Dante had never been much of a reader—hell, half the bills stacked behind the bar were still unopened—but at this moment, he was desperate.

Dante’s pulse pounded in his ears, a frantic, hammering beat that did nothing to drown out the absolute silence pressing in around him. The bar—his bar, his last pathetic foothold in this city—felt suddenly smaller, like the walls were inching closer, like the air itself had thickened. He forced himself to swallow, to breathe, but even that felt like a battle against the weight settling in his chest.

He ran a thumb over the contract’s surface, half-expecting the texture to change, for it to feel wrong under his skin. But it was just paper—thick, oddly smooth, almost too perfect. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought it was expensive stationery, the kind smug executives used for sending politely worded death threats. But this wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. His name wasn’t supposed to be part of it. And yet, there it was, burned into the page like a brand, written in ink that looked unsettlingly close to fresh blood.

His jaw tightened as he turned it over, again and again, fingers gripping the edges hard enough to crinkle the paper—but no matter how many times he flipped it, there was no loophole, no missing fine print, no hidden "just kidding!" clause scrawled at the bottom. Nothing. Just those shifting words, those binding sentences, an ironclad certainty pressed into every line. He was trapped, and the contract wasn’t even pretending to be merciful about it.

He tore through the contract with the kind of manic determination usually reserved for people disarming bombs in the final seconds of a movie. He flipped it over, held it up to the dim light, even rubbed at the ink with the heel of his palm like some idiot expecting a magic eraser to undo a supernatural blood pact. But the words—those slithering, shifting things—just reformed, sliding back into place, curling around his name like shackles he’d never be able to break.

SIGNATORY: DANTE LUCERO

STATUS: BOUND

TERMINATION: UNAVAILABLE

COMPENSATION: IRRELEVANT

"Irrelevant?" he snapped, voice sharp with something between disbelief and pure, undiluted spite. "Oh, screw you."

"Irrelevant?" Dante repeated, his voice rising with a mix of incredulity and barely restrained fury. His fingers curled around the edges of the contract, crumpling it slightly as if sheer aggression alone could force it to care. "Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Irrelevant?” His laugh came out sharp and humorless, the kind of sound a man makes when he's standing on the edge of a cliff and just realized the bridge behind him has collapsed. “Oh, screw you. Screw your vague, ominous bullshit. Screw your fine print written in eldritch nonsense. And most of all, screw whoever thought this was a fair deal."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The contract, being a sentient, malevolent piece of supernatural paperwork, had all the personality and emotional responsiveness of a brick wall. It just sat there, its ink shifting slightly, not out of guilt or concern, but more like a smug silence, as if it knew there was nothing Dante could do. No arguments to make. No terms to renegotiate. No bureaucratic loophole he could exploit to scream at some hellish customer service representative about a return policy.

It didn’t care that he was pissed. It didn’t care that he hadn’t agreed with full understanding. It didn’t care that, as far as he was concerned, this was some cosmic scam. The words on the page remained unchanged, unbothered, utterly indifferent to the fact that Dante Lucero was currently in the middle of what could only be described as a highly justified existential meltdown.

The contract, being a piece of sentient, malevolent paper, declined to respond.

Dante exhaled through his teeth, grabbed his phone, and did the only thing a rational person in his situation could do—he Googled it. “Demonic contracts how to break.” “Accidentally signed evil deal help.” “Hand turning to ash wtf.” His search history was already questionable, but this was going to put him on some kind of watchlist.

Nothing. Just clickbait articles, half-baked creepypastas, and an endless stream of smug, sarcastic forum posts reminding him that he probably should’ve read the fine print.

His fingers tightened around the phone before he all but threw it down onto the bar, dragging his other hand through his hair—only to freeze when he noticed the streaks of ash left behind in his scalp. His stomach lurched. His pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t just some sick joke.

This was real.

And he was stuck.

“Alright, think,” Dante muttered, voice low and tight, more to himself than to anyone—or anything—else. He paced in sharp, agitated circles behind the bar, boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching, itching for something to do. “Some asshole got me into this,” he reasoned, though the logic felt more like a prayer than an actual plan. “Which means some asshole can get me out.” That was how these things worked, right? Deals had loopholes. Even the worst contracts had a way out. There was always someone at the other end of the bargain, someone who could be bargained with.

But as he turned, his breath hitched. His gaze landed on the pile of ash. On the place where, just minutes ago, a man had stood—a living, breathing, bleeding man. Now? There was nothing left but a dark smear on the floor, a grim little reminder of how quickly things could go wrong. His stomach twisted, nausea curling up his spine like something alive.

A cold weight settled in his gut, heavy as stone, pressing down on his ribs, on his lungs. No escape. No cancellation. No way out. Those words weren’t just ominous legalese anymore. They were a sentence, stamped in blood, pressed into the fabric of his very being. His name was on the dotted line. Signed. Sealed. Irrevocable. And now?

Now, something owned him.