(Aaron's POV)
I was only sixteen when I signed that cursed contract with a demon.
He wasn't just any demon—he was cunning, far more intelligent than any human I'd ever t. He knew how to whisper poison into your ears and make it taste like honey.
There were monts I nearly gave in. He kept urging to kill my parents, again and again. His voice never left , always circling like a vulture, waiting for the mont I'd break.
But I didn't. Sohow, I managed to hold myself back.
Maybe it was because I hadn't committed any sin yet. Maybe that's what gave a sliver of control. I later learned demons only manipulate those who've tasted sin. The more you sin, the deeper their grip.
He didn't force . That would've been too easy. Instead, he waited—planning sothing far more cruel.
When I turned seventeen, my father kicked out.
No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.
I knocked on the door. Again. And again. I told them my face was healed. I told them they could see now. But they never opened the door.
It was as if I had beco invisible.
Holess. Abandoned. I wandered from place to place. Day bled into night. Nights into weeks of hunger. Poverty gnawed at my flesh until even my reflection disgusted .
Allen—my demon—watched it all silently.
He told if I killed my parents, everything would be restored. He had healed my face, but that wasn't enough. Not in the dia world. Not without proof, not without connections. Without them, I was nothing but a common man.
I begged every director for one chance. Just one.
None of them showed sympathy.
My ti and money was running out. Poverty was no longer knocking—it was devouring .
I begged for food. Got beaten in alleyways. Spit on. Forgotten. But still, I didn't listen to Allen. Because no matter how broken I was, I was still his master. And I still had a choice.
But he was clever.
He didn't let die.
Every ti I was on the brink, he'd save . Exactly when I was about to draw my last breath, he'd pull back. Every night, he whispered in my ears. He filled with taunts, with bitter mories, with every crack in my soul, until revenge began to feel like relief.
I spent four years like that.
Barely surviving. Scraping by with low-wage jobs that treated like a ghost. Cleaning floors. Moving crates. Waiting tables. Invisible. Forgettable.
Then one day, while walking past a street corner, sothing caught my eye.
A billboard. Huge, bright, impossible to ignore.
An interview.
My little brother.
He was ten now. A rising star. Smiling, waving, his face plastered across the city like a trophy. And there they were—my parents. Standing beside him, hands on his shoulders, grinning like the past had never existed.
I didn't feel anger.
Not right away.
First, there was just… emptiness. Like soone had reached into my chest and hollowed out.
Allen's voice was there to fill the space.
"See? They moved on without you."
I tried to shake it off. I told myself it was just an image. A fake smile for the caras. But then the anchor asked:
"Mr. Muru, you had an older son, didn't you? Where is he now?"
My father didn't even flinch.
"He's dead."
Dead.
The word didn't hit at first. It floated there, like background noise. Until the anchor, caught off guard, repeated it.
"Dead?"
That's when it cracked.
I scread.
Right there. Middle of the street. Cars rushing past, people walking around , but I didn't care.
"I'm alive!" I yelled. "I'm right here!"
No one turned. No one looked.
And then my mother's voice ca through the speakers.
Gentle. Teary-eyed.
"Our older son… he died from an infection. After the accident. It disfigured his face. But we loved him. We truly did. Fate was just never kind to us."
I couldn't breathe. The air felt like glass in my lungs.
"Mom… that's a lie, right?" My voice cracked. "Mom…?"
But they weren't listening. They couldn't hear .
They had already buried —with words.
A lie deeper than any grave.
I drifting into darkness I felt truly betrayal I want crush every one of them director, producer, and my parents each and evryone of them
"Allen" I said in rage, "Let's end them".
"Subharshi Subharshi My master, I shall follow you".
(Los Angeles, West District — Midnight.)
The house hadn't changed.
Sa elegant gates. Sa polished stone pathway. Sa soft, golden light spilling out through the windows, pretending this was a place of warmth.
But I knew better.
For seventeen years, I had lived inside that glow, suffocated by it. The world looked at our house and saw success. I had lived inside it and found only silence.
I stood at the gate, staring.
I wasn't trembling.
That surprised .
You'd think after everything—the betrayal, the abandonnt, the lies—I'd be shaking with rage. But there was nothing.
Just… cold.
The knife in my hand felt light. Almost too light for what it was about to carry.
"You've co far, Master," Allen's voice coiled inside my mind, calm, smooth, the voice of every dark thought I had ever buried. "Shall we go in?"
I didn't respond.
I pushed the gate open. It gave way without a sound. Like the house didn't care. Like it didn't even recognize .
I made my way to the front door. The lights inside were dim, cozy. To a passerby, it would look like a family getting ready for bed. Safe. Content.
But I knew the truth.
The door was locked. Of course, it was.
I didn't knock.
One sharp strike with the butt of the knife cracked the latch. The door swung open. No alarms. No barking dogs. Just empty silence.
Allen whispered, "No interruptions, as promised."
The hallway was suffocatingly familiar. Sa frad photos of my little brother smiling, winning awards, standing between them like a trophy. No photos of .
I walked through the house like a ghost revisiting his murder scene. The floor creaked under my steps, but no one stirred.
I climbed the staircase slowly, deliberately. Each step was a countdown.
At the top of the stairs was their bedroom.
I stopped in front of it.
Raised my hand.
Knocked.
Softly.
The door clicked. Slowly, it opened. My father stood there, his face puffy from sleep, his hair disheveled. He squinted at in the half-light, annoyed, confused.
Then his eyes found the knife.
And then… my face.
"A-Aaron…?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Is it really you? Your face… how did you… heal?"
That word. Heal.
I smiled.
It wasn't warm.
"I made a contract with a demon," I said, though we both knew the truth. The contract wasn't with a demon. It was with my own hatred.
Behind , Allen's presence lingered. He wasn't a figure in the shadows. He was in my breath. My heartbeat. My clenched fists.
"Master," Allen's voice murmured, velvet and cruel, "shall I take care of their corpses once you're finished?"
My father's face drained of color. He staggered back, shaking his head.
"What the hell are you talking about? Are you insane?!"
Footsteps rustled behind him. My mother's voice floated out, still drowsy.
"Honey, what's wrong? Why are you—"
She appeared beside him, hair tangled, robe half-tied.
Her eyes t mine.
And ti stopped.
She gasped. Covered her mouth with her hand. Tears sprang instantly, unfiltered.
"Aaron…? Is that you? When did you get better? What happened to you…?"
My father pointed at , his voice a brittle whisper. "He's here to kill us."
The words hung in the air.
My mother flinched, like she'd been slapped. "Kill us? Aaron… why? We never did anything wrong to you…"
There it was.
The crack.
The fracture.
Wrong.
I could feel my grip tighten around the knife. My whole body tensed as if trying to hold back an earthquake.
They didn't know.
They truly didn't know.
Or maybe they did. Maybe they had just chosen to forget.
"I begged," I said quietly. "I begged you to open the door. I told you my face was healed. I stood outside for hours. You never answered."
They stared at , stunned. Speechless.
"You told the world I was dead," I continued. "You smiled for caras. You paraded my brother around like nothing happened. Like I was never born."
My mother's lips trembled. "Aaron, we… we didn't know how to—"
"You didn't know how to deal with , right?" I snapped. "So you buried . Easier that way."
Allen's voice curled into my ear.
"They'll never understand, Master. But they'll understand pain. Give them that."
For a mont, I saw it—the future Allen wanted. The blade cutting through apologies. Blood staining these pristine floors. My parents' faces twisted in terror.
But I didn't move.
Because sowhere, buried under all the rage and hurt, was sothing worse than anger.
I wanted them to fall to their knees.
I wanted them to look in the eye and say it.
"We were wrong."
But they wouldn't.
They never would.
I realized then—this wasn't about the knife.
It wasn't even about revenge.
It was about forcing them to see the monster they created.
No more hiding.
No more lies.
The first stab wasn't supposed to happen.
One mont, I was standing there, holding the knife like it was part of . The next, it was buried deep in my father's chest. The sound it made was soft, almost gentle. Like slicing into rotten fruit.
He gasped. A short, sharp intake of breath, his eyes wide with shock more than pain.
And I pulled the knife out.
Stabbed him again.
And again.
My hand moved faster than my mind could catch up. The blade rose and fell, rose and fell. Each thrust was a wordless scream.
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
Thunder rolled outside, heavy and mournful, as if the sky itself disapproved of what I was doing. Lightning lit up the room in flashes, throwing my father's face into a twisted mask of terror.
He collapsed to his knees.
Clawing at my leg.
"Aaron…" he croaked. His voice was a wet rattle. "Son… don't… don't do this…"
Son?
That word hit harder than the knife ever could.
Now he rembered I was his son.
Now—when his blood stained my hands and the carpet beneath us.
Behind , Allen's laughter echoed faintly. I didn't need to see him. I could feel his grin. He wasn't a man in the shadows anymore. He was a voice. A whisper curling around my thoughts.
"You've co this far, Aaron. Don't stop now."
And I didn't.
I turned.
My mother stood frozen in the beside bed, her face pale, hands trembling as they clutched her silk robe. Her lips parted in a silent, horrified gasp.
Her eyes weren't looking at my father.
They were locked on .
On the monster she had ignored into existence.
"Aaron…?" she whispered, as if saying my na might undo what she was seeing. "What happened to you? Why… why are you doing this?"
Her voice cracked.
She still didn't get it.
None of them did.
I stepped toward her.
She didn't move.
And I drove the knife into her skull. Clean. Precise. Surgical.
She dropped instantly, collapsing beside my father's twitching body.
The room went still.
No more begging.
No more lies.
Just silence. This chapter's true source is * (*).
And blood.
I stood over them, staring at my hands. They were shaking, but not from regret. It was exhaustion. Years of holding this weight, this rage, this emptiness. My knees felt weak, but I refused to fall. I had fallen enough tis in this house.
Allen's voice slithered back in.
"Permission, Master. I need it."
I didn't look at him. "Permission for what?"
"To take them," he said softly. "Their worth, their legacy, their souls… My generals are waiting."
I don't rember saying yes.
But Allen took it as a yes.
Or maybe silence was all he ever needed.
He stepped over their bodies with a reverence that felt more insulting than anything else. He didn't drag them away. He didn't chant or summon anything. He just… claid them.
As if their deaths were paynt for a debt that had been long overdue.
And then, just like that, he was gone.
No dramatic exit.
No magic.
Just absence.
I stood alone in that house. The walls seed smaller now. The ceilings lower. Everything felt suffocating.
But there was still one door left.
My brother's room.
I walked toward it slowly, the blood dripping from the knife leaving a trail behind . I half-hoped he'd be there. Half-feared it.
Maybe he could stop .
Maybe he could remind of the person I used to be.
But when I opened the door—nothing.
Empty.
No bed. No clothes. No photographs. It was as if he had never existed.
Or maybe… he had always known I'd co.
I never saw him again.
The Descent
The days that followed blurred into each other. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I just moved, chanically, as if soone else was piloting my body.
Allen was no longer a whisper. He was my reflection.
I beca everything the world wanted to be.
A celebrity.
A headline.
The directors who once slamd doors in my face now begged to star in their films. The producers who laughed at my scars now lined up to shake my hand.
I took their offers.
Allen showed how to smile for the caras, how to play the ga.
I slept with won I didn't even know. Not because I wanted them—but because it filled the void for a few hours. Afterward, I'd stare at the ceiling, empty, while Allen's voice mocked them in my head.
"Another one conquered, Master. Does it feel good? No? Then let's try again."
I burned down offices of those who mocked . Watched the flas climb skyward while photographers snapped photos like I was a hero.
"Rebel Star!" the headlines cheered.
"Hollywood's New Bad Boy!"
They called a legend.
But they didn't know.
Didn't know I wasn't alive.
I was a puppet—dancing while Allen pulled the strings.
And I let him.
Because power was the only thing left that didn't leave .
I had everything.
Fa.
Money.
Won.
But nothing was mine.
Nothing filled the silence.
And deep down, I knew…
Everything ends.
Even madness.
I rember…
I said everything.
The truth. The pain. The madness.
My face felt cold.
So cold.
I could feel my heartbeat… slowing…
Then stopping.
So this is my end.
I shouldn't have listened to the demon.
I shouldn't have made that deal.
But regret cos too late, doesn't it?
Still…
If there is a next life—
I hope I can live a good one.
A peaceful one.
no more handso guy,.
No Fa.
No Money.
Just freedom… and maybe, forgiveness.
To be continue.
Author's Note:
I did so research on real-life stories and beliefs about demon contracts. In many of these stories, people who give their soul to a demon often end up being controlled by it. The demon slowly pushes them to commit more and more sins. The more they sin, the stronger the demon's control becos.
So articles and writings suggest that demons do this to gather power, and their true goal is to free other demons trapped in hell so they can rise again and fight against heaven.
Even though we don't know how true these stories are, the idea itself is very interesting—and it fits perfectly with the the of this novel.
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