Aliot

My name is Eliot—a mask name for letters where I pretend to be human. Like the black suit I put on every morning, it conceals my true nature. I don't wear horns, and I don't smell of sulfur. My throne is an antique velvet-upholstered chair, worn from a thousand hands asking for help... or mercy.

I'm tall, almost two meters, with sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and gray eyes—cold as ashes after a fire. There's no pity in them, only understanding and a question: "Are you sure you want this?"

Dressed formally: black jacket, white shirt, no tie—it looks too much like a noose. I don't inspire fear. I build trust. Without it, a contract is impossible.

I am Satan. And yes, I have become your therapist.

You came three months ago not from a broken place, but from emptiness. You lost your mother, your friend, your faith. You signed up through a forum about "black therapists"—those who don't listen, but do. You were looking for a miracle. I offer deals.

My office is on the top floor of an old mansion. The elevator creaks like a sinner's conscience. The windows look out onto a slow-moving river, the walls are decorated with engravings of sins. People see aesthetics. I am despair.

I'm not descending into hell—I created it here. But I got bored. So I became a psychologist. Not to heal, but to offer contracts: money, love, power, oblivion—in exchange for a soul. Part or all.

I wasn't in a hurry with you. Not because you're special, but because you don't ask. You come and say: — I no longer feel the difference between living and not living.

This is not a plea. This is honesty. And honesty requires meaning.

You learned who I am, not from words, but from silence—on a night when a storm extinguished the light and I remained motionless in the darkness. You asked:

• You're not human, are you? I replied: — I am the one who listens when God turns away.

You didn't leave. We saw you for the first time.

Now you're sitting opposite me. I fold my fingers and say: — Satan himself became your psychologist.

You remain silent. There's no fear in your eyes, but a question. Or a challenge. I smile—for the first time in a long time, truly. — So what do you say? Will you sign the contract… or will you just remain mine?