I exhaled slowly. Despite being my focal point for the last ten minutes, the aged newspaper rendered me no solace. Between the dusk sunlight streaming through the diner shutters and the scant illumination from the yellowed bulb above, the effort to read the slurry of words was almost tangibly painful. My tired, dry eyes rolled across the print, feeling the granular text of every useless and disappointing letter. Still, I had started, it would be rude not to finish.

The weather was meant to be unseasonably mild this month. Barbara (52) from the south end of the city had won some manner of small lotto. A yard sale. Lost dogs. Nothing much else that really caught my eye.

I closed the final page and folded the newspaper in half, placing it softly on the side of the table - more respect than it deserved for being so devoid of usefulness. How many days had it been without any leads? Three? Four? Probably months.

My fingers drummed against the smooth table as the waitress circled around and topped up my mug with more coffee. There had been an agreement: keep the coffee coming and no small talk, and I’d give a generous tip. So far, the bargain had been upheld. My right eye twitched as she left, and I briefly reveled in the irony of making deals. Pacts.

The leather driving glove on my left hand creaked softly as I flexed my fingers. I allowed my bare right hand to cup the white mug and tried to see how long I could withstand the scalding heat before having to withdraw. It was a game of chicken where the only loser was me. The dark liquid within stared back at me impassively. It always won, yet felt no need to gloat. I needed it to survive the waking day, and it was in these accolades I revered it.

My hand withdrew, the lingering burning sensation on my skin a continuing reminder from the very base of my sensible being not to do that; it is bad. If only all warnings were so brazen and seared into our very cores. My pale green eyes lifted from the steaming brew of lessons not learned above the round spectacles adorning my sharp nose, and once again, I took in the sights of this lowly establishment.

I’d heard reviews that the place was quaint. Assuming quaint meant small, probably struggling to meet the increasing rent in this hellhole of a city, and frequented by patrons who looked almost like the fried food offered up on the faded menu - then yes, quaint indeed. The low hum of the overhead lighting was only matched in how irritating it was by the frequent clicking of some infernal machine from behind the counter. A cooler of some kind? Perhaps a clock that had long thrown in the towel at being functionally correct? Rats in the walls planning a hostile takeover?

I shook my head as my tongue lolled about in my mouth. A mirthless gesture - but there was a base amount of humor in my thoughts of how much closer to correct that latter point may be. Surprise was something I had stricken from my vocabulary quicker than I had left my corporate job three years ago. My left hand clenched, to the vocal complaints of the dark leather glove.

Two patrons now remained in the diner - Brank’s Brunch - and both seemed as dissatisfied with existing as I felt. Both were older gentlemen, one staring blankly out of the window as his hand briefly shook. The second nursing a mug of freshly poured coffee as if it was the world’s last pint glass full of whisky. I could understand vice. Work had been my escapism from the failing family life, from lost friends, and more. It still was, only now I had a different profession and a whole different need for escapism.

As if fate itself was not done with mocking my continued struggle, a familiar cool feeling ran down my spine. I shuddered as black smoke started to wrap around my left wrist. This was never a good sign, but they say never to look a gift horse in the mouth. Unless you are specifically looking for horse teeth for some reason. Probably to assist the rat uprising. I bit my tongue - the pain reminding me to stay seated in reality while the lights were still on. My brain had been struggling to stay on the tracks as of late - but then again, tracks implied some manner of direction.

I grabbed my belongings and slid off the seat back to my feet. The red plastic chair had not promised much in terms of comfort, and I could bear no grudge for it acting as presented. My thick-soled boots added another brief symphony to the odd clicks and buzz of the diner as they stuck to the black and white checkered linoleum with every step. Well, at one point in its life, it had been that color. It was now varying shades of brown and gray-yellow - a painting etched from neglect.

“Here, thanks.” My words were brief as I slapped down a handful of notes. Overpaying, sure, but the short sanctuary was often worth its weight in gold. Or at least the grubby money I carried with me on such occasions.

“Thanks, Mister.” The blonde waitress looked between the paper money and up at me. Genuine appreciation in her eyes, but she seemed unsure whether our contract was still ongoing and hesitated to speak further.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I nodded and turned towards the door, pushing back my dark brown hair as I went. I had been reaching for a hat to tip - but I never wore one, so the motion was awkward. Was I becoming more of a cliche? The smoke around my left wrist had darkened and had begun to circle like a bracelet of thick fog. There had been a time when I wished others could see it, but it didn’t take long before I learned that it was better this way.

The side alley of the diner would be a quiet enough spot. Privacy was also important if you didn’t want to look like a madman. Usually, I didn’t. Usually, I wasn't.

With a sigh, I pressed my right hand against the smoke, releasing it from the enclosed shape.

Shadow and dark fog burst forth, snaking into the air like some kind of foul dragon. As it whisked into the air, darkening the alleyway, shapes eventually appeared from within. Approximations of tiny arms shot out from the thickest smog, with the rounded face of my tormentor coalescing in the air above me. Jagged black teeth were illuminated as it opened his singular bright red eye to glare down into my own.

[Greetings, Eric]

I waved my hand to as if I were brushing his smokey form from my face. “What do you want, Wight?”

[You have not completed a Quest recently.]

“I’ve been busy.” I shrugged and tried to clear my mind of the lie.

[We both know that is not true. Why the slowdown when you are so close to Promotion?]

There was that word. Promotion. A few years back, sweating my life away on the ladder of capitalism, that word would have made my mouth water. Adrenaline spike even, in the right context. Now I had nothing but contempt for it. Far from it for me to want to wallow, but in this context, Promotion meant not only adrenaline - but blood, sweat, and bile.

Yet still, I found myself slipping into the inevitability. Slouched against the wall of the fine establishment that may go under at any minute while the stench of rotting trash, and most likely human waste assaulted my nostrils… Perhaps I needed a bit of that pain to feel alive again.

“Got any Quests for me then?” I bared my teeth in resignation.

[There are two available for your Level. However, there are more pressing matters.]

My brows furrowed as I rubbed the bridge of my nose before adjusting the misaligned spectacles. “Such as?”

[You are being hunted. The gang Unending Rot has sent four demons against you.]

Unending Rot? The name was familiar. I clucked my tongue as the smaller version of me chased the memories around in the sludge of my brain where the caffeine hadn’t managed to seep in. This wasn’t the first time I had heard the name - there was a vague recollection of killing one of their bosses? It was hard to keep track when I didn't care for demons past them not beating me to death. That itself sparked a little recollection.

“They’re Pigmen, right?” As far as demons went, pigmen were pretty low on the totem pole. Often, that just meant there was more pressure on them to act out.

[Correct.]

I allowed a small smile to cross my face - something I would no doubt regret in the near future. Other Demon Hunters had scoffed at me for choosing [Demonic Knowledge] ahead of other more offensive skills. It had gotten me both into and out of a lot of scrapes over the past two years.

Wight still glared at me. A demon himself, powerful and bound to me in a very painful process that I still repressed to this day. As much as he was a threat in his own right, he had been turned against his own kin by the pact that tied him as my patron. The Bound received orders from the Organization - perhaps the most vaguely ominous name they could have chosen, and as the Demon Hunters completed Quests, they would be allowed further boons from their patron demon.

It would be fair to say that Wight and I had a strained working relationship, let alone any hint of a personal one. The pact demons were meant to be little more than our tools to get whatever Quest the Org burdened us with done. He had just been a constant reminder that I had a job to do, and for the most part, was absent from my duties. Wight chastised me for letting his abilities languish and for me settling to only take up work in the lower reaches. But, hey, the weak demons needed culling too.

“How much time are we talking? Do I have time to go shower at least?”

[Unknown. I would suggest finding an appropriate place to do battle.]

My right eye tensed. A 'place to do battle' was a weird way of describing it, but it made some degree of sense in the warped mind of the demon. As if every blow struck, wound inflicted, and life taken was all part of some grand play, abstracted by the actual struggle of combat. Whether Wight actually enjoyed it was another thing entirely. He seemed impassive even in the battles fought previously, barely even a drop of rage swirling around in the dark mist of his form.

“No chance these chumps will let me rank up?”

[Negative. As a Level Three Demon Hunter, you-]

“Yeah, yeah. The porkchops will be Level One, dangerous in terms of numbers advantage, but I’ll quickly whittle them down and receive barely a handshake for my troubles.” I wiped the sweat from my brow and shrugged, turning to leave the alleyway.

[This is not a set assignment.]

Of course it wasn’t. This was a vendetta. Some slighted demons hoping for a revenge killing - it was a part of the job. Assassination attempts were not unheard of, although they were relatively uncommon, as it wasn’t always an easy task for demons to make their way to this plane of existence. A group of lowly pigmen either got lucky or someone was sloppy with resource management. Either way, they were about to regret their choice to come for me. Even if only briefly.

“C’mon then,” I gestured to the looming cloud of evil intent, knowing that he had no choice but to follow.

"Perhaps they'll get lucky and put me out of my misery."