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Mike Wheeler wasn’t just a guy with excessive needs. He was a full-fledged demon of lust — and that, mind you, was a punishment in itself.
Being, let’s say, just a hopeless bastard was like hitting rock bottom. You can’t fall anywhere else, so you simply relax and slowly rot. But being a minor demon, responsible for lust of all things, especially in Hell — where everything is already sliding downhill — that was like eternally standing on the edge of a precipice, constantly aware that you’re supposed to struggle against the fall. And every attempt you make is nothing more than a more creative way to make a fool of yourself.
His lair wasn’t deep in sulfurous caverns or frozen wastelands. Not at all. He rotted away in something resembling an office complex somewhere on the Seventh Circle, squeezed between the Department of Petty Malice and the Office of Eternal Sorrow Accumulation. The building had a pompous name — the Tower of Desire — but in reality it was a dull gray box full of endless hallways, dispiriting linoleum, and flickering lights that made you want to blow everything to hell.
Mike had his own tiny cell, something like a “private office.” On the wall hung a poster with a motivational slogan along the lines of, “Seduce! Enchant! Cast them into pits of regret!” — a gift from management sometime in the previous millennium. On his desk sat an ancient, peeling computer that crashed every time he had to file a report about another successfully executed temptation.
His job was mind-numbingly monotonous: receive a dossier on some human soul, study its weaknesses, fears, hidden desires, and then infiltrate that person’s life through dreams, fleeting intrusive thoughts, stray fantasies. The goal: ignite a spark of lust within them, push them toward foolish decisions, encourage them to sacrifice something valuable for a moment of illicit pleasure.
And if he failed — welcome to professional development training, which meant an entire week stuck in a room where low-budget 80s adult films looped endlessly, accompanied by dreary lectures about the critical importance of competent temptation in the context of Hell’s ever-changing geopolitical climate.
Mike was good at his job. Alarmingly good. His file shimmered with letters of commendation from supervisors, mixed with complaints about his excessive creativity and unpredictable methods. He didn’t just whisper banalities into the ears of sleeping humans — he staged entire plays, orchestrated meetings, tugged at the strings of their circumstances so skillfully that the victim genuinely believed it was their idea to drunk-call an ex, plunge into debt for a car to impress someone, or start a fling with a person they’d later never escape.
He was the director of small, vile tragedies, performing with such zeal that he sometimes forgot where the job ended and his own interest began. Not that he had much of a personal life — unless you count something strange and half-formed as “life.” After especially successful assignments, he never rushed to demonic bars or sinner orgies. No. Instead he locked himself in his cramped living-quarters cubicle, turned on a battered tape player he’d stolen from a technician, and listened to the same worn-out 80s heavy metal cassette he’d found in the human waste dump.
He would collapse onto his bunk, lace his fingers behind his head, and stare at the ceiling — a cracked mess resembling a map of meaningless roads. Sometimes he smoked. Not hell-tobacco, but some foul mix he bartered for in the Department of Hallucinations. It made his head buzz and sent green patches dancing in his vision. He’d smoke and think that everything — absolutely everything — was utter nonsense.
By demonic standards, he wasn’t doing badly. A cell of his own, a stable (though loathed) source of sin-energy, the ability to shapeshift within certain limits. But his true form — he preferred not to think about that at all. At work, he used a shape he’d invented long ago: a boy of sixteen, maybe seventeen. Tall and rail-thin (and light enough for even the lowest demon to lift), but brimming with such volatile energy it seemed he might explode at any moment.
Messy black hair he never brushed, as though he’d just crawled out of bed or straight out of a brawl. Long, nearly feminine eyelashes framing unnaturally pale skin. And freckles — a constellation of tiny dots across his cheeks and nose that made his face both impudent and childishly defenseless. People often compared him to his own sister, Nancy.
She was a demon too, but worked in the Department of Vanity and Social Hierarchies. She was successful, ambitious, impeccable: flawless hairstyle, cold gaze, outfits that both enticed and repelled in their perfection. Mike despised the comparisons. He didn’t want to be Nancy. He just wanted to be himself — the guy wearing a blue hoodie over his standard-issue shirt, old black pants, and worn-out sneakers.
Sometimes, on the worst days, he would sneak a glance in the mirror of illusions and touch his freckles. They were real, at least real for this form. But why this shape? Why no horns, no hooves, no maw stretching across his whole face? Why this teenage boy with frightened eyes hiding behind a mask of arrogance? There was no answer. It simply felt… easier. More convenient for the job.
After all, who would fear a demon that looked like the kid in the last row of class? No one. And when fear receded, it left room for other feelings — curiosity, sympathy, and lust. Mike mastered the art of weaponizing uncertainty.
And then, on one particularly miserable day, as he was forcing his decrepit computer to send a report about a deal that caused a corporate scandal and three divorces, he heard the call.
It wasn’t the usual kind. Usually a file appeared, or a signal, or an assignment. This call was… primal and unsure. It pierced through the humming lights and the bleak music in the hallway speakers straight into his demonic core. Not a commanding summons, but a faint, persistent squeak — the cry of a soul that didn’t know what it wanted. A soul fumbling through rituals like a blind kitten hoping for a miracle.
Mike leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. He closed his eyes and let the feeling swallow him whole. Yes, it was a summons. But a crude, homemade one — no seals, no proper target. Just a human crying into the void.
“I want luck! I want something good to finally happen! I want… I don’t even know what I want!”
In that cry lived pain, anxiety, the fragile thread of hope, and staggering loneliness. It wasn’t simply a desire to win a lottery or nail a date — it was something closer to: I want to be desired. I want to be seen. I want someone to prove I exist.
Mike’s eyes snapped open. A crooked smile twisted his lips.
“Well, what are you?” he muttered in his chronically strained voice.
He didn’t register the call in the system or grab the standard temptation kit. This was an unofficial summons — meaning he could do things his way. No reports, and no guidelines. Just see what happens. Maybe fun, maybe trouble. At least it wouldn’t be boring.
He stood and stretched. His bones cracked in protest. His blue hoodie slipped to one side; he adjusted it, ran a hand through his hair, messing it up again. His fingers brushed the pocket where he kept that hand-rolled hallucination-herb cigarette. He pulled it out, flicked his finger, and a spark appeared at the tip. He inhaled deeply; the bitter, acrid smoke hit his lungs and sent green spots swirling before his eyes. Perfect. Now he was ready.
He focused on the call — a faint but insistent signal of despair. He imagined a thread stretching from his core upward through layers of reality, toward the human world, into some very specific, very miserable place. He hated this part — the transition always felt painful, like being pushed through a meat grinder and reassembled slightly wrong.
The room trembled, colors faded and sounds receded. The linoleum softened, turned liquid. He fell through the ceiling, through layers of bureaucratic hell, through the membrane between worlds. His ears rang; his temples throbbed. Flashes of images: a dirty carpet, the reflection of a streetlamp on a ceiling, the smell of dust and old wood, the sound of ragged breathing.
Then he appeared quietly and invisibly like a shadow peeling away from the wall. He stood in the corner of an ordinary neglected and cluttered human room. The stale air smelled of unwashed bedsheets, paper, and that sickly-sweet medicinal scent of despair. A thin stripe of light slipped through the curtains, highlighting piles of books on the floor, posters with abstract drawings on the walls, empty soda cans on the window sill.
And at the center of the room, sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, was Will. Mike recognized him instantly — and something deep in his demonic core trembled. Not in fear, but in recognition, as if he were staring at a warped reflection of himself. The boy was thin, exhausted, hunched over as if he wanted to shrink out of sight. Messy brown hair fell over his forehead. His somehow tan, worn-out face and dark circles under his eyes revealed many sleepless nights. He wore a simple gray sweater and pajama pants.
In his trembling hands he clutched a handmade charm — a piece of wood wrapped in string, covered in clumsy, ink-drawn symbols. On the floor lay an open book with yellowed pages, a burnt-out candle, and scattered salt. A sad, childish attempt to summon luck — or anyone. Will hadn’t noticed him yet. Eyes squeezed shut, he breathed shakily, staring at the floor. His lips moved silently. Mike could hear fragments of thoughts, scraps of emotion, like muffled noise through a wall.
“It should have worked… I did everything the instructions said… Why does everything always go like this… I just want… I want to be lucky for once… I want him… I want them… I don’t want to feel like this anymore…”
His thoughts were tangled, dripping with thick, suffocating emotional pain so raw that Mike involuntarily blinked. This wasn’t a fleeting whim — behind it loomed an entire galaxy of despair. And at the center of that galaxy, unmistakably, was someone's face. Someone Will longed for violently and feared just as much.
Mike caught flickers of memories: laughter thrown carelessly aside, cutting words sharp as glass, and tiny fleeting moments of closeness Will treasured like stolen gems. Confusion, dependency, hatred intertwined with unwavering devotion.
“Interesting,” Mike thought, his smile turning unpleasant. “Very interesting.”
He stepped forward. The floorboards creaked under his worn sneakers. Will jolted as if electrocuted. His head snapped up, and his wide green eyes, shining with animal fear, locked onto him.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Mike with genuine curiosity, already feeling the thrill of the hunt. Will with growing horror.
“You…” Will whispered. “Who are you? Did it… work?”
Mike casually slid his hands out of his hoodie pockets and stepped into the strip of light.
“Well, hello,” Mike said. His voice was hoarse but confident, with a deliberate touch of condescension. “Congratulations. You poked a hole in reality with your amateur magic. Not what you expected, huh?”
Will recoiled, clutching the mattress.
“You’re… a demon?” he breathed.
“Bingo!” Mike snapped his fingers; a tiny spark jumped in the air and faded. “A demon. But don’t you dare picture me with horns and a pitchfork — I’ll take that personally. I’m from a specialized department dealing with… let’s say, facilitating desires. Especially the dirty, tangled ones people won’t admit even to themselves.”
He stepped closer and crouched, bringing his face level with Will’s. Their noses were nearly touching. Mike saw his pupils dilate, noticed the tremble in his lower lip, smelled his fear and sorrow.
“And you,” Mike continued, voice dropping to something almost intimate, “are quite the expert in complicated desires. Your call was screaming across the void. Help! I feel awful! I’m alone! Somebody notice me! Something like that.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” Will began, but his voice cracked.
“Sure you didn’t,” Mike mocked, pacing the room and examining the clutter. “A ritual for attracting luck. Classic. Humans always think they want luck. But what they really want is for someone specific to stop being a jerk and pay attention to them. Or disappear forever. Ambivalent strategy, I like it.”
He stopped in front of Will, arms crossed.
“So who’s this guy you’re so wound up about? The one that made you stage this entire circus with salt and candles?”
Will’s face flushed painfully red. He turned away at once.
“None of your business.”
“Oh, it’s very much my business,” Mike said sharply. “You summoned me without authorization. You pulled me into your mess. That makes it my problem — until we sign a contract or until I get bored and leave you with an even bigger hole in your soul.”
A shudder ran down Will’s spine. Fear pressed on him. But beneath it — Mike sensed something else. Anger, irritation, a dark, boiling knot he’d detected even during the summons.
“What contract?” Will whispered.
“Standard one,” Mike said, as if discussing weather. “I fulfill your deepest desire — the real one you shoved so deep you can’t reach it anymore. And you pay. Not necessarily with money. With energy, with emotion, with something precious to you. Usually something you think you can’t live without. Your happiest memory, your sense of safety, or…” he paused theatrically, “…a piece of that attachment gnawing you alive right now.”
Will snapped toward him, eyes wide with terror.
“No! Not that! Never!”
“Right on target,” Mike noted inwardly.
“Calm down, I’m not going to take all of it at once,” he said, deliberately spreading his arms with a theatrically guilty expression. “That wouldn’t be very humane, you know. We can start small. How about… a trial period? I’ll just stay nearby. See what’s going on here. Maybe I can help you… clarify things. And you, as a small advance payment, will agree to silently tolerate my presence for a while. Feed me your emotions. For me it’ll be like… some sort of pure energy drink. And for you — a unique chance to let off steam without any tragic consequences. Well… almost.”
He could see the intense struggle unfolding in Will’s mind.
Fear kept desperately insisting, “throw him out, this is dangerous, this is a mistake!” Despair timidly whispered, “but what if… what if this is a chance? maybe it’s worth the risk?” And that dark part of his soul, the one that had been festering for years, growing tired of imagining sweet revenge, long-awaited control, or making someone else feel his pain — that part now looked at the demon in the blue hoodie with a growing, unsettling curiosity.
“Why should I trust you?” Will finally managed to say. He had clearly mustered his courage, and his voice had grown a little steadier. There were even faint echoes of the very same chilling madness he tried so hard to hide beneath the mask of timidness. “You’re a demon. All you do is lie.”
Mike laughed loudly. The sound was sharp, insincere.
“Oh, of course I’ll lie! I’m a lust demon, not some damned boy scout. But hear me out.” He crouched again in front of Will, a mischievous sparkle lighting up his eyes. “You’re already knee-deep in crap. You’re completely alone. You hate yourself, that guy, and this entire world, really. You summoned me here because you literally can’t keep going like this. I am change and chaos in its purest form. Thanks to me, things could get a lot worse than they are now. Or… maybe a little more interesting. Maybe you’ll finally get what you’ve been wanting for so long. Even if it comes in a twisted form. Isn’t that exactly why you started all this? So that something, for god’s sake, would finally happen?!”
Then he extended his hand. Not for a friendly handshake, of course. He simply held it out, palm open, staring intently. A faint crimson glow seeped from beneath his pale skin, forming a primitive symbol — interlinked rings, strongly resembling a pair of connected handcuffs.
“A probation contract,” Mike intoned, his voice low, convincing, almost hypnotic. “No eternal servitude, no slavery. Just temporary presence. You let me stay near you for a while and feed on your rich inner world. And I… I’ll make your life anything but boring. And I’ll help you finally deal with your problem. How? That’s not your concern. Just trust the professional.”
Will stared at his own hand as if it had suddenly become foreign, glowing faintly in the dim room. His hands trembled, betraying his anxiety. He looked at Mike. The guy seemed his age, but in his eyes swirled something… an abyss of experience, cynicism, and a kind of cheerful, destructive force. A demon, a living nightmare, or salvation? Or maybe simply a more refined form of self-destruction?
Silence pressed against his ears. The muffled rumble of cars drifted in from outside. A strip of light from the window crawled across the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing their own endless waltz. And after a long, agonizing battle with himself, Will slowly nodded.
“All right,” he whispered, prying apart his dry lips. “Fine. But… only on a trial basis.”
Mike broke into a wide grin. The freckles on his cheeks somehow looked even brighter. Harmless specks — yet now they seemed like sparks ready to ignite everything around them.
“Perfect. Then… let’s shake on it. Literally.”
He extended his palm. Will squeezed his eyes shut as if bracing for a blow and reached out his own. Their fingers touched. There was no flash, no thunder, not even pain. Only a brief, piercing cold that shot straight through him to the bone, and a feeling… a click. As though some invisible door inside him had slammed shut, binding him with a thin but solid thread to the strange creature before him.
Mike let go of his hand and jumped to his feet, looking pleased, even excited — like he’d just received a Christmas present.
“Excellent!” he announced, glancing around the room. “Well, roommate, let’s get acquainted. I’m Michael Wheeler — but for you, only Mike. Your new personal nightmare, chaos consultant, and, incidentally, your shadow for the foreseeable future. And you must be Will Byers. An emotional wreck, but with great potential. We’ll be working mainly on your all-consuming resentment toward that… What’s his name, by the way?”
Still sitting on the bed, Will clenched his fists. The cold slowly shifted into something warm and uneasy inside him. He spoke the name — the very name that had echoed in his mind for years, causing unbearable pain and a strange, perverse pleasure. Mike listened, nodded, as if jotting down the information in an invisible notebook.
“Aha. Got it. Well then…” He rubbed his hands together, a mischievous fire flickering in his eyes — the kind that appears before an especially refined act of villainy. “Start from the beginning. And don’t you dare embellish or omit anything. I need all the nastiness, all the hurt, all that… beautiful, poisonous stuff that keeps you awake at night.”
And Will, looking into those mocking, attentive eyes, understood that he had made either the biggest mistake of his life — or the only truly brave choice he’d ever made. And Mike, his freshly contracted demon, already felt the first streams of Will’s complex, bitter, delicious energy — the mixture of fear, hatred, longing, and forbidden desire — begin to fill him, warming him from within better than any drink from hell.
The first days of this trial passed like moving through a thick fog. Not a normal fog, but a poisonous one, flavored with nervous tension, saturated with Will — his fear, his constant alertness, his desperate attempts to convince himself that it was only a bold teenage brat temporarily living in his room, not Lust itself.
Mike quickly realized one simple truth: he liked Will, but not in the usual sense of liking targets of seduction. Those were flat, like cardboard cutouts, their behavior painfully predictable. Their weaknesses were displayed openly like goods in a shop — money, power, approval, physical pleasure.
Will was a story of an entirely different sort. His inner world resembled a tangled labyrinth of mirrors, where every reflection was distorted, every fleeting desire immediately suppressed, and love intertwined inseparably with hatred. It was difficult, like climbing a mountain — but damn, was it interesting. Like a complex puzzle one wants to solve not for the reward, but simply to understand how the hell it works.
But one issue drove Mike absolutely insane. That righteousness… No, not moral purity — Will definitely didn’t have much of that, though Mike didn’t care one way or another. It was his emotional righteousness, or rather, its one-sided directionality, that annoyed him.
Every strong emotion Will had — rage, crushing despair, burning envy, even rare glimmers of something like happiness — all of it was tied to one single person. To that same jerk whose name Mike already knew but mentally replaced with something like “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Unless-You-Want-Will-To-Have-A-Meltdown.”
Will’s entire emotional spectrum revolved around a single axis, one suffocating point. It was… a waste. Like a world-class chef using precious truffles to make a bland bologna sandwich.
Mike only watched. He lounged on the windowsill, puffing his foul cigarette (the smoke, annoyingly, leaving no trace as it vanished into the air), observing Will staring at his phone screen. He was waiting for a message. His expression was a tense mask of hopeful anticipation that inevitably cracked into a grimace of disappointment when no message arrived.
Or when it did — but short, cold, indifferent. Other times, Will received the longed-for message, his eyes lit up for a second… only to dim again, because the text hid some subtle insult, a sharp jab, or complete disregard. In those moments Mike could feel a wave of energy traveling down the invisible contract thread — bitter like tears, salty like seawater, prickling with stings.
Nutritious for the contract.
But painfully monotonous!
“No, this won’t do,” Mike thought, blowing a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “He lives like a single-celled organism. Everything for him, everything because of him. This diet needs serious variety. Now.”
And then he came up with a brilliant plan. Insanely simple and devilishly effective in execution. If Will couldn’t feel strong emotions not tied to “He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Mentioned,” then Mike needed to create new emotional anchors — fresh, relevant, and more… tangible. Namely: to Mike himself.
He had a huge advantage — he was right here, next to him, within arm’s reach. He could provoke him intentionally, tease him endlessly, annoy him instantly and on command. And, importantly, he was practically immune. The contract granted him a certain protection in this mortal world.
Will could try to hit him, shove him, scream at him — physical pain reached Mike only as a dulled echo. He barely felt it. But he felt every surge of pure, unfiltered rage directed specifically at him. It tasted far better than the indirect suffering of old heartbreak.
He started gradually.
Will was trying hard to study, hunched over a textbook at his desk. Mike quietly approached from behind, leaned over his shoulder on purpose.
“Oh, algebra,” he drawled in his most annoying tone. “Do you really think all these pathetic little numbers will save you from the crisis headed your way? I can teach you better things — like how to charm your teacher properly. Although, wait, with that sour face of yours…”
Will flinched noticeably but stayed silent, gripping his pencil tighter. Mike felt a small ripple of irritation. Weak.
Five minutes later, Mike “accidentally” elbowed the mug of cold tea sitting near the edge. It fell, shattered loudly, and the brown puddle spread across the dull linoleum.
“Ooops,” Mike said with zero remorse. “Look at me, clumsy as ever.”
Will slowly raised his eyes. In them flickered the first sparks of genuine, personal, unfiltered anger. Not because someone hadn’t texted him back. Because this bastard broke his favorite mug and was now grinning at him.
“Clean it up,” Will said quietly.
“What’s the big deal?” Mike stretched his smile. “It’s part of spontaneous chaos. Adds atmosphere to your room.”
“I said clean it.”
His voice was firmer now. Mike rejoiced inwardly. There it is — the rising tension. He took a step forward, deliberately stepping into the tea puddle.
“Or what? You’ll make me?” he taunted, tilting his head. “Come on, show us what you’re capable of, our quiet obedient Will.”
Will stood up sharply. His face twisted with a fury Mike had never seen on him before. He stepped forward and shoved Mike in the chest with all his strength. The impact was surprisingly precise. Mike staggered backward, feeling the edge of the bed hit his back. There was pressure, movement, but no pain.
Just a slight numbness. But along the contract thread surged a powerful wave — hot, sharp, blinding. Pure, undiluted anger at him — at Mike. Not at the past, not at imagined grievances — but at a real, living person right in front of him. Mike burst into loud, delighted laughter.
“Look at you!” he exclaimed. “Our little mouse has claws! So? Feel better?”
Will stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched. He looked from his hands to Mike, stunned — by his own uncontrollable outburst and by the fact that this insane demon clearly enjoyed it.
“You… you’re insane,” Will panted.
“Thank you, I try,” Mike replied with a goofy grin. He crouched down to pick up the broken pieces, doing it carelessly but doing it nonetheless. “See? I can clean up if someone asks nicely. Or I can refuse, if I feel like playing with your nerves one last time. It’s always your choice.”
From that moment, Mike switched to full emotional architecture mode. His goal was no longer just to infuriate Will — but to build proper roller coasters. To have Will constantly swing between all-consuming hatred for Mike and… something else. Something like the faint hope Mike had only begun to cultivate in him.
He became a true professional at provocation. If Will sank into melancholy, thinking of “Him,” Mike immediately shattered the silence. He blasted his heavy-metal cassette tape at full volume.
He launched into cynical monologues about the meaninglessness of human attachments with such jaded bitterness that Will wanted to stuff something into his mouth. He stole and hid something small but important to Will — his favorite pencil or his sketchbook — and watched with amusement as Will first panicked quietly, then exploded upon finding the missing item in the least expected places (like in the freezer, carefully wrapped in foil).
Each outburst was a masterpiece. Will yelled for real, tearing his voice. He threw pillows or soft-covered books at Mike and repeatedly tried to shove him out of the room. Mike easily dodged his awkward attacks, laughing, teasing, sometimes letting him land a blow just to stoke the fire.
He savored every emotion, like a connoisseur tasting delicate notes — there, in his anger, a trace of helplessness; there, in his shouting, a near hysterical laugh at the absurdity of it all.
But he didn’t want to stop at negativity alone.
Every good roller coaster needs two directions.
After a particularly heated fight, when Will finally collapsed to the floor, exhausted, clutching his head, Mike suddenly went quiet. He sat next to him — not touching. Silent. Then handed back some long-stolen, long-missed object.
“Here,” he said without mockery. “Go draw your gloomy pictures.”
Or, after another crushing moment of cold indifference from “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Mike proposed something unthinkable.
“I’m sick of moping here. Let’s go blow something up,” he declared as if suggesting a grocery run.
“What?!” Will would stare at him, half incredulous.
“Not literally. Although…” Mike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, no explosions. But we could go insult that rude clerk at the 24-hour store who shortchanged you last time. Or set off fireworks on an abandoned lot. Or just wander through the night city yelling songs at the top of our lungs. Anything, really — as long as you’re not sitting here rotting alone.”
And astonishingly — sometimes it actually worked. Exhausted by his own endless misery, Will eventually agreed. They slipped out at night. Mike walked ahead, hands in pockets, silhouette sharp in the dim streetlights. Will followed reluctantly, then gradually faster.
They didn’t blow anything up, of course. But they did climb onto the roof of an old garage to watch the stars — barely visible in the city sky. In these moments Mike either stayed quiet or rambled about something absurd and unrelated — like the lamp systems in Hell or the time he tried to seduce a monk who then opened a successful chain of vegan restaurants.
And in those rare moments of pure quiet, Mike sensed new shades in Will’s energy. Not rage, not despair. Something far more tangled. Simple human curiosity. A mild daze. And… plain gratitude?
Yes — genuine gratitude that Mike had yanked him out of his obsessive mental loop. The emotion was fragile, thin, almost ephemeral — but entirely directed at him.
It rooted itself in Mike’s mind. His new goal became replacing the old rotten emotional axis with a new, wild, unpredictable, living one.
So that when Will’s adrenaline surged, his heart raced not because of a message on his phone — but because Mike had just climbed over a tall forbidden fence and was daring him to follow. So that his laughter erupted not at some rare joke from Him — but at one of Mike’s idiotic antics.
So that even his anger flashed bright and pure like an electric shock, then faded instantly, leaving behind a strange emptiness and an intrusive desire… for it to happen again.
This became Mike’s obsession.
He built his emotional roller coasters higher and riskier. One evening, when Will once again spiraled into pointless self-pity because he wasn’t invited to some stupid party, Mike quietly grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door.
“Where?!” Will snapped.
“To somewhere actually fun. Or rather — somewhere that will be fun once we show up together.”
It turned out that the notorious “somewhere” was that very party. Mike, deftly using his—putting it mildly—unethical abilities, easily obtained the exact address and slightly adjusted the perception of the guards at the entrance. And they slipped inside without any trouble. Will involuntarily shrank, panic clamping down on him at once. He felt out of place; he had always hated these empty parties.
“Relax,” Mike whispered right into his ear, his breath feeling gently warm. “Just look at them. All of them here are so proper, so satisfied with their meaningless lives. Let’s add a bit of our signature chaos.”
And before Will could protest, Mike did something to the music playing—didn’t stop it, of course, but for a fraction of a second subtly warped it, delicately shifted the rhythm. People on the dance floor suddenly began to stumble awkwardly, laugh clumsily, look stupid and ridiculous. Then Mike casually walked up to the long table with drinks and “accidentally” bumped the big glass container of fruit punch.
It didn’t fall, but swayed dramatically enough that about half of the overheated guests gasped in unison. And Mike caught the eye of one of the stuck-up friends of “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” and sent him such a poisonous, devilishly contemptuous smirk that the guy involuntarily stepped back.
At first Will was horribly frightened, but then… then everything shifted. A feeling of strange, perverse power over these people emerged. The two of them—he and this utterly insane demon—were injecting destructive dissonance into this almost perfect world. They were uninvited guests, and it was… exhilarating.
When they ran from that damned party, choking with laughter in a dark alley around the corner, Will for the first time in ages laughed from the heart—not nervously, not with an erratic hysterical edge, but simply because he suddenly felt wildly, absurdly joyful. His cheeks burned, his eyes sparkled. And he was looking at Mike, who, leaning back against the rough brick wall, was laughing just as loudly, wiping away a tear, with not a trace of any other person on his mind.
At that moment Mike suddenly felt the most powerful, sweetest surge of intoxicating energy he’d had in a long time. It wasn’t just a pleasant spike—it was a raging fountain of energy. A volatile mixture of raw delight, animal adrenaline, sincere human gratitude and something else Mike couldn’t immediately identify. Something warm, slightly viscous, dangerously unsettling.
He’d done it. Will’s emotions were genuinely swinging on those damned swings now. From furious “I hate you, get out of my life right now!” to shy “what are we doing tonight?” From the vague desire to hit him hard to the strange, almost manic desire to be near him when Mike launched another reckless scheme with utterly unpredictable consequences.
The old attachment to the past hadn’t disappeared. But layered on top of it, like a new tattoo, was an entirely different attachment—to living chaos. To provocative audacity, to this damned demon who had barged so unapologetically into his quiet life and had begun reshaping it entirely to his own devilish liking.
Late at night, lying in his usual spot on the dusty windowsill, Mike watched Will sleep. Will tossed uneasily, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. Before, he would mutter only one well-known name. Now, among the jumbled words, another name flashed distinctly.
“Mike… don’t… stop…” and then, after a brief pause, it came a little clearer. “…wait for me…”
Mike smirked contentedly in the pitch-black darkness. His damned swings were working splendidly, and he was pushing them higher and higher. Somewhere deep within his demonic core—so carefully hidden beneath the facade of a cynical rebellious teenager—he began to understand something frighteningly dangerous.
Feeding on these precious emotions wasn’t enough anymore. He loved provoking them. Loved watching the expression on this boy’s face change so quickly, loved the particular way his green eyes flared. Loved feeling like the center of this raging hurricane he himself had created.
And that, as he knew perfectly from his line of work, was only the first step toward something far stranger and riskier. Something that very closely resembled ordinary human infatuation. But Mike desperately pushed that unwanted thought away—he was just a demon.
And he was building these damn emotional swings solely to crank the situation to the limit. To the very edge where Will would forget literally everything in the world except what was happening here and now.
Except him—Mike.
Mike had always been waiting for this moment. Well, “waiting”… he simply knew everything was inevitably heading toward it. He was a lust demon, after all, and Will was a walking cauldron of unspoken desires and constant disappointment. All those mood swings were essentially preparation, loosening the soil. The real fun had to begin in the place normally off-limits—the most forbidden zone. And Mike awaited the hour X with a strange mix of cold professional interest and growing curiosity.
The first warning signs began appearing slowly, like water searching for a crack in a dam. Even before Mike started the emotional swings, he had noticed something. Once, about a week after they met—well, after their strange “agreement”—Will thought Mike had disappeared on some demonic errands.
But Mike had simply turned invisible and sat on top of the wardrobe, watching. And then Will locked himself in the bathroom for a long time. Silence, and then… strange sounds behind the door—ragged breathing, maybe soft sobbing, the pipes creaking lightly. Mike sat cross-legged and listened. He couldn’t see, but he felt the energy sloshing—thick, warm, salty with shame and despair.
It didn’t feel like pure pleasure—more like self-torment. Will’s thoughts, which Mike caught like a faint radio signal, all revolved around that guy—his smile, his arrogant look, his hands… But along with those fantasies came bitterness and self-hatred.
Mike chose not to intervene then. He needed only to watch, to analyze. And, incidentally, he fed a little on that emotional cocktail. But a thought was already stirring: what a stupid waste of energy! So much raw, animal passion—poured into a void, toward someone who didn’t give a damn about what Will felt. Inefficient. Almost offensive to a professional.
Then the plan with the swings came, and everything changed. Now Will got angry because of him, laughed because of him, experienced adrenaline beside him, and the focus began shifting on its own. And the body, like a faithful dog, began reacting. Mike was one of the first to notice. Will’s gaze, once sliding over him cautiously, now sometimes lingered—on his hands resting on the windowsill, on his jawline, on his lips curled into a smirk.
Even the flashes of anger had become… hot. After their nightly escapades, when they stood breathless in some dark alley, Will turning away to catch his breath, he would secretly slide a hand over his stomach, as if trying to calm a tremor not caused by running.
And then one evening, after a day spent brilliantly (they sabotaged a parent meeting at school by replacing the PA system recording with obscene songs), the tension in the room was almost tangible. Will paced, strung tight, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. He couldn’t sit still—laughing like a madman one moment, throwing a ping-pong ball at the wall the next.
“Damn, that was awesome! Did you see their faces?” he yelled, with a new freedom in his voice.
“I saw,” Mike answered lazily, sprawled on Will’s bed with his hands behind his head. He watched him like a snake watching a bird doing a peculiar dance. “You’re on fire tonight. A real little troublemaker.”
Will froze, breathing hard. His gaze fell on Mike, stretched out on his bed as if he belonged there. And something about that picture—his personal space claimed by this brazen guy who suddenly looked so domestic, so… accessible—sent a new shiver through him. Mike felt it like a faint electric spark in the air. A desire unclear, unconscious, but directed not at the past—at the present. Will turned away sharply, rubbing his face with his palm.
“I need… to take a shower. I’m all sticky.”
He practically ran out of the room. Mike lay still, listening to the water behind the wall. But this time, he wasn’t going to stay out of it. The plan required more decisive action. The swings had to reach the highest point. He stood slowly, walked to the bathroom door. For him, a being not of this world, walls weren’t a barrier. He could walk through them, turn invisible. But today he didn’t want to hide. Today he wanted clarity—everything visible.
He simply dissolved into the door and appeared inside the steamy room. The bathroom was small, everything fogged up. Will stood under the shower with his back to him, forehead resting against the wall. His shoulders were tense, breathing uneven. One hand was moving in a strange rhythm below his waist. Mike leaned against the sink, arms crossed, and waited. Didn’t hide—just watched. After a couple of seconds Will, as if sensing the gaze, turned around.
He didn’t scream, didn’t cover himself. He simply froze, and in his eyes everything appeared at once—shock, anger, terrible shame, and the darkest curiosity. Water streamed down his body, across his collarbones, down his stomach and… further, where his hand was still wrapped around his arousal. Mike let his gaze slide slowly downward. He noted one detail that genuinely surprised him: despite Will’s slender build, one thing about him was… impressive.
His thick cock was fully hard, the tip a deep flushed pink. The contrast between his lean body and that raw, animal force was striking and damnably attractive.
“Don’t be shy,” Mike said, his voice low in the heavy air. “Go on. I’m just inspecting the quality of your work, so to speak.”
“Get out,” Will hissed, but his hand didn’t move to cover himself.
He just stood there, paralyzed.
“And why?” Mike stepped closer, closing the distance. Steam curled around his skin but didn’t wet his clothes—they remained dry, the same blue hoodie, the same black pants. “You wanted this. You always want this. You just think about the wrong person. You think about that boy who doesn’t even see you as a person. That’s sad, really. And here…” he nodded downwards, “…such an argument, and you’re wasting it on fantasies.”
Will flinched as if struck—not backward, but a step forward. His eyes darted everywhere.
“Shut up.”
“I won’t,” Mike was already very close. He felt Will’s hot breath mixed with the steam. “I’m working here. Steering things where they should go. And you, I see, have quite an impressive… argument. Shame you spend it on useless leftovers of the past.”
He raised his hand and, without touching, slid his palm a few centimeters from Will’s stomach. Will shuddered all over, and what hung between his legs twitched, revealing intentions that had nothing to do with anger or fear anymore.
“See?” Mike whispered. His breathing deepened. The energy pouring off Will was pure, concentrated lust, laced with humiliation and curiosity. It was something else. “Your body is smarter than you. It knows who’s in charge here… by feel.”
And in that moment, Mike made a decision. A bold plan required bold action. There were many ways to help Will figure himself out, but all of them were boring. Unworthy of the masterpiece Mike had already begun shaping. No. To sever him from the past, he had to give him something after which all his old fantasies would simply burn up in the fire.
He looked at Will — wet, shaking, his eyes full of confusion and dark anticipation. Mike was a jack-of-all-trades. Over the years he’d worn many roles to give pleasure. It wasn’t difficult for him. The outcome was all that mattered. And in this case… letting Will take the lead was the most unpredictable option. To let him feel strength, power — over a demon, over the situation, over his own body. That would flip his whole world.
“Let the night fall,” Mike thought with a predatory smile. “I can step aside. At least the first time.”
“Want me to help you?” he asked aloud, his voice turning to honey. “Just watch, or… help your hand a bit? To show you what I can do?”
Will didn’t answer. He made a sound — something between a moan and a growl. His resistance melted like ice under the sun. Mike slowly, giving him time to think about each move, reached out his hand. His fingers — long, elegant — wrapped around Will’s wrist, still gripping his cock. His skin was burning. Mike gently but firmly moved the hand away.
“Trust me,” he whispered, his lips now near Will’s ear.
Then he lowered his own hand and wrapped Will’s cock in his palm. Will jolted, his body arching as he pressed his forehead to the wet tiles. Completely different sensations. Not his own familiar grip, but someone else’s hand — confident, knowing, with light strokes of the thumb over the head, with just the right pressure.
“There you go,” Mike’s voice slipped into his consciousness, muffled by steam. “No thoughts. Just my hand on you. Just how your body responds to me.”
And it was true. Will’s mind was silent — no names, no faces. Only a vortex of sensations radiating from the place where Mike’s fingers met his flesh. Mike put in effort, shifting speed, pressure, adding circular motions, little pinches that made Will tremble and moan openly, without shame.
Mike watched it all, devouring every sound and every muscle on Will’s back. He felt the lust pouring out of him, mixed with fear and loss of control. A triumph. And even his own body, his human shell, was beginning to respond. His pants felt tight. He ignored it, focusing on Will.
“Just like that,” he muttered, speeding up. His breath hitched. “This is what you wanted. Not him. Me. Right now.”
Will cried out — short, hoarse — and his body exploded. Mike didn’t let go, guiding him through the peak, squeezing out the last drops.
When it was over, the exhausted Will hung on his arm. Water kept pouring down on him. Mike slowly released him and stepped back. He wiped his palm on his hoodie — and strangely, the liquid just slid off, leaving no trace.
They were silent. The steam began to clear. Will, without turning around, turned off the water. The silence was deafening. He felt emptiness — then something filling it. Not shame, but terror at what had just happened. And a glowing coal of expectation.
“Well,” Mike finally said, his tone casual. “How does it feel? Did you notice the difference between imagination and… the real thing?”
Will slowly turned. His face was pale, his lips red. His eyes looked at Mike with understanding.
“You…” He swallowed. “You did that on purpose.”
“Everything I do, I do on purpose,” Mike replied with a smirk. He stepped toward the door, his form growing hazy, dissolving into the remaining steam. “And this is only the beginning. Just to show you what you’re capable of. Without the old baggage.”
He almost vanished.
“And next time,” his voice sounded from the room already, “maybe you’ll want to take control yourself. I’m just really curious what that impressive ‘argument’ of yours can do when someone uses it properly.”
And he was gone, leaving Will alone in the bathroom, with a body that still remembered those fingers, and with thoughts about the demon in the hoodie who had just taken him to the edge.
The swings tilted again. And Mike knew there was no turning back. The next step belonged to Will. And he waited. Waited to see what would happen next. And if Will decided… Mike was ready to give up the leading role. For science.
After their wild party escapade, Mike, to put it lightly, had gotten an appetite. Not only did he read through Will’s messages with Jacob (the very same He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named), he also decided, you know, to meddle a little. Added spice — sending snarky lines from Will’s account and jabs from Jacob’s.
It was delicate work: a light hint of disdain, an offhand comment about appearance, a tiny public humiliation in a group chat. The conflict swelled like an abscess, and on Monday morning, in the school hallway, it burst. Mike, visible only to Will, stood off to the side, leaning against the lockers, watching with anticipation. Jacob, a sturdy guy, practically steamed with offended anger, and shoved Will with his shoulder.
“Who the hell do you think you are? What were those messages in the chat? Those your jokes? Funny, huh?”
Will, pale but with eyes blazing (thank Mike for that), didn’t step back.
“I didn’t write any of that. You imagined it. Like always.”
“Liar!” Jacob raised his voice. People started staring. “You’ve always been weird. And now you’re just nasty. Stop messaging me, got it? And actually, just leave me alone. I’m done with you.”
Those words, spoken in front of everyone, were the last straw. Mike noticed something crack inside Will. But not the familiar sorrow — something new, sharp like broken glass. Pure, undiluted rage, aimed straight at its target. Will didn’t cry. He looked at Jacob with such contempt that even he stepped back.
“Fine,” Will said quietly, but clearly. “Forget I exist. You’re dead to me.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Jacob surrounded by whispering classmates. Mike was thrilled. It was perfect — clean, painful, final. The energy pouring from Will was exquisite — bitter victory, pain, anger, and unexpected freedom.
One would think Mike could celebrate his triumph. Will was free from his old attachment. His focus, his emotions belonged to Mike now. But the lust demon, drunk on his success, made a mistake. He forgot human psychology. The end of a long attachment isn’t instant healing. It’s an amputation — followed by shock, emptiness, unbearable pain.
Back home, Will didn’t throw a tantrum. He just sat on the bed and stared at the wall. Eyes empty, dry. That silence was worse than any screaming. Mike, initially pleased, felt unease. The energy flow dried up, replaced by a freezing vacuum. Terribly boring. And useless.
“Well, congratulations,” Mike said, trying to regain control. He sprawled in a chair opposite him. “You got rid of the problem. You’re free now. You can live for yourself. Or for me — which is basically the same thing.”
Will slowly turned his head toward him. No anger, no irritation. Just that icy void.
“It was you, right?” His voice was lifeless. “You planned it all. The messages.”
Mike felt a tiny prick of fear, but pushed it away. Fear was still an emotion. Not the nicest, but at least something.
“So what? I just… helped you make the right choice. You should feel better now that it’s over. He didn’t deserve you.”
“And who are you to decide who deserves me?” Will stood up. His movements were jerky. “You barged into my life. You ruined everything. Everything I had.”
“Everything you had was crap!” Mike snapped, irritation breaking through. He hadn’t expected this reaction. He’d wanted gratitude — maybe a new burst of anger at Jacob he could redirect. But not this damned apathy. “You clung to an illusion! And I showed you the truth! Chaos! Real emotions!”
“Real emotions?” Will laughed, and it sounded terrifying — dry, dead. “You gave me pain. Again. Only now you’re the source of it.”
He stepped closer. Mike, still seated, suddenly felt something strange. A normal, human threat. He pushed the feeling away. He was invulnerable. The contract protected him. Physical pain was something distant.
“Don’t be a child,” Mike said with feigned ease. “Pain is part of growing up. You had to go through it. And now we can do something more interesting. For example, continue our lesson.”
He looked down deliberately, hinting at what had happened in the bathroom. It should’ve worked. Should’ve triggered embarrassment, desire, a surge of energy. But the effect was different.
Will’s eyes lit up — not with shame or lust, but with raw, primal fury. The very same fury Mike had spent so long cultivating. Only now it was pure, with no game, no kink. Just animal hatred toward the one who had hurt him.
“Don’t you dare,” Will hissed. “Don’t you dare look at me like that after everything you’ve done.”
Mike stood up, trying to keep the advantage of height.
“Oh, scared? Come on, show me what you’ve got. Push me again. Like last time.”
He asked for it. And Will accepted the challenge. He didn’t just push him — he punched Mike in the stomach with all his strength. And Mike’s world flipped upside down. Will’s hits used to be childish, weak. Mike felt only a soft tap. But now… now it was different. Air tore itself from his lungs in a harsh cough. A sharp, burning pain shot through his stomach, bending him in half.
He hadn’t expected it, he couldn’t have expected it. The contract — that damned contract — gave him the ability to exist in this world, to be tied to Will, to feed on his emotions. But the contract also had a reverse side, one Mike in his arrogance had forgotten: the stronger their bond became, the more emotions Will directed at him, the more real, the more physical Mike became in this world. The closer he came to human sensation. With all the consequences, including physical pain.
As long as Will had been angry at him like at an annoying pest, the pain had been bearable. But now, when rage was boiling over, when Will was attacking not a demon but a person who had betrayed him and ruined his life — the blow gained monstrous force. Mike, gasping for breath, flew back into the wall. Before he could recover, a shadow loomed over him. Will. His face twisted with a grimace in which tears (the first all day) mixed with fury. He grabbed Mike by the shirt, lifted him, and slammed him back against the wall. His head hit the wall with a crack, sparks bursting behind his eyes.
“You thought this was a game?!” Will shouted, his voice cracking into a scream. “You thought you could do anything and nothing would happen to you?!”
Another blow. A fist slammed into his jaw. A crack, a painful hum in his skull. Blood trickled down his cheek. Mike tried to twist away, to push back, but his body no longer obeyed. Panic — sharp, salty — crept into his mind with cold tendrils for the first time in centuries. He was afraid. Not abstractly, not like a demon watching human fear, but truly — terrifyingly, humanly afraid.
Afraid of being helpless.
Afraid of this sudden, all-consuming pain.
Afraid of the realization that the one he had considered a toy could actually hurt him. That this bond had become a double-edged blade. But along with fear, strangely, something else came. A flash — bright and blinding — deep inside. Not masochistic pleasure from pain, but pleasure from the storm of emotions. From the fact that Will poured everything onto him — all his pain, all his rage, all his despair.
Not at someone else — at him, alive, here and now. It was the strongest, purest emotion Mike had ever received. Concentrated, undiluted, wild energy of hatred mixed with grief. And inside it, there was power. Power that made him real, that proved he mattered. That he wasn’t just background noise, not just an irritant, but the central figure in Will’s life.
He couldn’t die. He knew that. The contract wouldn’t break from a beating. But he could feel. And right now he felt everything. Will hit him again and again — in the chest, in the shoulder, in the face. Mike barely resisted. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor. Blood flowed from his nose and split lip, one eye swollen shut. Each blow sent pain crashing through him — but also this intoxicating surge of energy. Fear and ecstasy tangled into a tight knot under his ribs.
Finally, Will exhausted himself. He stood over him, breathing hard, his knuckles smeared with blood. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat. He stared at Mike, curled up on the floor in a pool of blood, and something else appeared in his eyes — shock, almost horror.
Mike, through his swollen eye, looked back. His breathing was ragged, every movement of his ribs agony. But on his bloody lips, the faintest shadow of a smile appeared.
“There…” He spat a thick clot of blood onto the floor. His voice was hoarse. “Now that… that feels real.”
Will recoiled as if shocked.
“You… you’re insane. You like this?”
“I don’t like it,” Mike whispered, and it was true. The pain was horrible. “But it’s… honest. You hate me. Really hate me. Not him — me.” He tried to sit up and groaned. Maybe a rib was broken. “That’s… progress.”
Will stared at him, unable to understand what was happening. He was terrified for the one he had just beaten. Mike looked seriously injured.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Will asked quietly. “You could have.”
Mike closed his eye and let his head rest against the wall.
“Didn’t… didn’t realize in time. Our bond… works both ways. The more you hate me, the more real I become. The more… vulnerable.” He coughed again, fresh blood appearing on his lips. “Funny, isn’t it? I ruined everything myself.”
Will crouched in front of him. The rage was gone, replaced by guilt.
“What… what’s going to happen to you?” he asked, voice trembling.
“Nothing,” Mike exhaled. “Won’t die. But it’s going to hurt… like hell.” He opened his eye. “Happy now? You got your revenge on your demon?”
Will said nothing.
“Why did you do it?” Will finally asked. “Why did you set everything up?”
“So you’d be mine,” Mike answered simply. And there was no cynicism, no mockery in his voice. Only tired truth. “Only mine. Without any… competitors. Stupid, right? And I got what I deserved.”
He tried to smile, but it came out crooked. Will looked away. The room fell silent, broken only by Mike’s strained breathing. Everything else suddenly seemed trivial. He had beaten a demon — one he was frighteningly drawn to.
The swings had shattered. Mike, bleeding, stared up at Will. And Will stared down at him. The game was over. Only pain and fear remained. And the understanding that they were bound by something stronger than either of them had imagined.
“Don’t move,” Will said. He stood. “I’ll… I’ll get the first-aid kit. And water.”
He left the room, and Mike was alone. The pain was unbearable, and fear gnawed at him — but he was also pleased. He’d achieved his goal. Will was thinking only about him now. Even if he was thinking about how to fix him after beating him half to death.
“Damn,” Mike thought. “I actually… liked it.”
The silence in the room was thick as jelly, almost solid. Only Mike’s ragged breathing cut through it — like an old rusted bellows wheezing. He lay on the floor, back propped against the wall, pain slicing through him as if his heart were beating in the rhythm of agony. Each throb echoed through bruises and cracked ribs. New territory for Mike — unfamiliar. Almost… humiliating.
Will returned with a first-aid kit and a glass of water. A step to the right, a step to the left — as if he were walking across a minefield. His eyes roamed across Mike’s face, streaked with blood as if someone had butchered a pig. Mike’s arm was bent unnaturally — grotesquely. Will’s stomach dropped and tightened into a cold knot. He dropped to his knees beside him.
“Here,” Will muttered, offering the glass.
Mike tried to take it, but his fingers trembled like leaves in the wind. The water sloshed dangerously. Mike gritted his teeth, furious at his own helplessness. Will noticed everything. Noticed the panic flickering in Mike’s one un-swollen eye. This demon who had mocked him yesterday, who had peeled open his fears like fruit, now couldn’t even hold a cup.
“Shit,” Will whispered, not even knowing at whom. He took the glass from Mike’s shaking fingers and held it to his swollen, bloody lips. “Drink. Slowly.”
Mike took a few greedy gulps, as if he had spent a century in the desert. Water mixed with blood and ran down his chin. He tilted his head back and closed his eye. Even a sip of water seemed to drain the last of his strength.
“First-aid kit,” Will said. It sounded like he was saying it to himself.
He opened it — antiseptic, bandages, plasters. How was he supposed to fix broken bones with this? It was ridiculous. He started with the face. He soaked cotton in antiseptic. His hand hovered a centimeter from the wound.
“Don’t be scared,” Mike rasped, not opening his eye. His voice was like sandpaper dragged across glass, with none of the usual sarcasm. “You already did this. Now you can play doctor.”
Will clenched his jaw and pressed the cotton to the cut. Mike jerked violently and made a sound like he was being carved open, then went silent again. His fingers clawed at the floor so hard the knuckles turned white.
“Does it hurt?” Will asked, something strange in his voice… something between dread and a dark satisfaction.
“Unbearably,” Mike exhaled, lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Go on. Curious how far you’ll go.”
And Will did. His movements became harsher, almost rough. He scrubbed the wounds like potatoes under running water, and felt Mike’s body twitch beneath his fingers. Mike breathed shallowly, gasping for air. His broken ribs clearly protested. And when Will reached the arm, he knew instantly — a dislocated shoulder, maybe a fracture.
“It needs to be set,” Will said, examining it.
“Then do it,” Mike snapped, opening his eye. A challenge burned in it — but there was fear too. Real, animal fear of pain.
Will hesitated. The idea of causing even more pain to someone lying helpless before him… it stirred something strange. But with it came responsibility. This broken creature was his doing. And he had to fix it.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance?” Will blurted.
Mike snorted, then coughed blood.
“And tell them what? That a lust demon visited and we didn’t quite sort things out? Set it, coward. Or can you only break things but not fix them?”
The words hit Will where it hurt. He grabbed Mike by the wrist and forearm. His fingers were thin, but his grip was iron. The skin under his touch was hot, like fire.
“On three,” Will said, not knowing why. “Just stay still.”
Will did it. A sharp, precise motion — almost instinct, almost anger. A crack, and Mike made a sound that sent chills down Will’s spine. Not a scream — a wounded-animal howl. And then silence, broken only by Mike biting his lip hard enough to bleed. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
But the shoulder was back in place. Mike’s breathing was shallow, his chest shuddering. His face had gone pale as paper.
“See?” Mike whispered when he could speak again. “You can do it. You’re… a pretty good destroyer. And… bone-setter.”
Will didn’t answer. He wrapped the shoulder tight, immobilizing it. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t rough anymore. He worked silently, focused. And Mike watched him through his one open eye. The pain was unbearable — burning through every inch of him. But beneath it was something else — curiosity.
Curiosity that Will was taking care of him. Will, who had broken him, was now putting him back together. It was the most twisted form of intimacy imaginable. When the bandaging was done, Will helped him up and to the bed. Mike shuffled like an old man, each step jangling with agony. He collapsed onto the mattress with a groan.
“Thanks,” Mike mumbled at the wall.
Will froze in the middle of the room — the word sounded so unnatural coming from him.
“For what? I… I did this to you.”
“That’s why I said thanks. For… consistency.”
Night fell. Mike didn’t disappear or turn invisible. He lay on Will’s bed because he couldn’t reach his own chair. Will sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring into darkness. He smelled blood and antiseptic. Heard every shift, every breath Mike made.
“Why aren’t you healing?” Will asked quietly. “You’re a demon.”
Will thought Mike had fallen asleep or passed out. But after a minute, he answered, voice quiet, exhausted.
“The contract. I’m becoming… more real. The stronger the bond. The more you direct your emotions at me, instead of just reacting to my antics. Today… today your hatred was fully, personally mine. It… anchored me to this form. With all its flaws. Including pain. And slow healing.”
“So the more I hate you, the more human you become?”
“And the weaker. Funny, isn’t it?”
Will processed that. Power. He had power over him. Not the useless kind where he could yell and stomp — real power. He could hurt him. And the demon couldn’t brush it off like a fly.
“You like that?” Will asked suddenly, startling even himself.
In the dark came a chuckle that dissolved into a painful gasp.
“Like it? Hardly. It’s awful. I forgot what this was like. But…” He paused, searching for a word. “It’s honest. Feels like… life. I’ve fed off the passions of others for centuries. But this… this is straight from the source. Even if it’s hatred.”
The next day everything changed. Mike couldn’t walk. Sitting hurt, moving hurt, even drinking water hurt. Will, despite gritted teeth, became his caretaker. He brought him food, helped him to the bathroom, changed the bandages. Once, while rewrapping his ribs, Will brushed a sore spot. Mike flinched and shoved him weakly.
“Watch it, damn it!” he snapped through clenched teeth.
There was a childish whine in his tone. Will jerked back. And for some reason, instead of apologizing, he grew angry. He was taking care of him, and this ungrateful—
“It’s your fault! Stop squirming!”
“I can barely breathe because of you!”
“Because of me? You wanted this!”
“I saved your ass! You almost killed me!”
“Maybe I should have finished the job!”
They bickered like children among the bandages and bottles. And Mike felt with every insult, with every spark of Will’s anger, the pain retreating. Replaced by that vivid energy. The old game — except now the rules had changed. Now Will had real power to hurt him. And Mike, to his horror, craved it.
That evening, when Will helped him lie down, Mike didn’t let go of his hand. His fingers weakly closed around Will’s wrist.
“What?” Will muttered, but didn’t pull away.
Mike looked at him. In the darkness, his face was pale, bruised shadows under his eyes like violets.
“Are you afraid?” he asked softly.
“Of what?”
“That I’ll get better… and you’ll lose your power over me. That I’ll become what I was again. And your punches will just… tickle.” Mike said it not as accusation, but as simple truth.
Will froze. The words hit the exact corner of his mind he was terrified to approach. Fear of losing control. Fear that the demon would recover and take revenge. Or just leave, abandoning him with everything they’d done to each other.
“I…” He didn’t know what to say.
“Don’t be,” Mike whispered, brushing Will’s wrist with his thumb. “You’ve already proven who’s in charge. You broke me. Now I’m… yours. Permanently damaged.”
He let go. Will recoiled as if burned. Those words should’ve sounded like defeat. But somehow they felt like the worst threat. And like a promise. Will turned away and left for the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, at his hands. Felt the lingering warmth of Mike’s touch on his skin. And understood that Mike was right. He was afraid. But not of Mike recovering.
He was afraid this sick dependence — where he was both victim and tormentor, caretaker and jailer — would become the only reality he had left.
In the bed, Mike stared up at the ceiling. Pain still pulsed hot through his body, but now it was almost pleasant. It was proof he mattered. That he could provoke something strong in Will. Hatred, rage, responsibility, fear — all tangled into one knot, and that knot was tied to Mike more tightly than any contract.
He smiled in the dark, tasting blood on his lips. Everything had fused together now, like two diseased organs. It was beautiful. It was horrific.
And it was only the beginning.
Three heavy weeks passed. The bruises on Mike’s once battered face had faded to dull yellow-green shadows. His broken ribs now only whispered dull aches when he moved too quickly. His arm, freed from the restricting bandages, had nearly regained full movement. His body was healing with unnatural, almost feral speed. But somewhere deep within, something had splintered beyond repair.
Their relationship had changed. No more naïve cat-and-mouse, no more Will desperately trying to flee. Their life had turned into a sinister chess match, each move calculated to inflict maximum pain, assert dominance, or provoke another burst of emotion.
Mike abandoned simple teasing. He became a true researcher, meticulously studying the darkest corners of Will’s soul. Every weakness, every old wound Will had ever revealed — under pressure or by accident — Mike unearthed, polished, and turned into a weapon.
It began with small things. At breakfast, while Will silently chewed his toast, Mike lounged on a chair — rarely turning invisible these days, as if to spite him with his constant presence — and suddenly remarked:
“I wonder if Jacob has already found himself a new devoted admirer? Someone less… emotionally draining.”
Will froze, fingers tightening around his glass of orange juice.
“Shut up,” he hissed.
“What? Just thinking aloud. You don’t care anymore, right? You ‘buried’ him. Though judging by the way you stared at his empty profile for five minutes yesterday—”
“I said shut up!” Will slammed his toast onto the plate. A familiar, burning tremor shot through him, and Mike drank it in like a shot of strong liquor. A tiny smile flickered on his lips.
“As you wish, master,” Mike said with a theatrical gesture, though his eyes gleamed with cold calculation.
He learned how to provoke not only anger but guilt. One evening, when Will, exhausted from school, tried to focus on homework, Mike simply sat across from him and stared. Without blinking. Silently. His gaze was heavy, oppressive, sliding over Will’s face, his hands, his neck — as if feeling him out with invisible fingers.
“Stop it,” Will muttered, not raising his head.
“What should I stop?” Mike asked innocently.
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like how?” Mike tilted his head. “I’m just admiring. Your… concentration. Just like back in eighth grade, when you sat for three hours over that one equation and then cried out of sheer frustration. You still get that same tense little crease between your brows. Cute.”
Will felt blood rush to his face — whether from shame or anger, he couldn’t tell. From the realization that this creature remembered such tiny details.
“Get out. Now.”
“Out of your room?” Mike feigned surprise. “But we had an agreement. I’m yours forever. Where else would I be, if not here, by your side?”
It was his favorite manipulation — reminding Will of his own words, of the supposed power he allegedly had. Mike played submission like a virtuoso, but every gesture, every glance twisted that submission into mockery. He had become a true master of passive aggression. He could sit for hours in silence, radiating such icy, irritated judgment that Will would start fidgeting, growing tense, and eventually snapping.
“WHY ARE YOU QUIET AGAIN?!”
“Nothing,” Mike replied with a light, poisonous smile. “Just watching. You’re much more interesting when you’re angry. Your face comes alive. You stop being a pale ghost.”
The sexual tension that always hung between them had now become poisoned. It became part of Mike’s arsenal. He used it as a tool of humiliation. Walking past Will when he was in nothing but boxers, Mike would let his eyes slowly glide over him and casually say over his shoulder:
“Gained a little. A couple extra centimeters around the waist. Stress must be messing with your metabolism. Or maybe that’s just my influence.”
Or catching Will coming out of the shower with only a towel on, Mike would stop in the doorway and say in a calm, clinical tone, like a scientist making an observation:
“Interesting skin reaction to cold air. Or is that not from the air?”
Will would blush, snap at him, try to cover himself, yell at him to get out. And Mike would smirk, savoring those bursts of embarrassment and anger — that agonizing mixture of shame and arousal, which had become his favorite delicacy. He didn’t try to touch him. No, he merely pointed out the obvious. The fact that Will was a body with flesh and nerves. And that those nerves reacted to him, Mike, even against Will’s will.
The breaking point came on a Friday evening. Will had gotten a bad grade on a test. He was gloomy, quiet, sitting on the bed staring at a blank wall. The old familiar despair — the one Mike hated most — began lifting its ugly head again. Mike watched him for several minutes, feeling precious energy slipping through his fingers and dissolving into apathy. He couldn’t allow that. He walked over and stood directly in front of Will, blocking his view.
“Again?” he asked, genuine irritation in his voice. “Again this whining? Over a pathetic piece of paper with a number on it?”
“Leave me alone, Mike,” Will whispered.
“No. You know what I hate most? Your constant self-loathing. It’s so… bland and helpless. You can’t even suffer in an interesting way.”
Will looked up at him. There wasn’t a spark in his eyes. Only tired emptiness.
“And what do you suggest? Smash the entire school to pieces? Beat up the teacher I hate? Tell me, how exactly should I do it?”
“At least get angry!” Mike suddenly shouted, his usual calm cracking like thin ice. He leaned closer, bracing his hands on Will’s knees, intruding boldly into his personal space. “Get angry at them! At this rotten system! At me, for fuck’s sake! At yourself, for screwing up again! But don’t sit here like a sack of bones!”
“Why?” Will asked softly. “To entertain you? So you can get your next dose of ‘intensity’?”
“Yes!” Mike blurted out — pure truth tearing itself from his throat before he could stop it. His demonic mask slipped, revealing raw, desperate hunger. “Yes, damn it! Because your despair is death! It gives nothing! It just… hollowly eats you from the inside! And I… I can’t stand it!”
They froze, almost nose to nose. Mike’s breath came in quick, uneven gasps. Will stared at him intently, and in his empty eyes something shifted. Not understanding, not sympathy. Something darker and far more dangerous.
“So it’s true,” Will whispered. “You’re dependent on me and my emotions. You’re… a real addict.”
Mike recoiled as if slapped. His face twisted with fury and fear — the fear of being exposed, being this vulnerable.
“Don’t you dare…”
“Why not? It’s obvious. Without me you’re… what? Nothing? You’ll disappear? Lose your strength? Go back to your boring hell?” Will slowly stood up. Now he looked down at him with cold, calculated contempt. “You’re not a demon. You’re… a beggar. A junkie. Who’ll do anything for another hit. Even get beaten, even get humiliated. You’re ready for anything, even that.”
He stepped forward, and Mike took a step back involuntarily. For the first time in a long time. The fear Mike had seen in Will’s eyes during that memorable fight now surfaced in Mike’s own.
“Shut up,” Mike hissed, but all confidence was gone. Only panic.
“Or what?” Will smiled. It was an unpleasant, foreign smile. “What will you do? Come up with another witty insult about my tragic childhood? Remind me how I wet myself at summer camp? Go on. I don’t care anymore. Because I know the important part.” He stepped closer, so near they almost touched. “You can’t leave. You’re mine. And if I want…” He raised his hand not to hit, just placed it on Mike’s chest, right over where a heart might or might not have been. “I can strip you of everything. Make you stop feeling. Turn you into nothing. What will you do then? Beg me?”
Mike didn’t move. Will’s palm burned through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was a threat worse than any physical wound — the threat of emotional deprivation and starvation. And in that moment, through the fear and fury, something primal flickered between them — the recognition of an equal and dangerous predator. Both manipulators. Both victims. Both executioners.
Mike slowly raised his hand and pressed it over Will’s, pinning it harder against his chest. His eyes blazed with manic fire.
“Try it,” he breathed. His voice was low, hoarse, full of challenge and some twisted glimmer of hope. “Try turning me into nothing. Let’s see who breaks first. Me… or your own curiosity. Your need to watch me writhe in pain. Because you’re addicted too, Will. Not to emotions. To control over me. And we both know it.”
They stood locked like that, their breaths mingling — fast, hot. The air thickened with static — hatred, fear, and unspoken, warped desire humming between them.
It was a draw. Or a loss for both. They had cornered each other with no way back.
There was only one direction — forward, into the abyss.
The tension that had been building for weeks couldn’t be discharged by words anymore. Words were exhausted, poisoned, blunted — they stabbed but no longer killed. What they needed was a physical rupture — a raw, animal clash of strength and dominance.
It began with something trivial. Mike sensed that Will, returning from school, was distant again, frozen in that new cold, prickly version of himself that drove Mike mad — so he decided to strike first. He blocked Will’s way to the wardrobe as he tried to change.
“Where are you going?” Mike asked, wearing an innocent expression. “Back to your little library burrow? Maybe we should sit together? Brood in unison.”
“Back off,” Will snapped and tried to slip past. But Mike didn’t move. He set his hand on the wardrobe door, blocking the way.
“Nope. You’re too quiet today. I don’t like it. I demand… attention.”
“You demand?” Will slowly lifted his head. No anger, no fear. Just heavy fatigue with a thread of disgust. “You can’t demand anything. You beg. Remember?”
That word, spoken so calmly, sliced like a razor. The mask of superiority cracked. A wild, uncontrollable fury flashed in Mike’s eyes — the same fury he loved provoking in others.
“And you… little speck, worthless worm, decided you’re a god just because you managed to smash my face once?!” he snarled, voice breaking. He shoved Will in the chest, pushing him away from the wardrobe.
Will stumbled back, hit the edge of the desk. Pain stabbed through his lower back, and that pain finally struck a spark. Not anger — something older. Instinct. He pushed off the desk and lunged at Mike.
It wasn’t a fight — not really. Two bodies collided, driven by the same goal: break, pin, dominate. They crashed onto the floor, knocking over a chair. Mike ended up on top, fingers digging into Will’s shoulders, trying to pin him.
“See?” he hissed, breath hot on Will’s face. “See who’s stronger? Who—”
Will didn’t listen. He jerked his knee upward, aiming for the groin — missed, hit the thigh. Mike gasped in shock and pain, grip loosening. That was enough. Will twisted, using all his slight frame and a desperate, feral strength he didn’t know he had. Suddenly he was on top, pinning Mike to the floor with his knees, gripping his wrists.
Mike cursed, trying to squirm free, but Will held him with iron force. His usually expressive face twisted into something unrecognizable — raw, furious, bewildered.
“How— let go! Let go, you little—!”
“No,” Will said simply. His voice was low, alien. He stared down at Mike, and there was nothing human in that stare. He leaned closer until their faces were inches apart. “Yes, you’re right,” Will whispered. “I’m pathetic. But I’m your master. And now I’ll prove it.”
And he crashed his mouth against Mike’s. Not a kiss — an attack, a bite, a clamp meant to shut him up. Mike let out a strangled sound, trying to turn away, but Will shoved his head harder into the floor. Teeth scraped skin; Mike tasted blood. When Will pulled back for breath, Mike managed to whisper:
“You’ve… lost your mind…”
“Shut up,” Will snapped and dove in again, one hand pinning Mike’s wrist, the other grabbing his shirt collar. Cloth tore with a sharp rip — and cold air hit Mike’s bare chest.
That sound, that sudden nakedness, punched the resistance out of him. Not surrender — something hotter, sharper. A flood of overwhelming curiosity. What next? What was this quiet, broken boy about to do?
Will, breathing heavily, leaned back slightly, eyes dragging over the exposed torso — the fading bruises, the pale skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. And something in Will snapped. He let go of the wrist and plunged his hand into Mike’s hair, gripping it hard, yanking his head back to bare the throat.
“A-ah!”
A moan broke free — pain mixed with something else. His eyes flew open. He hadn’t expected such raw confidence.
“You like this?” Will hissed into his ear, lips brushing the lobe. “Being treated like an object?”
Mike tried to retort, to spit back some sharp line, but all he managed was a ragged, helpless sound when Will tugged harder on his hair. Pain tore through his scalp, and to his horror, heat bloomed low in his stomach — heat with nothing to do with the room.
Will sensed it — the tremor, the involuntary response. He released Mike’s hair, and his hand slid down to the waistband of Mike’s jeans. Fingers found the buckle and yanked, metal clinked, another pull — the zipper came undone.
“Wait—” Mike tried to protest, but his voice betrayed him, turning low and hoarse.
“I’m done waiting,” Will growled.
His movements were rough, clumsy, but shockingly determined. He yanked Mike’s jeans and boxers off in one motion, stripping him completely bare on the cold floor. Then he knelt between Mike’s thighs, and his hands went to his own belt.
Mike lifted his head to see. His breathing turned quick, shallow. He saw the determination on Will’s face, saw him freeing himself, and one sharp thought flashed through his mind: Will didn’t understand what he was doing. Or he understood far too well.
There was no buildup, no preparation. Will leaned forward, one hand pushing Mike’s thigh aside, the other guiding himself. His face was stone-cold, focused.
“Relax,” he growled through his teeth — and it sounded like mockery.
Then he thrust in, hard and unceremoniously, filling him in one brutal push. The sound that tore out of Mike’s chest wasn’t human. A strangled cry — instantly collapsing into a moan. Pain flared like white fire, ripping him apart from the inside. Sharp, nothing like fists or bruises. This was penetration on a level where he had never allowed himself to be vulnerable.
“F—god…” he gasped, eyes rolling back, fingers clawing the carpet. “W-Will… wait…”
But Will didn’t stop. He held still only a moment — just long enough for Mike to feel the full, impossible reality of their bodies locked together — then he started to move. No rhythm, no pleasure in mind. Every thrust was a strike, every push inside a reminder of who was in control.
“Yeah… like that,” Will said, panting hard, voice shaking with tension and something else — triumph, hatred, the shock of his own strength. “Like that, demon. Feel it? Feel who’s fucking you?”
Mike couldn’t answer. Waves of pain and unbearable pressure flooded his head, washing every thought away. He could only moan. Short, broken sounds punched out of him with each thrust. His body tensed, instinctively resisting, which only made the friction sharper, every next movement more painful.
Seeing him helpless ignited Will. He leaned closer, braced his hands on the floor beside Mike’s head.
“Say it,” he ordered, breath scorching Mike’s cheek. “Say who you belong to.”
Mike squeezed his eyes shut, teeth grinding. His pride, the last scraps of his demonic self, fought back. Will saw it. And answered not with words — but action. He nearly pulled out, then slammed back in with a force that made Mike spasm from spine to skull.
“A–ah!” Mike screamed, his body arching clean off the floor. Tears sprang to his eyes. “Y-yours! Yours, damn it! Satisfied?!”
“No,” Will said simply — and struck him.
Not with a fist — with an open palm. The slap cracked through the room; Mike’s head snapped sideways. His cheek flushed hot, pain blooming across it. Humiliation tangled with the raw ache in his gut.
“Who are you to me?” Will demanded, still driving into him mercilessly.
“I… your…” Mike choked, the words slipping between moans. “Your… broken… demon… a-ah!”
“Correct.”
Will hit him again, and again. Each slap was a metronome keeping time with the violent rhythm of the sex. Mike stopped trying to answer. He simply lay there, taking every blow. His moans grew louder, more desperate, losing their tie to pain and becoming something else entirely — surrender, plea, twisted praise.
“Yes… like that…” he breathed between the strikes, voice wrecked. “Harder… show me… show me what you can do…”
Will heard the challenge. His movements quickened, became even more savage. He stopped hitting him altogether. He just fucked him — with a force that made Mike’s entire body jolt, slide across the rug. The sounds grew wet, sharp, mixing with breath and the raw, unstoppable moans spilling from Mike’s throat.
And then Mike understood. This was their strength — the strength of the bond they’d woven; a bond of mutual hatred, dependence, obsession. Will was drawing power from it — from Mike himself, from the fear of losing this contact. He had become the vessel for their shared poison. The realization was as sharp as the pain inside him.
Will felt his body tighten, and a low, feral growl tore from him. One final, brutal thrust — deep, to the limit — and he froze, fingers digging into Mike’s hips hard enough to leave red marks. His climax hit in a quiet, inward explosion that shook him head to toe. He slumped forward, forehead dropping onto Mike’s chest, breath ragged.
Silence crashed down, deafening. Only their harsh breathing broke it, and Mike’s weak, trembling moan when Will slowly slid out. Will rolled aside and sat against the bed, staring into nothing. Mike lay still on his back amid shreds of torn clothing.
Bright red handprints burned on his cheeks. Finger marks mottled his inner thighs and stomach. His whole body throbbed, blazing with tremors of pain and shock. Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other. The air was stale, suffocating, thick with sex and pain.
They had done it — crossed the line. And on the other side there was no cleansing, no forgiveness. Only the knowledge that there was no return. Now they were bound not only by hatred and dependency — but by this, too.
A month passed. A whole month since that awful night when they broke each other on the floor. The slaps had faded from Mike’s cheeks, the bruises on his thighs were just memories, soon gone entirely. The body forgot the pain, as if it had never happened. But what lodged inside… that seemed permanent, like a stupid, drunken tattoo you can’t take back.
Life slipped into a monotony, rigid and merciless as a rusty old machine doomed to rattle until the end. Will went to school, acting like something close to normal. And Mike waited at home, appearing and disappearing — though at this point, did it even matter?
Words had almost vanished from the house, as if they’d run out after that explosion. Everything that needed saying had already been screamed or whispered in agony or pleasure. Everything that needed proving had been carved out in blood, tears, and the semen they’d left on the floor like a seal.
Sex became routine — stripped of romance entirely. Rough, fast, with no tenderness or desire. More like a way to dominate, to vent, to test how tightly they were still bound. Usually Will was the one who started it.
He’d walk up, grab Mike by the clothes, drag him to the bed or slam him against a wall, and it would end in a couple minutes of quick, furious thrusts and strangled moans. Mike agreed — sometimes snapping (“In a hurry? Afraid you’ll fall in love?”), more often grinding his teeth, letting out short, rasping sounds that irritated and aroused Will all at once.
Afterward they retreated to opposite corners like two soldiers who survived a firefight, not looking at each other. No cuddling, no talking. Just heavy breath, the humid smell of sweat, and a horrible emptiness filling the room like a thick fog.
But Mike didn’t break. He didn’t go numb, didn’t shut down. His poison simply changed. He no longer teased — he reminded. Whispered into Will’s ear when he tried to read:
“Remember how you cried the first time I sucked you off? Not from pleasure — from shame. But you liked it. Admit it.”
Or, seeing Will in the bathroom mirror while he shaved:
“Look at that, stubble. Becoming a man, huh? Though inside you’re still that scared little pup biting the ones you’re afraid to lose.”
Will still got angry. But his anger grew quiet — like a fist clenched in a pocket, like grinding teeth. He didn’t attack anymore — he just… switched off. Slipped into that icy armor Mike despised with every fiber of his being. It drove the demon mad like nothing else.
One evening, after another grim, silent round of sex, Mike lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Then suddenly said:
“I wonder if they even remember me down there.”
Will, fastening his jeans, froze.
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Well… them. My colleagues. The bosses.”
“And why should you care?” Will asked, only tiredness in his voice.
Mike turned his head to look at him. His eyes gleamed in the dim light with some strange, almost childlike curiosity.
“I didn’t care before. But now… I think about it. They should’ve sent someone. To fetch me, punish me, something. It’s been… what, forever in your time? And nothing. Silence.”
Will snorted, sat on the bed, turning away.
“Guess you were a nobody even there. No one noticed you were gone.”
It should’ve stung Mike. But he just raised an eyebrow.
“Probably. Or… maybe everyone just stopped giving a damn.”
He said “giving a damn” slowly, testing the phrase. It felt alien — the way normal people talked. Not “indifferent,” not “apathetic.” Just “don’t give a damn.” Like about a broken tool no one cares to fix.
Will didn’t respond. But the tension in his back said he was listening. That thought lodged itself in Mike’s mind and wouldn’t let go. He started… listening. Not to spirit planes or astral whispers — something far away.
The channel where orders used to come from. Where he could once sense Hell pulsing. It used to be a constant roar — millions of moans, schemes, commands. Now, when he focused, he heard only… silence.
Not total — but as if his frequency had been cut out. Blocked. Or simply forgotten.
He hadn’t become free. But something hollow and unfamiliar appeared — something between freedom and erasure, between victory and failure.
It all came to a head on a rainy Thursday. Will was at school. Mike made himself visible and sat in the chair by the window, watching raindrops trace the glass. The room was gray, lifeless. And then — it happened.
No thunder, no flash. Just a tiny pressure shift. A faint scraping, like a knife dragged across glass — enough to raise goosebumps. And then — the Voice. Not sound, but something vibrating in the core of him, cold, emotionless, bored.
“Michael.”
His real name. Spoken not with anger — but like a clerk checking a list. Mike froze. Fingers dug into the chair. A heart (or something like it) hammered against his throat. This was it — the moment he’d half waited for, half dreaded. A summons. To explain. To pay.
“Report. Status of the mission. Return to deliver it. Otherwise… consequences.”
Silence followed. The room smelled like dust and old carpet. “Consequences.” A word that once meant horror. Endless pain, being torn apart, rotting in the darkest pits of Hell.
But now… Mike listened not only to the words but to the tone. The bored tone of an overworked supervisor at the end of a shift. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Just bureaucracy.
That voice didn’t care about Michael at all.
No rage for disobedience, no interest in why he did what he did. Just… procedure. Check the box and close the case. And Mike understood. Finally. No one gave a damn. Not just “didn’t care” — totally, utterly didn’t give a single shit.
His mission failed or dragged forever — who cared? He hadn’t claimed a soul, the contract was in limbo, and he’d turned into a nuisance, messing up paperwork. And instead of wasting power dragging him back or punishing him, they just… wrote him off. Deleted his number.
Forgot he existed.
It’s hard to understand unless you feel it. It’s not that he became free — rather, their indifference freed him. He didn’t escape from prison; they simply forgot him in the cell and lost the key. And in that moment, in the awful silence, he heard the door open. Footsteps — Will had come back.
The demon didn’t move. He sat there staring out the window, listening to the fading echo of the Voice until it went completely silent, leaving only the sounds of the real world — the rustle of a wet jacket, footsteps, a sigh. Will entered the room and tossed his backpack into the corner. He looked angry and drenched. He glanced at Mike, who still sat in the chair.
“Went into your head again?” Will muttered — not with anger, just stating what he saw.
Mike slowly turned his head. His face was hard to see in the dim light.
“I got a call,” he said simply. His voice was flat, almost lifeless.
Will froze, his hand paused on the zipper of his jacket.
“Who called?”
“My old job.”
Will didn’t know what to say. He stared at him, trying to figure out what he was planning. But Mike’s eyes looked tired.
“And? What did they say?” Will finally asked.
Mike turned back to the window.
“They said I have to return. To give a report. Or there’ll be consequences.”
A shiver ran down Will’s spine. Not because he was scared for Mike — but because of something far more personal, far more horrifying. The mere thought of this room, his life, going empty if that annoying demon suddenly disappeared… He had no idea how loud the silence would be. It would be worse than any scream.
“And… what are you going to do?” he asked, his voice rough, as if he’d been shouting.
Mike was silent for so long that Will thought he wouldn’t get an answer. But then the demon rose from the chair. He moved smoothly, without the usual swagger. He stepped toward Will and stopped a couple of steps away. Raindrops shimmered on his dark hair as if he’d been standing outside in the storm.
“I’m walking away from it,” Mike said quietly. And for the first time, Will saw no mockery in his eyes, no hunger, no rage. He saw… acceptance. It was over. “Turns out they just don’t give a damn anymore.”
He said the word easily, and he even smiled. But the smile was different — not poisonous, but like someone who suddenly realized he was truly alone. And that he’d chosen it. Will stood there frozen. He didn’t know how to react. Relief? Joy? Fear? Everything tangled together.
Mike was staying. Not because he had to — but because he had nowhere else to go. He had been erased from everywhere except this room, except the place beside Will. The demon, as if reading his thoughts, nodded.
“Yeah. That’s exactly it. Now I’m yours, not because I’m bound to be — but because there’s nowhere else to be. Congratulations. You won.”
He turned to leave, but Will grabbed his hand. Not to stop him — just… grabbed him. Mike stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I didn’t want… you to leave,” Will exhaled. It just slipped out on its own.
Mike finally turned. Something flickered in his eyes — but not the old fire. Something new. Tired. Understandable.
“I know,” he said. “Because you’ve got nowhere to put me either. And you love me too much.”
Mike pulled his hand away — but didn’t leave. They stood facing each other in the dim room while rain fell outside. Neither knew what to do next. What would be better: a hug, a punch, or to start crying?
Instead Will walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out two cans of the cheapest beer — the kind he bought for guests who never came. He returned and handed one to Mike.
The demon took it, turned it in his hands like it was something new to him. Then he opened it and took a sip. His face twisted.
“Disgusting,” he concluded, but his voice carried the first hint of his old arrogant tone.
Will snorted and opened his own can. The sound was loud in the silence.
“At least it’s our disgusting beer,” he said, taking a sip.
They didn’t clink cans or sit together. Will sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. Mike stood by the window. They drank their cheap beer and listened to the rain. No one spoke about Hell, the mission, or whether it hurt. There was nothing to discuss. Everything had already happened. Everything had already been said.
Hell was in the past. They both walked away from it. The world was outside the window, and neither cared about it. Ahead — only this room, this strange life. Tomorrow Will would go to school. Mike would wait for him. In the evening there would probably be more quiet, rough sex, or an argument, or just silence — heavy and dense like smoke.
But that was their life, and nothing could be done.
And it was enough.
Mike finished his beer and crushed the can. Will watched him, then finished his own. He didn’t crush the can; he just set it on the floor beside him.
“Tomorrow,” Will said into the silence, without looking at Mike, “we need to buy better beer. This stuff is impossible to drink.”
“Agreed,” Mike said, still looking out the window.
There were no more words.