Demon Contract

The automatic doors parted with a tired sigh, dragging the night in with them. Rain slipped through on his heels, cold against the warm breath of the lobby.

Dan crossed the threshold with shoes that squelched at every step. The trainers were so waterlogged they felt twice their weight, as if they were trying to anchor him where he stood. His backpack hung from one shoulder, straps cutting into his collarbone. The paramedic ID clipped to his hoodie had stopped meaning anything the moment his flight left Sydney, but he hadn't taken it off. Habit. Or maybe the small, foolish hope that someone might still see it and wave him through.

He looked less like a visitor than a stray that had wandered in out of the storm — hair plastered flat, hoodie pulled half-up, jacket creased from serving as a pillow on the hard seats of gate B4. Three days without proper sleep. Two without a real meal. Nothing to carry him through the endless layovers but bad coffee, the hollow clatter of airport announcements, and too much space in his head for the wrong thoughts.

Thoughts of her, pale and small under hospital lights. Thoughts of him, fists red to the wrist, refusing to let go even when the fire took half the building.

The smell hit him before he reached the middle of the lobby — that same sterile mix every hospital in the world seemed to share. Antiseptic. Plastic. Filtered air that scrubbed away anything human. White walls, beige tiles, the thin hum of fluorescent lights. A child's quiet crying somewhere behind a curtain. A monitor beeping in a rhythm that felt almost smug in its steadiness.

Life didn't pause. Not even here.

He took a breath that caught halfway down, then forced himself toward the check-in desk.

The receptionist looked up. Her smile was the kind you gave strangers, already starting to falter under the weight of what she saw.
"Name?" she asked.

"Dan Bailey." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended.

Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. "You're here to visit a patient?"

He nodded. "Room 805."

Her gaze flicked to her screen. "Immediate family only. Are you her…?"

He hesitated. The truth stuck on the back of his tongue — sister didn't fit, and the truth wouldn't matter. Not to her.

"…Uncle," he said at last. "Daniel Bailey. She's my niece."

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly. The database told her nothing useful. "Visiting hours are restricted. Her father hasn't approved additional visitors."

Dan's head bobbed once, like he understood. Polite. Tired. Just another name denied by rules.
"Thanks," he murmured.

Then he walked past her anyway.

He didn't need directions. He knew where Max would be — and it wouldn't be in her room. Not unless something had changed.

The quiet echo of his steps carried him past the waiting area. The elevator chimed behind him, doors spilling light into the corridor. A nurse looked up, startled, but didn't call out.

Somewhere deeper in the building, a gurney wheel squeaked in a long, uneven rhythm, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls until it faded into the hum of fluorescent lights.

Dan kept moving. Through the corridors. Past the smell of disinfectant and the hum of machines.

Back toward the man who'd once dragged him out of the smoke by the collar.
Back toward the grief he'd told himself was dead — and the part of him that had never stopped waiting at the door like a stray that knew its owner was coming home.

***

The stairwell door clicked shut behind someone, but Max didn't lift his head.

He sat at a dented metal table near the emergency exit — far from the waiting room, away from the lifts, just close enough to the stairwell to pretend he had a reason to be there. The thin hospital shirt clung damp to his back, his shoulders curled in as though he could fold himself small enough to disappear.

A paper cup sat in front of him, untouched, the steam long gone. His hands stayed hidden in his lap, wrists crossed. If he brought them into the light, he might see it again — faint veins of gold beneath the skin, pulsing like something holy turned rotten.

He didn't want to look. He was still replaying it.

The arch of her back. The rasp of machines. That terrible, perfect instant when the fire passed through her and something deep inside had screamed — not from her mouth, but from her soul. He'd felt it. Heard it.

He hadn't stopped shaking since.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate. With weight he recognised.

Dan's bag landed on the chair opposite with a soft, familiar thud. He sat without a word, and for a moment, it was enough just to have him there.

No greeting. No questions. Just presence.

"You look like hell," Dan said eventually, leaning back with folded arms.

Max kept his eyes on the table. The rim of the cup was smudged where his thumb had pressed too hard, and he hadn't noticed.

"You didn't answer my messages," Dan added.

"I didn't know what to say." The words came low, rough, like they'd been dragged over gravel before leaving his throat.

Dan didn't rush him. "When's Vic landing?"

"Any minute."

Dan's mouth twitched. "Been too long. Missed that asshole."

That drew the faintest flicker from Max — not quite a smile, but close.

"And the twins? Jack?"

Max's fingers curled tighter around the cup. "Don't know. Should've been here already. I booked the flights. Hotel. Didn't hear back."

"They still in Sydney?"

"Last I checked." Max finally looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red. "Didn't tell their parents it was a goodbye visit. Just… that she might be waking up. That it could matter."

"Still. Be good to have them. All of us together."

Max exhaled softly.

Then Dan asked, too casually, "And Ethan?"

Max's jaw shifted.

"I called him. Told him what was happening."

"And?"

"He's not coming."

Dan's gaze stayed steady.

"Said he'd already said his goodbyes," Max added.

A pause. Then: "Huh." The sound was soft, but it carried an edge.

Max frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

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"Say it."

"I never liked the guy."

Max blinked. "You've known him since you were a teenager."

"Exactly. Long enough to see how he looked at April. And later, at Liz."

Max stilled.

"Always hovering. Always there. Never sat right with me."

"He was just trying to help."

"Maybe. Or maybe you needed him to be."

It landed harder than Dan intended. He saw the flinch in Max's eyes, the way they turned away.

Dan leaned forward, elbows on the table. His voice softened, weight behind each word.
"I know you were carrying more than anyone should. I just wish you hadn't had to carry it alone."

Max didn't answer. He didn't have to. Dan could read it in the way his shoulders curled tighter, as if bracing for something unseen.

Dan studied him. This wasn't just exhaustion. Not just grief. Something deeper had burned through Max — left the walls standing but gutted the inside.

He thought of the man he'd first met — April's brother, too stubborn to quit, too proud to ask for help. And now here he was, holding himself together like it was the only thing left he could control.

Dan reached into his bag, unwrapped a sandwich still warm from its foil, and slid it across the table. His hand lingered for a second longer than it needed to.
"I'm not here to make you talk," he said quietly. "I'm here so you don't have to sit in this alone."

Max blinked, his throat tightening too fast to hide.

He lifted the coffee with both hands, the bitter taste grounding him just enough.

He didn't say thank you. Dan didn't need him to.

The moment held — fragile, but real — like a rope thrown across a collapsing bridge. Neither of them knew if it would hold.

But Dan would be on the other side, keeping his grip, for as long as it took.

***

They sat in the stairwell, one floor below the ICU. The air was cooler here, faintly smelling of mop water and metal polish. Their backs pressed to the wall, legs stretched across tile scuffed by years of stretchers and night-shift janitors. Between them, a half-eaten sandwich sat in its plastic wrap, untouched.

Max stared at the exit door. Dan stared at Max.

When Max finally spoke, his voice was thin, worn raw.

"I used something."

Dan didn't answer. Just let the words hang, watching him the way he watched patients who were about to say something dangerous.

Max turned his palms up on his thighs. His eyes fixed on them like they were a confession in themselves.

"I gave her something," he said. "Something I can't take back."

Dan kept his tone steady, professional. "Is she in pain?"

"No," Max whispered. "But… I'm not sure it's her anymore."

A small prickle went through Dan's gut. He'd seen this look before — hyperfocus, pupils wide, voice drifting lower. Hallmarks of shock, sometimes psychosis. His mind began running the checklist: level of consciousness, orientation, possible fever, trauma response.

He didn't move closer yet. Just gave space. Breathing room. Enough for Max to find his way to the next words.

Max's fingers curled into fists. "Her body convulsed. Like she'd been hit with lightning. I held her hand and it— God, Dan… the fire poured into her. And then something woke up."

Dan's first instinct was to ask what exactly he meant. To clarify. To get details like a case report. But Max's face — pale, pinched, as if the memory itself was burning him — stopped him.

"She's still breathing?" Dan asked instead.

Max nodded, eyes locked on the floor.

"She twitched once. Skin looked better. Vitals stabilised." He paused, swallowing hard. "But then there was this glow. Not mine. Not gold. Red. Angry red."

Dan blinked, mind ticking over. He didn't see any glow now. Nothing but the tremor in Max's hands and the tightness in his breathing. But Max believed it — whatever he'd seen, it had branded itself into him.

"Is it hurting her?" Dan asked.

"I don't know," Max said. "But it's not her either. That's what's killing me."

Dan let out a slow breath, the kind you use to keep yourself steady when a patient's pulse is going wild. He glanced upward — past the tangle of metal pipes and scuffed paint — toward Room 805 above them.

A memory rose without asking.

Dan, nine years old, sitting on a hospital bench too big for him. The sharp tang of disinfectant, the faint sweetness of baby powder. Max beside him, one hand cradling a paper cup of juice, the other holding a newborn. April, exhausted but smiling, leaning in to whisper, You're her big brother too now.

He hadn't understood the weight of that then. But he'd carried it anyway.

He looked at Max now — older, thinner, worn down to the wires.

"She trusted you," Dan said quietly. "And I do too. But if you're breaking, you need to say it."

Max's chest rose and fell too quickly. Not rage — guilt.

"I don't know if I did the right thing," he said. "But I couldn't watch her die."

Dan's voice stayed even. "Then what did you do?"

Max looked up for the first time. His eyes were rimmed red, his lips cracked.
"I… I summoned a demon."

The words hit like a fracture line running through the air between them.

Dan held his gaze, reading his face for disorientation, checking for the telltale micro-twitches of fever or delirium. Nothing. Just raw conviction.

"Okay," he said at last.

Max blinked. "Okay?"

"I don't understand it," Dan said. "I don't have to. You're my brother. She's my niece. If this is where we are… then I'm here."

Max's breath caught.

Dan reached for the sandwich, pressed it into Max's hand like a bandage into the palm of someone who's bleeding but refusing to admit it.
"You're not doing this alone. Whatever the hell you've stepped into — we step in together."

Max didn't speak. But his fingers closed around the sandwich, holding it as if it might tether him.

And for the first time since the motel, the tremor in his hands went still.

***

The door clicked shut behind him, soft but final.

Dan stood just inside Room 805, backpack slung low on one shoulder, jacket still damp from the stairwell. The lights were dimmed — too low for a patient who was alive, too warm for a body that wasn't. Somewhere between the two.

The machines whispered. Monitors kept their soft, neutral rhythm. Nothing sharp. Nothing urgent.

And Liz lay in the middle of it all. Still. Pale. Unmoving.

Dan didn't step forward right away. His hand stayed on the doorframe, knuckles pale against the wood, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. His breath stalled somewhere behind his ribs.

She looked better than he'd braced for.

No grey pallor. A faint blush of colour had returned to her cheeks. Her lips were whole again, not split. The lines in her face had eased. Her hair — brushed, smoothed to one side — no longer clung in dull tangles.

She didn't look like a girl who had been in a coma for nearly a year. She didn't look like someone losing ground.

Dan's jaw flexed. His eyes swept over her in quick, practised passes — tracking IV lines, scanning oxygen flow, checking skin tone, hunting for bruises or burns.
No fresh trauma. No new scarring. No visible reason for this change.

But something was off.

Her breathing was too strong. Chest rising with the rhythm of someone who'd been running yesterday, not dying for eleven months. Like an old engine that had been kicked back to life — purring now for reasons no mechanic could explain.

You're not supposed to look this alive if you're still dying.

Dan stepped forward, slow and steady, pulling out the chair beside her bed. He lowered himself into it, the old joints in the frame groaning under his weight.

Up close, she seemed smaller. Not just from age or illness, but from time itself, pressed in on her until she was sixteen going on six. The same high cheekbones April had. The same silver-blonde hair. The same fire — buried, banked, somewhere behind her closed eyelids.

He took her hand gently. It was cold, but not lifeless. There was weight to it.

"Hey, munchkin," he murmured, his voice rough. "You're taller than I remember. Still wearing that stupid cat hoodie?"

The only reply was the steady beep of a monitor, calm as a metronome.

He let out a quiet breath. "You know I still have that photo of you with grape jelly all over your face? The day you chased the ice cream truck barefoot, broke your tooth on a garden gnome. Max was ready to sue the whole neighbourhood for criminal landscaping."

No flicker. No twitch.

Or maybe there was. The faintest tremor in her fingers, so slight he might have imagined it — the kind of movement that could be a dream, or the start of something waking.

"You once told me Taylor Swift was the most important feminist of our generation… and then called me a Neanderthal for not owning Folklore. I had to Google what a cardigan even was after that."

His voice caught on cardigan. He blinked hard, forcing it down.

"If you can hear me…" A pause. "Come back, Liz. Your dad needs you. And so do I. I'm not ready to lose you."

He stayed like that, holding her hand, until the monitors became part of the room's hush. Until he noticed his own heart had slowed from its panicked climb.

He didn't believe in demons. He didn't believe in hellfire or golden veins. But he believed in Liz — and something had shifted.

Whatever Max had done, however wrong or reckless, it had pulled her one step closer to the line she'd been sliding away from.

Dan stayed where he was, steady and grounded, like the shoreline that kept the tide from swallowing everything.

Waiting.

Hoping she'd take another step toward him.

***

Max didn't go in.

He stood outside Room 805, shoulder leaning against the glass, arms folded, breath held tight in his chest. Through the pane, he could see Dan at Liz's bedside, one hand wrapped around hers, his mouth moving in quiet words that didn't carry past the hum of machines.

It shouldn't have helped. But it did.

The fire in Max's hands had eased. Gold still threaded faintly under his skin, but it no longer clawed or burned. Just… lingered. A secret he couldn't lay down, but wasn't ready to let go.

It had already taken enough from him — days of his life, pieces of his body, and maybe more from Liz than he'd ever be willing to admit.

He kept his fists buried in the pockets of the hoodie Liz used to steal.

Dan didn't move. Just sat there — steady, grounded, like the shoreline that kept the tide from swallowing everything.

Max stared through the glass, and a truth he'd been holding at bay broke through: I needed someone to hold me together. I didn't realise it was him.

The door opened.

Dan stepped out without a word at first. He stood beside Max for a long moment, then rested a hand on his shoulder.

"She's still in there," he said quietly.

Max gave the smallest nod. His features looked carved from exhaustion, but his eyes held a glimmer — tired, wrecked, and grateful.

Dan studied him. Not as a medic, but as family. As someone who'd seen him drunk, triumphant, broken, and stubborn enough to get back up again.
"You're not a monster, Max," he said, firm but gentle. "You're her dad. Whatever you did… you gave her a chance."

Max's jaw worked. His voice cracked when it came.

"I need you to stay."

"I already unpacked," Dan said.

No hug. No tears.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, the weight between them finally balanced, both of them looking through the glass at the girl who tied them together.

It wasn't hope. Not yet.

But it was enough to take the next step.

And for now, that was everything.