadows as if he'd been watching long before they stepped inside. His coat was open, his posture loose, but the smirk curling his mouth carried the weight of a blade.

"Took you long enough," Victor muttered under his breath.

Kane ignored it. His eyes roved lazily over the group, then flicked to the space around them. Five pale constructs shimmered into being — blurred, half-formed things, more fragile than the reflections they'd fought before.

The dome pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried in stone. Every mistake they made, every stagger or miss, sent a ripple through the floor — a reminder that the room itself was logging their weakness, feeding on it.

Kane tipped his head. "Don't hold back. Unless, of course, you enjoy embarrassing yourselves."

Alyssa squared her shoulders, muttering, "Charming as always."

The constructs moved first — slow but relentless. The team split instinctively, each attacking alone. Alyssa swung wide, cracking the floor but missing. Chloe flickered out of phase too early and stumbled back into solidity. Victor roared and charged, but his opponent slid aside, leaving him to crash into the wall. Dan tried to cover them all at once, golden light sparking across his hands, but he stretched too thin.

"You're not fighting demons," Kane's voice slid across the dome. "You're fighting yourselves. Alyssa — all power, no control. Victor — still afraid of what's under your skin. Chloe — slipping through cracks you can't even see. Dan — always fixing others, never yourself. And you, Max…" His smirk sharpened. "You burn brighter the more you try to hide it. Stop hesitating, or stop pretending you matter."

Max's fire itched under his skin, begging to break loose, but he held back, jaw locked.

A construct struck Chloe hard enough to send her sprawling. Dan rushed to her side, hands steadying her. His halo pulse flared — and Chloe's outline stabilized, the flickering fading into coherence. She blinked, startled.

"You… balanced me," she murmured.

Dan's expression hardened. "Then stay with me. Move when I say."

Victor staggered up from the wall, teeth bared. "Fine. Let's try this together." He barreled forward, slamming his half-shifted bulk into a construct. Alyssa read the motion, her resonance pulsing into the floor, anchoring the impact point. The construct's body collapsed under the reinforced gravity, pinned and crushed.

Alyssa exhaled, a grin flashing. "Not bad, Doc."

Victor grunted, already hauling the next one by the throat.

Chloe flickered, phasing through Alyssa's body mid-swing. The motion carried her fist with unnatural force, slamming through her opponent's chest in a burst of ghost-light. Alyssa staggered but caught herself, laughing breathlessly. "Warn me next time."

The rhythm built. They began to move as if tethered — Victor driving, Alyssa reinforcing, Chloe striking where others opened the way, Dan pulsing steady light that held them together.

Max watched too long. The fire boiled, the need to act gnawing at him. A construct broke free, lunging for Dan. Max's restraint cracked.

Blue fire roared from his palm, a controlled burst that swallowed the construct whole. The light seared the dome, licking across the obsidian floor until nothing remained but ash.

The team froze. Dan stared at the scorched ground. Alyssa's grin faltered.

Kane's smirk widened. He stepped out from the shadows, slow clapping, the sound echoing like a knife against glass. "Better. Almost believable." His gaze fixed on Max. "But that little trick of yours? That's not control. That's a flare. And every time you spark, you draw them closer. You might as well set a table and ring a dinner bell."

Max's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Kane gestured lazily. The constructs dissolved into smoke. "Again tomorrow. Or don't. Won't matter if you die before then." He turned and disappeared into the same shadows he'd stepped from, leaving only silence.

They stood, sweaty and bruised, catching their breath. Alyssa was the first to laugh — short, sharp, but real. "Well. That sucked."

Victor dropped to a knee, grinning despite the blood on his lip. "Yeah. But we didn't suck alone."

Dan nodded, golden light fading from his hands. "We actually… worked."

Chloe, still panting, gave the faintest smile. "Together."

Max looked at them — battered, scorched, but standing. His chest tightened with something that wasn't quite relief, but close.

For the first time, it felt like more than survival. It felt like a team.

The team lingered in the dome after Kane disappeared, still catching their breath. Alyssa was already teasing Victor about bleeding on the floor, Chloe rubbing her shoulder where she'd hit the wall, but Max stayed apart — eyes fixed on the scorched ground where his fire had burned.

Dan noticed. He always did.

He walked over slowly, wiping sweat from his brow, and kept his voice low so the others couldn't hear. "You're spiraling again."

Max's jaw flexed, but he didn't look up. "He's right. Every time I use it, I put a target on all of us."

"Maybe," Dan said evenly. "But what's worse — a target, or standing there while they die because you held back?"

That hit harder than Max wanted to admit. He finally glanced at Dan, who was steady as ever, his halo-light dimmed but still pulsing faintly under his skin.

Dan continued, softer now. "You've got to get your head straight. Those girls? Chloe and Alyssa? They're kids who didn't ask for any of this. And Liz…" He hesitated, letting the name settle between them. "She's the last piece of your family. You don't get to collapse under the weight. You don't get to run. Not anymore."

Max swallowed, fire curling faintly around his fist before fading. "…So what do I do?"

"You get stronger," Dan said simply. "For them. For Liz. For all of us. What's done is done. You can't undo it. But you can damn well decide what you do next."

Silence stretched. Max let out a long breath, shoulders loosening just enough to show he'd heard him.

Dan clapped him lightly on the shoulder — no sermon, no smile, just that grounding weight he always carried. "Stop fighting what you are. Start owning it."

The words landed like a truth Max had been avoiding.

For the first time since Kane's needling, Max lifted his head, eyes burning steady instead of fractured.

Max exhaled, the fire coiled in him no longer just pressure but direction. "Alright," he said. His voice carried steel now. "Then I stop holding back. For them. For Liz. Whatever it takes."

Dan nodded once. "Now you're talking."

***

The warehouse smelled of rust, smoke, and old ash. Once, it had been the heart of Jaeger & Campbell Fire Safety — drills and equipment stacked in neat rows, laughter echoing after long shifts, the clean sweat of men who'd saved lives together. Now the air was fouled, heavy with copper and despair.

Four men hung from the ceiling beams on heavy chains, their weight dragging wrists raw. They swayed faintly whenever the night breeze slid through the cracked shutters. Ethan Campbell was one of them. The others were men scattered through Max's past — a retired logistics officer who'd signed off their relocation after the fire, an old dispatcher from the Sydney station, a paramedic who'd once patched Max together after a collapse. Loose ends. Threads pulled tight into Kimaris' snare.

The floor beneath them was wet. Not with blood — not yet — but with the thin, metallic sheen of shadow that clung and rippled like an oil slick.

Kimaris moved through it like a man through sunlight. Immaculate black suit. Perfect tie. His footsteps made no sound, but his shadow slithered across the walls, reaching higher than it should, splitting into crooked angles that bent and twitched when he smiled.

He carried no tools. He didn't need any.

The first man tried to sound defiant, voice cracked from thirst. "I don't know where Max is."

Kimaris looked at him with polite interest, as though the man had volunteered the wrong answer in a classroom. "Yes," he said softly. "You do. Your records placed him. You logged the papers yourself."

The man shook his head furiously. "That was years ago. I don't—"

The shadow reached up his arm, slick as tar, and held him still. Kimaris unbuttoned one cuff, humming a quiet, tuneless melody. With delicate precision, he pressed a fingertip into the man's skin and pulled. Flesh parted as if it had been waiting for permission. A line of skin lifted in one clean strip from wrist to elbow. The man's scream echoed through the rafters, swallowed by the shadows before it could escape outside.

Kimaris wiped imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Lies, you see, are like rot. They spread unless pruned."

The second man began to beg before Kimaris even turned toward him. "Please, I don't know anything, I don't—please—"

Kimaris tilted his head, almost gentle. "Breathe."

The man sucked in air — and shadows poured into his mouth, silken and choking, forcing their way down his throat. He convulsed, eyes bulging, body thrashing against the chains. Kimaris waited until his face purpled, until his chest spasmed with the animal terror of suffocation. Then he pulled the shadows back, leaving the man gasping, coughing black threads onto the floor.

Kimaris smiled faintly. "Better. Now you'll remember how to listen."

Only Ethan hadn't spoken. He hung heavier than the rest, sweat plastering his shirt to his chest, jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to crack. His eyes burned at Kimaris even through the exhaustion.

Kimaris circled him slowly, like a lecturer drawing out a favored student. "And you, Captain Campbell. Always so loyal. Always the shadow at Max's shoulder. Carrying the weight. Bearing the secrets." His voice lowered, silk over razors. "You kept her picture on the desk."

Ethan's breath hitched despite himself.

Kimaris leaned closer, whispering against his ear. "What would Max say if he knew why you really watched her burn?"

Ethan's eyes snapped up, bloodshot, furious. "Shut your mouth."

The smile widened, shadows crawling higher across the rafters, whispering like a hundred dry voices. "Ah. There it is. The crack. The wound you buried under friendship, under duty. I can smell it on you, Captain. Regret is such a rich scent. Almost intoxicating."

Ethan strained against the chains, teeth bared. "You don't know a damn thing."

Kimaris chuckled softly. "I know enough. I know regret is the leash that ties you to him. And leashes always tighten."

He stepped back finally, folding his hands behind his back as though the lesson were complete. The men hung swaying in silence, their bodies bruised, cut, trembling, the warehouse thick with iron smell and despair.

Kimaris let his gaze linger, his shadow whispering against the walls.

"Max Jaeger will come for you," he murmured, voice almost fond. "And when he does, I'll be waiting."

The lights flickered once, shadows bowing inward like curtains. When they steadied, Kimaris was gone, but the chains still groaned, the men still hung, and the warehouse — once theirs — was now a crucible of dread.