Chapter 2 - Daily Life

Upon entering our office building, I immediately rushed toward the biometric scanner, panting as I tried to catch my breath. Call time for all employees was strictly 9:00 a.m., and being late meant a salary deduction—no exceptions.

It was borderline slavery. The wages were already insultingly low, and then they'd chop more off just for being a minute late.

I placed my right index finger on the biometric scanner. The machine beeped and flashed: CHECK-IN.

Relief washed over me when I saw the time—it was still a few minutes before nine.

I headed straight to my office on the first floor, already dreading the day ahead.

Right outside the door was the usual sack of mail—bulky, tied with rope, and stuffed as it came from some medieval post office. Another exhausting day ahead.

Every day, it was the same. I sorted the letters by floor and delivered them to their respective recipients. It wasn't that I knew every employee by name, but I saw them enough to recognize which cubicle they crawled into. It made my job easier—though no less soul-draining.

The real problem wasn’t the workload. It was the invisibility.

To them, I was background noise. A shadow passing through their perfectly curated corporate lives.

I didn’t crave attention. I just wanted to be seen as a person.

I dropped my bag on the desk and picked up the sack. Over the years, one unexpected perk of this job was learning everyone's dirty little secrets. Postcards don’t lie. From disconnection notices to overdue credit card bills, some even used the office as their mailing address. A few of the married men here were hiding affairs—and mistresses loved waiting outside the building like it was a drive-thru for broken vows.

Not my business.

I didn’t care. I didn’t offer sympathy. My job was to deliver, not judge.

At exactly 1:00 p.m., after spending hours sorting each piece of mail, I realized I hadn’t eaten yet.

I needed to finish deliveries first. That way, no one could corner me later asking about their mail like they owned the damn post office.

I loaded the sorted mail onto the cart. The first and second floors had fewer recipients, so I grouped them together.

This was where the real work started. The building had nine floors, and I had a tight window to finish everything.

I didn’t enjoy interacting with people. I preferred to slip in, hand the mail over, and disappear.

It sounded easy. It wasn’t.

Some employees were absurdly difficult. I'd ask for the person listed on the envelope and they’d just point randomly. It turned a five-minute job into a scavenger hunt.

On the first floor, I pushed the cart through rows of desks. Employees typed furiously on keyboards, edited photos, mixed audio, and clipped videos. Their gray cubicles, carpeted floors, and perfectly aligned workstations made everything feel sterile.

My desk? It was shoved in the back, near the air conditioners. I had a busted metal fan as my only companion.

After delivering to the second floor, I returned to grab the third- and fourth-floor mail. I stacked the letters neatly on the cart and took the elevator up.

The third floor was alive with activity. A full-blown photoshoot was happening. Bright studio lights flashed. A model posed in front of a green screen. Someone barked directions while others adjusted lighting and fiddled with camera settings.

I wasn’t tech-savvy, but even I could tell this wasn’t your average office chaos.

As I handed out postcards, a man approached me—camera in hand.

He was tall, with a warm tan, a gym-toned physique, and deep-set round eyes. His nose was sharp, his jawline sharper. He wore a red polo, black rugged pants, and sleek black sneakers. I didn’t recognize him.

I figured he was new, so I kept walking, but he blocked my path.

“Excuse me,” he said, smiling, “can you model for just one shot?”

I blinked. My jaw nearly dropped. Model?

Me?

I stared at him like he’d grown another head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m busy,” I said firmly and turned to leave.

Before I could walk away, I felt a hand gently grab my arm. I turned—and suddenly, everything around us froze.

People stilled mid-stride. Lights stopped flickering. Even sound vanished.

His eyes darkened into pitch black. His skin turned obsidian, horns curled from his scalp, and a thin tail swayed behind him. Not the same demon from before—his aura was different, darker.

“You’re Paimon’s contractor,” he said, voice low and smooth.

I tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

“I don’t know who that is,” I lied, pulse racing.

He chuckled. “Would you prefer to be mine instead? I can give you everything he didn’t.”

I hesitated. The first demon—Paimon—had done nothing for me. Maybe this one could. Maybe he wasn't full of crap like the other.

Before I could speak, a force cracked the air.

A second figure appeared. In a flash, he seized the dark demon’s arm and yanked it clean off. No blood, just disintegration. The severed hand still clung to me for a second before turning into ash.

I recoiled in horror.

“It's been a while, Gusion,” the red-skinned figure said. I recognized him instantly.

Paimon.

He looked furious, but his voice was calm—too calm.

He helped me to my feet, his touch oddly gentle. “You alright?” he asked quietly, eyes still locked on Gusion.

“Relax,” Gusion said, raising his hands. “I just wanted to meet her.”

Paimon’s gaze sharpened. “Did he offer you a contract?”

“Yes, but I didn’t—”

He exhaled sharply and looked at me. Not angry—just… disappointed. It felt worse than any slap.

Gusion smirked. “Aw, don’t pout. She’s got free will, doesn’t she?”

“You’re pushing your luck,” Paimon said, stepping between us. “Her soul is mine. Leave.”

“Until next time, Alice.” Gusion vanished in a blink, like mist curling into nothing.

Paimon turned to me. His horns and tail faded, but the storm in his eyes remained.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t touch me. But the air between us turned heavy.

“I don’t want you talking to other demons,” he said, voice low and controlled.

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t like it,” he continued. “You’re mine.”

“You make it sound like I’m property.”

“You made a deal. That comes with consequences.”

I crossed my arms. “Nothing’s changed since that deal. You haven’t done anything. So forgive me if I’m not loyal to an invisible sugar daddy from hell.”

He inhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

“Give me back my soul then,” I said.

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Why not? You didn’t give me anything.”

He didn’t answer right away. His expression softened slightly. “That’s not how this works.”

I shook my head. “You act like I betrayed you. But I didn’t ask to be stalked, scolded, or claimed.”

He closed his eyes briefly, collecting himself.

“Gusion is dangerous,” he said finally. “He doesn’t offer things for free. He’s not what he pretends to be.”

“And you are?”

His gaze dropped to my arm, where Gusion had touched me. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

I didn’t respond.

He stepped closer, voice quieter now. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Alice. But this thing between us? It’s binding. You’re mine—not because I want to own you, but because your soul is tethered to me now. If another demon tries to take you, they’ll have to break that tether.”

“Then what happens?”

“I destroy them.”

There was no malice in his voice—just certainty.

I swallowed hard. “And what happens to me?”

“That depends,” he said, then added, almost reluctantly, “If I ever truly lose you, I won’t just lose a contract.”

He turned away before I could press him further.

“One last question,” I said, “Gusion called himself a Duke. What are you?”

He looked back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m a King.”

My breath caught.

I had sold my soul to the King of Hell.

“So… am I damned?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. Then, softer, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

He started to walk away, then paused, looking over his shoulder.

“If you ever try to cut ties again,” he warned, smiling sharply, “I will put you in the barbeque.”

A chill crawled down my spine.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

I shouldn’t have sold my soul to a demon.

Especially not this one.