Demon Contract

The farmhouse was too quiet.

It wasn't the silence of an abandoned home. It was the silence of a place that had been made to forget sound – where screams had already been absorbed into the walls, and even the flies knew not to land.

Victor hung from the rafters.

Arms bound in thick, rune-etched chains that bit into his flesh. His feet barely touched the floor – only the toes, dragging slow lines through blood that had dried to molasses. His shirt was long gone. One eye swollen shut. His right shoulder dislocated. Every breath came with the sound of torn cartilage.

But he was still here.

Still breathing.

Still waiting for the next round.

A gentle creak echoed from the front of the house. Floorboards flexed beneath a light step. Not cautious. Casual. Like someone pacing between rooms they owned.

Then: a voice.

"Do you know what I love about farms?"

Victor didn't respond. His jaw was clenched too tight.

Kimaris appeared from the far hallway, emerging from shadow like he'd been stitched into it. Dressed in an immaculate black suit. Not a speck of blood on him. Not a wrinkle. His violet-blue runes shimmered faintly beneath the collar, shifting as if alive.

In one hand, he held a cup of tea.

In the other, a small red apple.

"Farms have rules," Kimaris continued, pacing slowly into the room. "Cycles. Tides of work and rest. Sun up, feed the pigs. Sun down, bleed them. Simple. Honest."

He stopped beside Victor and crouched, looking up at the hanging man with something approaching admiration.

"You're holding together better than I expected."

Victor spat at him.

The glob hit Kimaris's shoe. The demon didn't look down.

"Ah," he said. "A fighter."

He stood, brushing lint from his cuff.

"Let's talk."

Victor's voice rasped through broken lips. "Get fucked."

Kimaris's eyes flickered. Not with rage – curiosity.

"That's the second time someone's said that to me this week." He took a delicate sip of tea. "You humans are so loyal. It's poetic. Even now, with your body turning to slurry, you still think words can hurt me."

He walked around Victor slowly, trailing a finger across the chains. They hissed under his touch, reacting to the unnatural soul-pressure in his skin.

"Let me ask you something, Victor Drake. Why does Max care about you?"

Victor said nothing.

Kimaris leaned closer. "You're not his brother. Not his blood. You're a war dog. A soldier who barely survived. Why does he keep carrying you?"

Victor met his gaze with his one good eye.

"Because I don't break," he said.

Kimaris smiled.

Then he did break him.

With a single sharp movement, he plunged his finger into Victor's dislocated shoulder. Not through muscle. Into it. The bone shifted with a wet crunch, and Victor let out a guttural roar – half scream, half defiance.

Kimaris withdrew the finger, now slick with blood, and examined it like a man testing soup temperature.

"You don't break easily," he corrected.

He dropped the apple onto the floor. It rolled through a puddle of blood and came to rest beside the torn remains of a denim work shirt. The dead farmer's boot was still attached to the leg.

"Tell me about Liz."

Victor's breathing hitched.

"Max's daughter. She calls you Uncle Vic. She's very... quiet." Kimaris's voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "But not helpless. No, no. Something inside her still screams. Even comatose. Her soul... glows. Like it wants to be used."

Victor's head sagged, but he gritted his teeth.

"She's not yours to speak of."

Kimaris chuckled.

"Oh, Victor. Everything is mine to speak of. That's what dominion means."

He circled again, pulling a long, thin scalpel from his coat pocket. The blade was black. Glasslike. It didn't reflect light – it drank it.

He pressed it gently to Victor's ribs.

"Tell me what Max is going to do next."

Victor smiled through the blood in his teeth and ignored the question.

"He's closer than you think."

Kimaris tilted his head.

Victor leaned forward slightly, lips cracked, voice a whisper.

"And when he gets here, he's gonna take that knife, that smile, and every last inch of your skin – and burn them so hard, hell won't want you back."

Kimaris didn't react.

Then, without ceremony, he sliced open Victor's side – clean, deep, precise. Not to kill. To wound. To reveal. The blade scraped against a rib.

Victor screamed.

And Kimaris just listened.

The blood ran in rivulets down Victor's leg, joining the rest on the warped pine floorboards. Somewhere behind the wall, a dog whimpered. Then went silent.

Kimaris stepped back.

"Let's change tactics," he said, reaching into his coat pocket.

He withdrew a small silver bell.

It chimed once when he rang it. Delicate. Like a dinner invitation.

And from the hallway, barefoot, humming, his apron already bloodied—

Ethan walked in.

He was smiling.

And carrying the blowtorch.

…………………

The torch hissed softly in Ethan's hand. Blue flame. Controlled. Steady.

He walked into the farmhouse like it belonged to him.

Blood clung to the soles of his boots, sticking to pine floorboards like syrup. His apron was cleaner now – he'd washed the worst of it off in the laundry sink out back. Couldn't stand the smell. He always liked things clean.

Victor didn't look up. Couldn't. His body slumped in its restraints, skin marbled with burns and bruises, one eye swollen shut. Steam rose faintly off his shoulder where Kimaris had made his latest incision.

"Beautiful night," Ethan said, softly. "You can almost hear the stars flicker out here."

He crouched by the blowtorch and picked up an eyedropper from the tool table. A tiny bottle of accelerant waited beside it. Custom mix. Just the right ratio to sear nerve endings without cooking flesh too fast.

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"You know," Ethan murmured, "they thought I joined the fire brigade to save people. Even Max. Especially Max. He used to say it like a compliment. 'Ethan's the kind who runs in when everyone else runs out.'"

He smiled.

"Truth is, I joined because I liked the burn."

Victor squinted through the pain, barely registering the man in the apron. For a second, he thought it was someone else. The voice was too light, too cheerful. Not the Ethan he remembered. That man had been tired, broken. This one was smiling like a boy at a bonfire. Something had cracked – and whatever was left, it loved the heat.

Ethan clicked the torch on. The flame hissed to life.

"I liked starting the blaze. Then putting it out. Flame and salvation. Destruction and redemption. All inside the same uniform."

He touched Victor's arm gently with the eyedropper, leaving behind a delicate spiral of clear fluid.

"You want to talk about heroes? About Max?"

He clicked the torch off. Not yet. First the words.

"I was there, you know. When he met her. April." His voice took on a different shape – soft, faraway. "She had this way of standing. Like every room she entered was already too small for her fire."

He stepped closer, the spiral glistening on Victor's arm.

"She never looked at me. Not like that. But she could have. She laughed at my jokes. She let me sit next to her at those charity dinners. I brought her chamomile when she stayed late grading reports."

"There was this one night," he whispered, eyes distant. "After a training exercise. Max was late. April sat alone in the back of the truck, eating those awful mint chocolates she kept hidden in her coat. I sat beside her. Just for a moment. She laughed at something I said – real laugh, not polite. Her knee touched mine."

His voice thinned. "She offered me a chocolate. I kept the wrapper. Still have it."

He blinked, returning to the present. "That moment... that was real. I know it was. I know she saw me."

He exhaled sharply, eyes watering.

"Max never saw her. Not really. He had her, but he never understood her."

His knuckles tightened around the torch handle.

"And still… she chose him."

Victor stirred faintly. The chains creaked.

Ethan clicked the torch on.

"I used to dream about her. Not... not in the way you think. I'd dream we were just in the kitchen, passing mugs, bumping shoulders. She'd smile and it would feel like sunrise."

He brought the flame close to the spiral. It ignited with a gentle pop, and Victor jerked violently against the restraints.

Ethan didn't stop.

"But I knew. I always knew. It wasn't real. That even if I stood in front of her, flame in one hand, stars in the other – she'd still look past me. For him."

He leaned in now, close enough that Victor could smell mint on his breath.

"So, I made a choice."

He turned off the torch and let the words fall like ash.

"I started the fire."

Victor went still.

"I lit that house like a gift. I watched it breathe. I watched Max break through the door, dragging his grief behind him like a wet coat. And when I saw him stumble into the smoke, I knew... I knew he'd never escape it."

Victor's heart slammed in his chest. Not with fear. With something older. The same thrum he felt in Singapore weeks ago. When the beast first stirred. Now, it wasn't asking permission. It was rising. Slow. Inevitable.

Ethan stared at nothing for a long beat.

"I gave her a proper goodbye. Flame to flame."

Then, softly – quietly, like an oath:

"I hate him."

Victor's eye twitched. One chain groaned. A hairline crack spidered through its edge.

But Ethan didn't notice.

He was still standing there, smiling at the dark.

…………………

The SUV roared down the dirt road, its wheels kicking gravel into the mist. Trees blurred past on both sides, tall eucalypts swaying under a sky the colour of rust. Storm clouds were gathering – thick and heavy, like the air had forgotten how to breathe.

Max's hands gripped the wheel too tightly. Soulfire flickered faintly across his knuckles, tracing golden cracks through his fingers. Every bump in the road made the light jump across the dash.

In the passenger seat, Hawthorn grunted as they hit another dip.

"Try not to kill us before we get there."

Max didn't glance over. His voice was low. Controlled.

"We don't have time."

Hawthorn shifted in his seat, wiping sweat from his brow. His sling was off, though the movement clearly hurt. He kept stealing glances at Max. Not at his face but at his body. The bruises were gone. The wounds closed. No swelling. No trembling hands. Just stillness and heat.

"You're already healed," Hawthorn muttered.

Max nodded, not slowing.

"Faster than I should be. I woke up sore. But by the time I wrapped the chain, the pain was just... gone."

He flexed his hand on the wheel. Soulfire bled through the gaps in his fingers, slow and pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"I burned through it. Now it's just part of me."

The wind howled across the bonnet. Lightning cracked somewhere behind the hills. Hawthorn shifted again, this time his fingers drifting toward the sheath at his belt. Toward the black dagger.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then spoke.

"You could awaken me," he said. "If I asked."

Max said nothing.

"I'm not saying I want to glow. Or hurl fire. But that thing waiting for us? It's not going to die easy. That blade of mine – it cuts deep, but it's just steel at the end of the day."

Max flicked a glance at him. Not cold. Not angry. Just measuring.

"You're already dangerous," he said.

"So is what's waiting for us."

The SUV jolted hard as they took a bend too fast. Hawthorn braced with one hand against the door. Max didn't slow.

He didn't say yes.

But he didn't say no.

The silence between them stretched long and heavy, broken only by the growl of the engine and the static buzz of soulfire crawling across the dash.

Outside, the trees thinned. A battered wooden mailbox passed in a blur.

They were close.

…………………

Victor wheezed.

His ribs were cracked. His skin blistered. The floor beneath him was sticky with blood and sweat. The air in the farmhouse buzzed faintly – not with sound, but pressure. Like something wrong was watching everything fold inward.

Ethan was pacing.

He'd taken off the apron. Folded it neatly. His shirt was soaked with blood near the waist, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were glassy.

"Max didn't deserve her," he whispered. "She made him better, but he never made her safe."

He picked up a kitchen knife from the side table. Turned it in his hands. Didn't use it – just... held it like a relic.

"People think obsession is loud," he said. "But it's not. It's quiet. Like breathing. Like a slow, slow fire in the walls."

He looked up at Victor and smiled.

"But Liz... Liz is April all over again. You see it too, don't you? Same eyes. Same hair. Same fire. Same stubborn refusal to be less than what she is."

Victor didn't respond.

He couldn't.

But his fingers twitched.

Ethan crouched beside him, smiling wider.

"I've been watching her. So close. Watching her lie there. Still. Silent. Waiting for someone who won't come. But I'll be there."

He leaned in.

"I'll be the first face she sees."

From the far corner, Kimaris tilted his head. The smile on his lips didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened – just slightly. Not fear. Not interest. Calculation. Like watching a puppet start to dance without strings.

"I'll make her see me," Ethan said, almost reverent. "Make her love me. She'll wake up and I'll be there. Her protector. Her father. Her lover."

Victor's breathing changed.

It deepened. Slowed.

Victor didn't just hear the words – he felt April's voice drowned in fire, Liz's soft hand in his, all twisted through Ethan's filth. His body ached to die, but something beneath it – older than pain, older than war – cracked open. This wasn't rage. The cold, absolute knowledge that he was going to rip out this man's throat.

The chains creaked again. This time louder.

Ethan frowned. "What's—"

One link snapped with a piercing crack.

Ethan flinched.

Victor raised his head.

His eyes weren't just bloodshot now.

They were glowing.

Kimaris stepped forward, finally interested.

Ethan stumbled back.

"What – what the hell—?"

Victor bared his teeth.

And he wasn't hanging anymore.

…………………

The chain shattered.

Not a snap or a crack — a detonation. A blast of warped sound as soulforged iron bent under the weight of something no longer human.

Victor fell.

But he didn't crumple. He landed on all fours, and the wood beneath him splintered with the impact. His body convulsed, not in pain — in metamorphosis. Muscles tore and regrew. Bone shifted. His spine arched, vertebrae cracking outward into thick, jagged ridges. His arms doubled in girth. Hair spread in coarse patches across his back and chest, dark and wild. His face twisted.

Lion-like.

His teeth erupted in his jaw, elongating into wicked canines. His mouth split too wide. His eyes, once brown, now glowed molten red, pupils slitted and smoking.

Ethan stumbled backward, frozen. The torch clattered to the floor, forgotten.

"What the – what the hell—" he whispered, voice brittle.

Victor didn't answer.

He roared.

It wasn't a sound a man could make. It was a furnace scream – a bellows of rage and pain and something ancient, echoing off the blood-soaked walls. The farmhouse shook. Loose nails fell from beams. Somewhere outside, crows took flight en masse.

Ethan turned to run.

Victor lunged.

In a single blur of motion, he crossed the room and tackled Ethan, slamming him into the floorboards with a crunch that broke something – maybe bone, maybe sanity. Ethan shrieked as Victor's claws sank into his side, dragging across flesh like hooks through wet paper.

"GET OFF ME!" he screamed, kicking wildly.

Victor raised one clawed hand—

And Kimaris caught it.

The demon appeared between breaths – one moment across the room, the next with his arm wrapped around Victor's throat, his other hand driving a violet spike of psychic pressure into Victor's chest.

Victor snarled and lashed out with the back of his fist.

Kimaris took the blow – and staggered.

The impact sent him skidding across the room, heels gouging through the boards. He stopped, spine arched, smiling faintly. His runes flared, then dimmed.

"Well," he said, straightening his cuffs. "That's new."

Victor didn't hesitate. He launched at Kimaris with both arms wide, claws gleaming, shoulder bones dislocated and still moving. He fought like a beast – no technique, no restraint. Just rage. Just hate.

Kimaris stepped into the charge.

Their bodies collided like freight trains.

Victor tackled him into the wall, splintering through support beams. Kimaris twisted mid-fall, driving a knee into Victor's ribs. Victor roared again and bit down – not at the face, but the shoulder, teeth sinking through silk and flesh into the demon's frame.

For the first time, Kimaris blinked longer than necessary. His breath hitched – slight, almost imperceptible but there. The runes on his neck flickered, not with command, but with calculation. His fingers curled tighter. Not to attack. To prepare. Because the thing mauling him wasn't Victor anymore. It was something that hadn't been born – it had been unleashed.

Victor didn't let go.

Kimaris grabbed his mane and slammed his skull into the wall – once, twice – the impact leaving deep dents in the timber. But Victor didn't stop. His claws found Kimaris's side, raking down, drawing sparks and blood from rune-inscribed flesh.

"ENOUGH!" Kimaris barked, voice dropping to something unholy.

A psychic pulse exploded from his chest. The air bent. The walls cracked. Ethan was thrown across the room like a doll, hitting the stove hard enough to leave a dent.

Victor staggered — but stayed standing.

Chest heaving. Blood dripping from his jaw. Face half-wild, half man. The beast and the soldier fighting for balance.

"You shouldn't be able to resist that," Kimaris hissed, his smile faltering.

Victor didn't answer.

He leapt again.

Kimaris met him midair.

They crashed through the support column and slammed into the hallway wall, debris exploding around them. Wood turned to splinters. Paint blistered. Kimaris grunted as Victor's claws ripped across his face, three lines of violet ichor streaking down his cheek.

Outside, a shadow passed the window. Fast. Heavy.

A creak.

Then the front door exploded inward.

Max stood in the wreckage.

Eyes glowing gold. Chain wrapped around his arm. Flames already spiralling from his shoulder to his palm, steady and hungry.

He saw Victor – fangs bared, blood-matted and roaring.

He saw Kimaris – pushed, wounded, smiling still.

Max stepped through the door, and the fire screamed with him.