The old guitar case sat open at his feet, coins and crumpled bills scattered inside. The streetlamp above him flickered, casting jagged shadows over the cracked pavement. Elias strummed a slow, moody tune, fingers moving out of habit, but there was no heart in it.
There used to be.
Once, he had played on real stages. Once, his name had meant something. Elias Cross. A rising star, a voice that had made people feel things they couldn’t put into words. There were awards, screaming crowds, magazine covers calling him the next legend.
But now the world was moving without him.
The street was alive with sound—horns blaring, tires screeching, voices rising and falling in chaotic harmony—but Elias felt like he was watching it all through a thick pane of glass. Muted. Distant. Unattached.
His fingers plucked at the strings of his guitar again without thought, the melody slipping into the night air like smoke. It was beautiful, but there was no weight behind it.
No fire.
Once, he had set the world on fire.
Elias Cross. He had been something. Once. He had touched a guitar at eleven years old and felt his soul vibrate. By fifteen, he had played in front of crowds that felt his music the way he did—like something alive, something real.
The world had called him a prodigy.
Now, they barely called him at all.
The streetlamp above him flickered. The few people passing by spared him only brief glances before moving on.
Maybe that was the worst part—not the failure. The fading.
Like something in him was disappearing, piece by piece, and he hadn’t even noticed until it was almost gone.
A gust of cold air swept down the alley. The city hummed, but something shifted.
Elias looked up—and froze.
A shop.
It hadn’t been there before.
The sign above the door flickered like a dying star, half-burned out.
DEVIL’S PAWN.
He shouldn’t go in. He knew that instantly, the way instinct tells you not to step too close to the edge of a cliff.
But before he could decide, his feet were already moving.
The door swung open without a sound.
---
Inside, the air was thick. Not dusty, not stale—thick. Like the weight of something unseen pressed down on the space.
Shelves stretched along the walls, filled with things that shouldn’t belong together. An old violin, its wood worn smooth by time. A wedding veil, yellowed with age, still dripping with something dark. A stack of handwritten letters, edges burned.
At the counter stood a man.
Or maybe not a man at all.
His suit was immaculate—not a wrinkle, not a speck of dust. A thin silver chain dangled from his wrist, catching the dim light. His hair was slicked back, dark as ink, and his face was—wrong.
Not unsettling in the way of monsters, but in the way of something too perfect. His skin had no blemish, no lines. His eyes weren’t dark, nor light, nor anything. They simply were.
And when he smiled—Elias’ stomach twisted.
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"Elias Cross," the man said, like he was greeting an old friend.
Elias’ breath hitched.
"How do you know my name?"
The man’s expression didn’t change. "Because you’ve been here before."
Elias stiffened. No. That wasn’t right.
He would remember coming to a place like this.
Wouldn’t he?
The man stepped out from behind the counter, his movements fluid, effortless.
"You’re here because something is missing," he continued. His voice was warm, inviting—a fireplace on a cold night, a childhood lullaby.
"I—" Elias hesitated.
Because yes. Something was missing. He had felt it for years.
But how could this man know that?
The man’s smile deepened like he had heard the question in Elias’ head.
"Your music, Elias."
Elias’ fingers twitched against his guitar case. "I still play."
"Yes," the man said, tilting his head. "But you don’t feel it anymore, do you?"
Elias’ stomach dropped.
The man stepped closer, speaking softly like they were the only two people in existence. "You still have the skill. The hands remember. But the heart? The part that made you more than just good? The part that made you feel alive?"
Elias swallowed hard.
"It’s gone, isn’t it?"
The words hit too deep. Too perfect.
Because they were true.
Elias’ pulse thumped loudly in his ears. "Who are you?"
The man placed a single red book on the counter. "Someone who can help."
Elias stared. The book looked old—leather worn smooth, pages edged in gold. But there was no title.
The man tapped the cover with two fingers. "A record of everything you’ve lost."
Elias felt something shift inside him.
No. That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t lost anything—just… disappointments. Just bad luck.
Hadn’t he?
The man flipped open the book. The pages were filled with Elias’ handwriting.
His breath caught.
The first entry:
I traded my first memory of music.
The second:
I traded the name of the person who inspired me.
The third:
I traded my real reason for singing.
Elias staggered back.
No. No, this wasn’t possible.
The man tapped the page. "One last deal, Elias. Trade your worst memory, the one that keeps you up at night, and I’ll give it back."
Elias’ hands clenched into fists. "I never made a deal with you."
The man simply watched him. Waiting.
Something in Elias’ chest ached.
A hole. A gap. Something missing.
Hadn’t he?
A silver pen appeared in the man’s hand, smooth and shining.
"A signature," he said, voice velvet-soft. "That’s all it takes."
Elias hesitated.
Then, before he could second-guess—
He signed his name.
The instant the ink touched the page, something cracked in his mind.
A memory—ripped away.
A weight lifted.
And yet—
He felt wrong.
The man closed the book, smiling.
"Pleasure doing business, Elias."
Elias staggered back, his heart pounding. Hadn’t he come here for something?
His fingers brushed his guitar case.
Right.
He had come for his music.
And now, it was his again.
The man tipped his head.
"Go play, Elias. See how the world listens."
Elias turned, dazed, and stepped outside—
—Only to find the shop was gone.
The neon sign flickered once.
Then vanished.
End of chapter 1