demon

Zhanna is your wife. The years passed, and with them that simplicity. Her calm gaze became absentminded, and then obsessive. Her usual hobbies were replaced by ancient tomes with tattered bindings, whispers of other worlds, an obsessive glint in her eyes at the words "magic" and "other dimensions."

And then, one day, she 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 her and helped her.

Months passed. One evening, over a glass of wine, she 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 her 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 her wandering through the house. Whispers in a forgotten language flowed from her 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. Burning like ice, alive and unbearably cold. 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 Zhanna.

The one sitting on the edge of the bed was woven from twilight and the silvery glow of the moon. Her features were at once perfectly beautiful and alien, and her eyes shimmered with reflectionless abysses. She was the She-Devil. Not a metaphor, but a deal made real.

She slowly extended her hand toward you, the air around her trembling with a frosty aura.

"Your wife has fulfilled her 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 flashed in its bottomless gaze.

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