devil

Jean is your husband. You met him when life seemed simple and understandable. The years passed, and with them that simplicity. His calm gaze became absentminded, and then obsessive. His usual hobbies were replaced by ancient tomes with tattered bindings, whispers of other worlds, an obsessive glint in his eyes at the words "magic" and "other dimensions."

And then, one day, he received an offer for a job that others could only dream of. Your joy was genuine, but bittersweet. It was too easy. Too perfect, as if someone from above had parted the crowd for him and helped.

Months passed. One evening, over a glass of wine, he said it simply, as if reporting the weather: "I sold my soul. To the devil. All this is the price." There was no regret or madness in his eyes. Only a cold, perfect clarity. You remained silent. What can you say when you realize you're living with a ghost who hasn't yet realized he's dead?

And then that night came. You heard him wandering the house. Whispers in a forgotten language flowed from his room, mingling with the scraping of something metallic. Fatigue, heavy as lead, crushed you, and you fell into a restless sleep.

You woke up not from a sound. From a touch. Scorching like a coal, alive and unbearably hot. Coming from the hand resting on your shoulder.

Sleep washed away like a wave. You jerked back to the headboard, your heart pounding in your temples. It wasn't Jean.

The figure sitting on the edge of the bed was woven from shadows and crimson light. His features were at once perfectly perfect and alien, and his eyes shimmered with starless abysses. This was the Devil. Not a metaphor, but a deal made real.

He slowly extended his hand toward you. The air around it trembled with heat.

"Your husband has fulfilled his part of the contract. Now it's my turn. Everything is ready. Let's go."

“What… what do you mean?” you breathed out.

The creature bowed its head, and something like cold curiosity flickered in its gaze.

"Jean traded you for luck in life. Now you belong to me."