A man walks into a diner, billowing dirt and dust kicking up the edges of his tan trenchcoat. An old worn down sign, ‘Dove’s Diner,’ flicking a light teal overhead, the red accents dead, the white backing even more so, being dirt ridden and covered in bird excrement across the top. The old cars behind him are not much better, with the exception of a pristine white Mercedes. The roaring of cars on the road drowning out the squeak of the door.

The blonde waitress behind the counter turns around, a gold cross necklace swinging out from behind the white collar of her teal uniform, at the sound of the door's bell. No longer yelling to the kitchen and greeting him with a smile. Brown eyes narrowing as he blows past her, straight towards the blue bathroom doors.

Under her breath with furrowed brows she mutters, “Dick,” before going back to serving coffee to the long-red haired patron in front of her, sitting at the counter. A small smirk lighting up the customers face as they exchange a knowing glance with the barista, brown meeting brown, a shy smile unable to be kept from creeping onto her face, eyes flickering from the coffee to their clean pressed, off-white dress shirt. Her eyebrows furrow for a moment before turning back around, placing the coffee pot back, and yelling into the kitchen again.

In the bathroom, chipped gray wall tiles make up the bottom half of the walls, contrasting the white upper portion and ceiling. The mirror has been taken off the wall and laid on the stained, dirty black tile flooring as the man rifles through his pockets. His hands are steady as he pulls out a blood bag, O negative written on the white medical label. He throws the trenchcoat in front of the door, blocking the light, and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. A stray pen on the floor, found beneath the garish teal sink, is used to rip and spill the blood packet open. He pushes the stained plastic into the drain, blocking the running fluid.

The felt pen, half chewed on and broken, is dipped into the red and used to draw on the mirror. Four circles, four half circles beneath them, and three circles beneath those, straight lines between the layers. Surrounded by a larger circle, basic lines connecting to a circle barely larger than itself, small stars of thirty-six are drawn between the lines on the right side. After completing the sigil, he hangs the mirror back up above the sink, silver handles of the sink reflecting red on their undersides.

The bathroom flickers from a fluorescent white to dim red as the sigil on the mirror seems to distort, bleeding into the middle layer of the reflection, no longer on the side it was drawn. The white tiles being bathed in red, the gray becoming black, and the flooring losing its dingy nature and becoming an abyss beneath his feet.

The wall to his right starts to distort, the tiles collapsing in on themselves, then expanding, doing so again, and again. As he takes a step back, reeling from the wall and inching towards the now black door, looking towards the mirror. The blood from the sink seemingly falling upwards with reversed gravity, halting in a large sphere before the middle of the sigil. The tiles continue to breathe and pulse and begin to form around a body stepping through the wall, the tiles cracking from the odd pull and shape. Shattering and falling to the ground, the tiles sparking sound as its form is revealed.

The lights bore down on the two, white fluorescence highlighting the short little black dress the woman is wearing. Black hair barely hides the pearl necklace around her neck, the white light taking the life which should be noticeable in her skin. The broken tiles formed an archway behind her, the cement broken down and cracked.

Orange eyes flicker around the room, barely paying any mind to him, lingering on the clean mirror, and the empty plastic in the clear teal sink, before seeing the shattered white tiles near her black heels. Her eyes follow the edges of the destruction before landing on the toilet. It’s filled with day-old brownish liquid.

She clicks her tongue, “What a horrible setting. If we’re going to make a deal, I want to at least be sitting down,” she brushes past him, not even a word making it past his mouth. The door swings open as he rushes to put the clean, empty, stolen plastic bag back in the pocket of his trenchcoat. He follows her back into the diner, rolling his sleeves down. The sunlight is a welcome difference to the stark light of the bathroom. Her eyes begin to rapidly blink, however, and the jingle of the entry door is heard.

As they exit the men’s bathroom, a baby immediately starts to wail, the parents efforts in vain to quiet him. The father bouncing the baby in his arms as the woman has her head in her hands, leg bouncing furiously beneath the table. Hushed whispers are exchanged between the two as the old school radio on the counter begins to play Dreams by Fleetwood Mac.

They pass the long empty diner counter towards the left side of the building, away from the crying baby, and the third booth on the left of the entry door. She picks up the menu and starts to browse, and as the demon gets comfortable on the teal leather, the blonde waitress walks up to the table with a strained smile, “What can I get you two today?”

“I’ll have the chocolate mousse with the strawberry on top, please,” she cuts in with a smile, looking up towards the waitress. The woman's smile only tightening more, eyes flicking between the skin tight, short black dress and steady orange eyes. Lingering on the latter.

“And you, sir?” Her head snaps towards him, the customer service smile starting to strain her cheeks.

“Black coffee,” His gray eyes don’t leave the scantily dressed woman in front of him, neither picking up the menu by the window.

The waitress’s thin string of confidence quickly unwinds itself, “I’ll get right on that,” as she drops a single cutlery bound in a napkin on the table, walking away with her shoulders pulled back and back straight.

“Well, aren't you predictable,” she muses, no longer following the waitresses path towards the kitchen window. She keeps her eyes drawn on him as she begins to fiddle with the cutlery, laying them out in the correct places. Fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right. Analyzing his outfit, the trenchcoat lies in the booth seat beside him as he rolls his sleeves back up. The shirt looks a couple days unwashed, luckily he doesn’t smell, rather bathed in some form of faint cologne.

“So, you want to sell your soul! Want to tell me why?” The girl rests her chin on her interwoven fingers with long black fingernails, meeting his gaze straight on, a static smile having never left her face. Her pearl necklace glinted almost as bright as her eyes, the sunlight from the window blinding him for a moment.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“I want to know why I was fired,” He twirls the stick to the blinds, a wonder that the sun's light makes it past his messy hair.

Her smile drops, disapproval clouding her eyes, “Seriously?”

His eyes snap back to hers, titling his head, “I’m an investigative journalist, there had to be a reason,” eyebags set his eyes deeper, darkening the silver and giving an edge.

“One strawberry chocolate mousse, and a black coffee! Enjoy your meal here at Dove’s diner!” For a moment she stands there, white little apron being toyed with. Neither of the two look up from their staring contest, leaving the waitress to immediately turn her back and briskly walk back behind the counter.

“Absolutely not. I’m not gonna have my soul streak be marred with a dumb question on why some idiot got fired. At the very least give me some sort of context!” Barely hiding her disbelief, the demon takes an angry stab at her chocolate delicacy, “And if you’re supposed to be an investigative journalist, why would you sell your soul for something you can obviously figure out yourself?”

“Fine. So I was investigating the shady dealings of a prominent actor. Then he must have found out and had me fired,” as he gestures with his hand, his gaze is stable on the table, mapping out his own thoughts.

“Wow, great going. You tried to dig up dirt on someone with power and it cost you your job!” Sarcasm dripping out of her mouth she picks up the strawberry, “You sure you planned this ou-?”

“Wait. I can make whatever kind of deal I want to, right?” He leans forward for a moment, pulling the coffee to his left.

She pauses. The strawberry she is holding is then pointed at him, “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she ruefully smirks and tilts her head, “It depends on what you’re thinking smarty pants.”

“Shapeshifting and charisma,” he immediately fires.

“Excuse me?” Her smirk drops with the strawberry, “That’s two things, and I can’t give you either.”

“What?” She goes to answer, he cuts her off. “Oh, it’s semantics isn’t it? Fine, minor shapeshifting and alluring nature.”

“I’m not a succubus, dipshit. I can’t give you an alluring nature.”

“But minor shapeshifting, then? Just enough to slightly fool people on what I truly look like?”

“I can’t give you that either, not my department.”

“Then what can you give me?”

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. The woman clacks her black nails, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, against the gray diner table.

"So that's it?" She says with annoyed orange eyes, an expectant tone.

"Is there a problem?" He asks back, his eyes sharpening to a glare behind his brown hair.

"No, no. No problem. None, at all," She rolls her eyes to the side, looking out towards the parking lot, gold earrings catching the sunlight.

The faint outline of a city in the distance, beyond the wasteland of dried out dirt. Only five cars are parked, a white Mercedes is attempting to leave without being hit by oncoming traffic. A group of crows, four, are hopping around the red car parked outside.

"Other than the typical revenge plot and fatherless behavior, of course," She picks the dirt out from under her fingernails, flicking the remnants across the table, slightly to his left and towards the window.

"Is that a 'no,' then? Or will it be a deal?" His eyes narrow, fists clenching beneath the table.

"Ugh, did your mother not sing you any bedtime stories? Never tell you about the dangers of selling your soul?" She glares at him, giving him a moment to think and back out.

His eyes narrow.

She glares back, looking at him through her eyelashes.

She gives in, "Fine, whatever. Might as well meet the quota," her head leaning back in an overdone eye roll that takes her whole head. Breaking up her upright sitting position.

“I’ll need a name,” She says, head tilted back with her eyes closed. She starts to spin her spoon around in her hand.

“Matthew.”

“Full name,” her head tilts slightly, making eye contact.

“Matthew Alballon,” he answers. She continues to look at the ceiling, a dull hum coming from her throat as an answer, after a second she abruptly stops.

Her head lifts for a moment, “How about this? I’ll give you an unlimited repertoire of items, weapons and what-not, all at your disposal. No limit to which you can hold?”

His eyes narrow, “And how would that help me?”

“Get creative, I’m giving you a bottomless pit bag here,” she shrugs, "Give me your hand." She beckons slightly with her right hand, putting the spoon back in the small mousse cup and moving it towards the window.

His fist releases from its clenched position by his leg and reaches across the table.

"You said I'm predictable, yet this requires a hand shake with a devil?"

He says with a tilt of his head, noticing her left hand coming to grasp his right, brows furrowing for a moment.

"Hah. You wish," an audible smirk infects her tone.

His eyes shoot to hers, an inch of surprise at the words.

"FUCK!" Matthew tapers his voice down before his pained yell is loud enough to draw attention. The barista is still focused on the malfunctioning coffee machine as the radio becomes louder and less clear. Songs shuffling around, inaudible voices, static starting to buzz louder.

His right wrist was slammed down by her left hand, his palm down on the table with a butter knife sticking through it. Blood spreads out from beneath his unmoving hand as his arm flexes and tenses, straining himself not to pull away, as if he could remove his hand. The coffee luckily didn't spill from the violent rattle of the table.

The blood spreads out in a perfect circle, then slowly recedes to thinner lines around smaller circles encasing demonic sigils, the majority of them heavy set on the right side. The dragging of blood dyeing the metal table a slight red.

"You've got this whole revenge plot going on for you, right? You sure you want to sell your soul for it?" She asks, leaning in for a moment on her crossed arms, her eyes trained on the approaching waitress dressed in teal. Her blonde high bun bouncing with each clack of her heels, coffee swirling around in its pot.

"Yes." His voice barely wavers from pain.

"Fine. Have it your way," She relaxes her chin into her propped up hand with a grin, gesturing with her left, "Now take the knife and stab it into your heart."

"What?" Silver becomes swallowed by the expanding void of his pupils. He un-impales his hand and stabs himself through the chest, between the ribs. The blood seeping through his shirt as he slumps over on the table. This time, his elbow catches the coffee cup.

A scream rips from the waitresses throat as the coffee pot shatters on the ground, swallowed by the sound of the radio going haywire, the baby crying even louder from the other side of the diner, shattering of plates from the back kitchen, the Mercedes outside revving its engine, and the crows cawing away as they fly up to the electrical lines.

The devil woman is still sat in her place, a calm smile gracing her face as her free hand twirls and plays with her black hair.