Demon Contract

The VTOL's cabin thrummed like a caged heart. Steel bulkheads rattled with every shift in turbulence, and the vibration crawled through the benches into Max's bones. The Institute's bird wasn't built for comfort. It was built to deliver men into fire and drag out what was left.

Max sat rigid, one hand braced on the webbing strap beside him, the other clamped tight around the chain wound at his belt. He wasn't looking at the men around him—six Institute soldiers in combat blacks, rifles between their knees, faces shadowed by helmet rigs. His eyes were fixed on the window slit.

Sydney stretched below them, half-lit. The harbour glimmered like broken glass, towers spiking out of the dark. Smoke hung low over the fringe districts—industrial haze or something worse. And further in, near Redfern, a strip of shadow that used to be familiar.

The warehouse.

Jaeger & Campbell Fire Safety Training Services.

He swallowed hard. His chest was tight in a way that had nothing to do with altitude.

Victor leaned forward across the aisle, elbows on his knees. "You've been staring at that patch of ground for twenty minutes. You going to say it, or keep bleeding it out in silence?"

Max dragged his gaze away. The cabin's light caught Victor's face—scarred, older, but the same stubborn jaw he remembered from the academy days. "Ethan built me," Max said finally. His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Not the company. Me."

Victor didn't answer at once. The engines filled the pause, deep and steady.

"He was my captain," Max continued. "The one who taught me how to run toward fire when every part of you wants to run the other way. He pulled me through my first collapse. Showed me how to hold a line when the roof's about to come down. Made me believe that saving someone—just one person—was enough to make hell worth it."

A memory bit into him—Ethan's hand gripping his collar, dragging him clear of the flames. The bark of his laugh after, soot caked on his teeth, yelling at him for dropping the hose. Max almost smiled. Almost.

"When he retired, he didn't know who he was without the uniform," Max said. "Didn't know where to put all that weight. So I asked him to come with me. To build something that mattered outside the firehouse. He said yes. Even though he didn't believe in it at first."

Victor leaned back, arms folded. His silhouette was all soldier—still, broad, unyielding. "I remember him. Hard bastard. Fair, though."

"Fairer than most."

Victor let the hum of the engines carry another pause before he spoke again. "You stayed. I left. Guess he kept you steady."

Max nodded once. "You went looking for wars. I found enough in burning buildings."

For a moment, both of them said nothing. Just the thrum of the rotors, the slow tilt of the horizon through the window.

Then Victor broke it. "Dan's face back at the Institute—he didn't look steady when Ethan's name came up. Looked like he'd swallowed something sour."

Max's hand tightened on the chain at his belt. He'd felt the same thing in Dan's silence, the way he'd avoided looking at him.

"Dan never liked Ethan being close to April," Max admitted. "Said he hovered too much. Always checking on her. Always there."

Victor's brow furrowed. "You think something happened?"

Max's jaw clenched. "No. April would've told me. She wasn't the type to hide. And Ethan—he wouldn't…" He trailed off. The words didn't taste right in his mouth.

Victor didn't press. He just watched him, eyes sharp. "You trust Dan, though."

"With my life."

"Then maybe listen to what his gut's screaming."

Max looked away, back to the window. Smoke drifted low over the city fringe. The warehouse sat out there like a scar waiting to be torn open.

"I don't know what to believe," he said quietly.

The VTOL shuddered as it dropped altitude. Lights rippled across the cabin. The soldiers shifted, checking their gear. Victor leaned back, expression unreadable.

Max closed his eyes just long enough to steady his breath. Ethan's laugh, April's face, Dan's silence—all circling like sparks looking for tinder.

The VTOL banked toward Redfern.

The fire was waiting.

***

The VTOL dropped lower, the hum deepening into a steady grind that pressed into their skulls. The Institute squad didn't speak. They checked weapons, adjusted harnesses, heads down like men preparing for burial instead of battle.

Max barely noticed them. He kept his eyes on the strip of dark glass opposite him, his own reflection wavering with each jolt of turbulence. Sweat traced down his temple though the cabin was cold.

Victor shifted, boots braced against the floor. "You didn't answer me."

Max blinked. "About what?"

"About Ethan and April."

The words landed heavy, louder than the engines.

Max rubbed a hand across his face. "I did."

"You dodged."

Silence stretched between them. The soldiers nearby kept their eyes down, but Max could feel them listening, the way men listen to a fight they're not part of but can't look away from.

Max exhaled. His chest felt like it was being ratcheted shut. "Dan never liked how Ethan hovered. Said it was too much. Always dropping by. Always finding an excuse to check in."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "That's not nothing."

"She was nineteen when Ethan trained us," Max said, voice low, almost a growl. "Twenty one when she started coming around. And yeah, Ethan noticed her. Everyone did. She was—" He stopped, jaw working. "But Ethan wasn't like that. He was my captain. My friend. If something had happened, April would've told me."

Victor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice flat. "You sure about that?"

Max's stomach turned. "What are you asking me, Vic? That my captain—the man who taught me how to run into fire—put his hands on my wife?"

Victor didn't flinch. "I'm asking if you trust Dan's gut more than your memories. Because I saw the look in his eyes. He wasn't just uneasy. He was angry."

The memory cut sharp: Dan's silence when Ethan's name came up, the way his fists had clenched like he wanted to break something.

Max closed his eyes. "Dan would've told me if there was more."

Victor shook his head. "You think so? You lost April in that fire, Max. You think he'd dump more weight on your shoulders when you were already drowning?"

The thought hit harder than it should have. Max saw April's face—smoke in her hair, that last scream—and behind it, Dan's grief, silent and endless.

Maybe Dan had kept it inside. Maybe he'd carried it for both of them.

His stomach clenched. If Ethan failed her, then I failed her too. The thought burned worse than the fire that had taken her.

Max's hands clenched around the chain at his belt until the steel dug into his palm.

"I don't know what's true anymore," he admitted, voice low. "But I know this—Ethan saved me. More times than I can count. And I can't walk into that warehouse thinking he's a monster. If he is—if Dan's right—then…" He trailed off. Couldn't finish.

Victor studied him, long and quiet. Then: "Then you'll deal with it."

Max looked up, anger flaring.

Victor didn't back down. "That's what you do. You run toward the fire, even when it's someone you love standing in it."

The VTOL jolted hard, throwing them both sideways. One of the soldiers cursed under his breath, steadying his rifle.

Max steadied himself on the webbing strap, breathing through his teeth. "You don't understand. Ethan isn't just another fire to put out. He's—"

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"A man," Victor cut in. "A flawed one. Maybe worse. Maybe not. But stop worshipping him, Max. That's how you miss the rot right under your nose."

The engines shifted pitch, a deeper roar. They were dropping altitude fast. The deck vibrated underfoot.

Max stared at Victor, searching for something in his eyes. There was no malice, no comfort. Just the soldier's truth—harsh, stripped of illusion.

The truth he didn't want but couldn't ignore.

Victor leaned back, crossing his arms. "You'll know soon enough. One way or another."

Max turned back to the window. The city was closer now, streets carving lines of light through the dark. Redfern waited, silent and heavy.

Whatever truth lay inside that warehouse, it was already burning.

***

The hum of the VTOL wouldn't leave his head. It droned like a second heartbeat, steady, relentless, filling the silence he couldn't escape.

The cockpit felt different from the troop bay — darker, closer, the air tainted with oil and ozone. Every jolt made the instrument panel buzz like angry wasps.

Max sat stiff against the harness, staring at his boots. Victor's words still echoed there—don't put him on a pedestal. Don't miss the rot.

He wanted to argue. Wanted to shove the thought away, but it clung like smoke. He saw April's face behind it, and Dan's silence, and Ethan's voice calling him brother. The weight pressed down until he thought he might crack under it.

He needed air. Any air, even if it came through steel.

Max pushed up, moving toward the cockpit bulkhead. The soldiers looked up briefly, then dropped their eyes back to weapons and straps. No one spoke.

Captain Hawthorne sat in the forward section, hands resting lightly on the throttle bar, posture calm despite the machine's tremors. The man had the kind of stillness you only saw in veterans or corpses.

Max slid into the co-pilot's seat, gaze flicking across the instrument panel. Numbers scrolled in green, runes flickered faint blue across a secondary screen—Institute modifications layered over old military tech.

"You don't look like a man who doubts where he's headed," Max said. His own voice sounded raw.

Hawthorne didn't turn. "Doubt gets you killed. Resolve keeps you alive."

Max studied him. The light in the cabin shifted as they banked, and for a moment he saw it—just faint, shimmering at the captain's temples. A corona, blue and cold, flaring like frost-fire. A halo.

"You're a Contractor," Max said.

The words landed like a challenge.

Hawthorne's jaw tightened. Not denial. Not surprise. Just a pause, like a man choosing how much to give. "That's a story for another time," he said finally. His voice was calm, steady, almost kind. "Right now, you don't need my history. You need the mission."

Max's throat tightened. He wanted to press—wanted to ask what demon he'd bargained with, what he'd paid. But he was here to save Ethan, not peel back another man's scars. And if Hawthorne was hiding that much power under his skin, there was a reason he hadn't shared it.

The silence stretched, broken only by the whine of engines. Then Hawthorne flipped a switch on the panel. A red light bled across the troop bay, washing over the soldiers as they lifted their heads.

"Listen up." His voice carried clean across the cabin, even over the noise. The kind of voice men obeyed without thought.

"Target location: Redfern, Jaeger & Campbell warehouse. Demon presence confirmed—Kimaris. Objective: intercept and kill."

The squad didn't flinch. Their eyes were sharp, their bodies rigid.

"Primary insertion will be Institute squad—six men, full frontal breach. Suppression fire, containment wards, heavy ordnance. Secondary insertion—" his gaze swept to Max, then Victor—"is you. Side approach, south entrance. Your job is to recover survivors. Ethan Campbell, and anyone else the demon hasn't broken."

Victor's lip curled. "So we're the scalpel while they're the hammer."

Hawthorne didn't blink. "Exactly. If Kimaris focuses on us, you'll have a chance to get in and out. If he focuses on you…" A faint shrug. "Then we make the distraction count."

Max's stomach tightened. He glanced back at the soldiers, their gear humming faintly with warding glyphs, soulforged blades sheathed across their backs. These were men bred to fight demons. He was a firefighter with a chain that burned him every time he touched it.

Hawthorne read the doubt in his face. "You've fought worse and walked out breathing. That's more than most can say. Don't waste it."

The VTOL shook as they cut through another pocket of turbulence. One of the soldiers murmured a prayer. Another kissed a ruby pendant that glowed faintly against his chest.

"Expect this to get messy," Hawthorne said, voice dropping. "Kimaris is no brute. He is toying with us. Making a game of this. He's intelligent, and likely Corruptor level or higher. He'll make you see what you want to protect before he burns it in front of you. Don't blink. Don't hesitate. Cut through, take what's yours, and get out."

His gaze locked on Max. "You understand?"

Max forced a nod. "We bring Ethan back."

"No," Hawthorne corrected softly. "You try. The rest…" He tapped the throttle. "That's in fate's hands."

The cabin fell into silence again. Only the engines spoke, carrying them closer to the city.

Closer to the warehouse.

Closer to Ethan.

***

The VTOL cut low over the western suburbs, engines throttled back to a growl. The city was a sprawl of sodium light and smoke veins, skyscrapers jutting sharp over the harbour while the outer districts sagged in shadow.

The bird dipped, then levelled out, settling toward an abandoned lot ringed with rusted shipping containers. The touchdown rattled every bolt in the hull. Dust billowed across the bay doors as hydraulics hissed and locked.

The red light over the cabin flicked green.

"Move," Hawthorne barked.

The Institute squad rose in unison. Harness clips snapped. Boots hit steel with the precision of men drilled to kill without hesitation. They fanned toward the weapons racks built into the side bulkhead, each soldier pulling kit with the reverence of ritual.

Victor pushed up beside Max. His face was tight, jaw set in the way it always was before a fight. He stripped a rifle from the rack, ran a hand over the etched runes along its stock, and frowned. "Ferron told me regular lead won't put a demon down. What good's this supposed to do?"

One of the soldiers shot him a look but kept silent. It was Hawthorne who answered. He stepped forward, a matte-black carbine slung under one arm, the faint blue flare of his halo ghosting the air.

"Not regular lead," Hawthorne said. "Soulforged alloy. Condensed shards from the Rift mines, hammered into bullets until the metal screams. Won't touch an Archdemon, but anything less will bleed. Kimaris included."

Victor checked the magazine, his brows lifting at the faint shimmer across each round. "How many?"

"Not enough," Hawthorne said flatly. "Twenty per man. Every shot matters. Waste one and you might as well hand your throat over."

Max's hand itched against the chain at his belt. Soulforged. His Soulfire didn't need bullets, but the reminder cut deep: even the Institute knew how thin the margin was.

Another soldier unclasped a velvet pouch and shook its contents into his palm. A ruby shard, no larger than a thumb joint, caught the light—veined with black, pulsing faintly. The others checked their own necklaces, small blood-red stones hanging against their throats.

Victor frowned. "What's that?"

"Berserker stones," Hawthorne said. His tone was stripped of pride, all steel. "Fragments of demon souls. You break one, the essence floods you. Strength. Speed. Pain turns off for five minutes. Sometimes ten."

Max stared. The soldier's hand shook just holding it.

Hawthorne's eyes flicked to him. "It makes a man more than human. For a while. Then it burns you hollow. Cuts years off the clock. We don't use them unless we have to."

Victor's mouth twisted. "Trading pieces of yourself just to stand a chance."

"That's war," Hawthorne said.

Max's chest tightened. He thought of the chain coiled against his side, the way it seared his palms, the way it fed off him like it had a hunger all its own. He didn't say a word.

The squad finished gearing up—rifles slung, charms fastened, soulforged blades clipped to thigh scabbards. The smell of gun oil and salt-metal filled the cabin. No one spoke above a murmur.

Hawthorne snapped his mag into place and glanced to Max and Victor. "This isn't your fight to win. It's your fight to survive. Get in, pull out who you can, and get clear. The hammer falls on Kimaris. Don't get caught under it."

Max nodded once. His throat was dry.

Victor slung his rifle, shouldered the strap. "You heard the man. We're the scalpel."

The bay doors cranked open, spilling night air and city noise into the hold. The soldiers filed out in pairs, weapons raised, boots crunching on grit.

Max followed, the smell of dust and jet fuel thick in his nose. Sydney loomed beyond the rusted container walls, a jagged skyline cut against the dark. And nearer still—the warehouse, black and silent on the fringe of Redfern.

Hawthorne's voice cut low beside him as they moved into the lot. "Stay sharp. The city hides screams well."

Max glanced at the rubies glowing faintly against the soldiers' throats. At the shimmer of soulforged rifles. At the warehouse waiting like a scar across his past.

The fire hadn't started yet. But he could feel the heat already.

***

The streets of Redfern were too quiet.

Max knew this place — or he used to. He'd driven these cracked roads in Ethan's truck, windows down, smoke-stained uniforms still clinging to their skin after shift. They'd laughed here, argued here, unloaded boxes of training gear through these same lanes.

Now the streetlights buzzed with static, throwing cones of sickly yellow across the bitumen. Graffiti bled down the walls. Every window looked like a blind eye turned away.

And at the end of the block, the warehouse stood.

Their warehouse.

The paint on the sign was half-faded — Jaeger & Campbell Fire Safety Training Services — but he could still make out the red helmet logo they'd sketched themselves on a napkin years ago. It should have been a place of drills and rookies shouting commands through smoke machines. Instead it sagged in silence, shadows pooled at its base like something rotten leaking out.

Max's chest tightened. For a second he smelled coffee brewing in the break room, heard April's voice laughing at Ethan's terrible jokes, felt the weight of gear slung over his shoulder as they'd taught civilians how to run into fire instead of from it.

Now it smelled like ash.

Hawthorne raised a fist. The squad fanned out instantly, rifles up, eyes sweeping the empty street. Soulforged runes pulsed faint blue across their stocks.

"This is it," Hawthorne said, his voice a low rasp. "Institute squad takes the front. Direct breach. Max, Victor — you cut through the side. Fast and quiet. If Ethan's alive, you pull him out while Kimaris is busy trying to kill us."

Victor nodded once, all soldier.

Max's throat was dry. He forced himself to answer. "Got it."

Hawthorne's eyes flicked between them. "Move like you mean it. The second the breach goes loud, we've got minutes before this whole place becomes teeth."

The squad shifted forward, boots whispering against concrete. Max and Victor peeled left, slipping into the shadow of the neighbouring building. The side entrance was half-hidden by rusted scaffolding, a fire door scarred with weather.

Victor checked the handle — locked. He gave Max a sharp look, then braced his boot against the frame. One push and it would go.

Max held up a hand. "Wait."

Through the steel he could hear it — faint, muffled. Voices. Not words, but a rhythm. Chanting. Low, guttural, almost human. Almost.

Victor's jaw tightened. He heard it too.

Then the night tore open.

The Institute squad hit the front. Flashbangs burst white against the facade. Soulforged rifles cracked like thunder. The warehouse shook under the barrage, windows rattling with blue light.

Max's pulse spiked. The chanting inside rose with it, faster, harsher, echoing through the metal.

Hawthorne's voice barked over the comms. "Contact made. Push in!"

Victor didn't wait. His boot slammed into the door. Metal screamed as the frame buckled inward.

The sound from inside poured out — heat, the tang of sulphur, and beneath it all, something worse. A scream. High, ragged, human.

Max froze. For an instant he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. That sound wasn't training. Wasn't memory. It was Ethan's voice, raw and torn open.

Victor grabbed his arm. "Move!"

Max swallowed fire and forced his legs forward. The door sagged open, revealing a throat of shadow leading into the warehouse.

Behind them, the front exploded in blue light as Hawthorne's men stormed through, rifles cutting arcs across the dark. Shouts. Gunfire. The thud of bodies hitting steel.

Max and Victor slipped into the side hall, shadows swallowing them whole.

The warehouse where he'd built his second life was waiting.

And inside, a scream tore through the dark — Ethan's voice, raw and breaking. Max ran toward it like he always had. Into the fire.