The demon’s name was my doing—he refused to give me its real one, said my mortal tongue would butcher it beyond recognition.

“We’re in deep, Frank. I don’t have time for your usual bullshit.”

Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty. Seven years cooped up in the luxurious accommodations of 123 Dusty Box Under the Floorboard, and I’m not allowed a little chit-chat? You could’ve stashed me somewhere with a window, you know. Pretty sure I’ve lost my tan.

“You don’t have skin,” I shot back, biting down the frustration. Arguing with a jacket—my life in a goddamn nutshell.

I resent that, Frank retorted, his tone cutting through my thoughts like a dull blade. ’Skin’ is all I have left. I’m a demon bound to leather, much in the same way as you are a schmuck bound to that pathetic meat sack you call a body. Speaking of which, you’re looking a bit more droopy than usual. Like someone left a block of cheese out in the sun and forgot about it. Time hasn’t been kind to you, Jack. You haven’t been doing those exercises we talked about, have you?

“One more word, and I swear, I’ll shove you back in the box and bury you twelve feet deep,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. The silence that followed was thick, like a sulking child retreating to the corner. That’s more like it. Now, I need your help. I focused on the telepathic link, trying to reach him with my mind. It felt strange, like speaking through tin cans connected by string. Funny—I used to be good at this.

There was nothing but silence in response. “Frank, you hear me?”

Still nothing. I gritted my teeth and took a slow, steady breath. This—this was why he got the box.

Oh, may I speak now? Does His Grace allow it? Frank’s voice oozed mockery, each word a needle stabbing at my sanity. You stash me away for years and then drag me out whenever it suits you. I feel used, Jack. And I don’t like it.

“What do you want me to say?” I kept my voice low, ears straining for any hint of movement outside.

You know what I want you to say.

I stared into the middle distance, my patience fraying like a threadbare suit. “Fine. I need you, Frank.”

A long pause. “Okay?”

Silence.

I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding out the words. “And... I’m sorry.”

Was that so hard, Jackie?

“We good now? You willing to help?”

I live to serve, Master Jack, he said, sarcasm dripping like blood from a fresh wound. What’s the order of the day?

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“Information. I need everything you know about this key.”

The pause that followed crawled under my skin, making me wonder if the demon was actually thinking—or just toying with me.

Hmmm. Old. Definitely old. Has that ancient reek, you know? Like something from back when I was still ripping souls apart for fun. This thing’s been around for centuries, easy. How’d you get your grubby paws on it?

The sound of breaking glass cut through our exchange. I pocketed my permit card and slid the floor panel back into place. Heavy footsteps thudded from downstairs, growing louder with each passing second. I pressed myself behind the door, holding my breath.

Wait a second, did I need to breathe? I wondered.

Why wouldn’t you need to breathe? And why do you smell… like that? What's going on, Jack?

Hell's pits, I’d forgotten how much I hated this. I never did figure out how he could see and smell without eyes or nose. “Remember boundaries, Frank?”

Oh, but where’s the fun in that?

Suddenly, a pair of hands appeared, clutching a glinting gun. Without hesitation, I slammed the door onto the hands, using all my strength to knock them off balance. A gunshot rang out in the enclosed space. Like lightning, I grabbed the man's arm and twisted it over my shoulder in a swift motion. His elbow cracked and bent at an odd angle, his pained scream filling the air.

Another man burst into the room. In a split second, I aimed and fired three quick shots from the stolen gun—two in his chest, one to his head. His body crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thud. I quickly reloaded the gun with bullets from the first man's belt. The injured man on the ground tried to stand, but I kicked him in the side of his knee, causing him to collapse again in agony.

Now this is more like it. If the demon could smile, he would’ve been smiling then.

“You can jump in any time,” I whispered.

Oh, you seem to have everything under control.

I moved toward the stairs, keeping my gun ready. Each step down felt like descending into a lion's den. The sounds from the bar below grew clearer; bottles clinking, footsteps shuffling, the indistinct murmur of voices.

As I reached the bottom, I saw them—more goons, rifling through shelves, smashing bottles of top-shelf liquor like it was amateur hour. The coat stretched itself wide, flexing as if caught in a windstorm.

Ah, it is good to be out again, Frank said.

I stepped out, firing. Bullets shattered glass and splintered wood, a symphony of destruction. Goons ducked behind the bar, scrambling for cover. They returned fire, bullets thudding into the bar, nicking the fireplace and sending shards of brick flying.

I dove behind a table, reloading in a flash. Popping up, I took out two more goons. Chaos erupted, the bar turning into a battlefield of debris and spilled booze. Murphy was definitely not going to be happy about this. There went my deposit. I winced at the thought of my tab.

I slithered on my belly toward the garage; the floor littered with debris. A barrage of bullets whizzed past me, the sharp cracks piercing the air. What was once a peaceful bar was now a war zone. Splinters of wood, jagged glass, and streaks of blood scattered across the ground like shards of deadly confetti.

I inched closer to safety. Every inch felt like a hard-fought victory against the madness outside.

Frank’s voice echoed in my head, clearly amused. Enjoying yourself, Jack?

“Shut up, Frank,” I muttered, gritting my teeth. This day just kept getting better.