The morning light struggled to break through the thick clouds hanging over the city. Police sirens wailed in the distance, their blaring sound a constant reminder of the chaos that had unfolded just hours before. The air was thick with tension, a haunting smell of decay lingering over the scene. The bar, once a haven for those seeking solace in the dim glow of neon lights, was now a crime scene. Its walls were coated with the remnants of violence—dark stains that would never fade.
The area was sealed off, a line of yellow tape encircling the bar as officers moved in and out, their faces grim. Reporters, their cameras flashing, were already swarming the perimeter, trying to catch every detail of the macabre scene. Among the chaos, one reporter stood out. Arthur Brown, known for his eerie fascination with the supernatural, had pushed his way through the crowd. His eyes narrowed, scanning the crime scene with the kind of look that suggested he already knew more than he should. His mind was racing, connecting dots others couldn't see.
"How could so many bodies decay so quickly?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the noise. He stared at the remains of the bar's patrons, their lifeless forms now mere husks of what they once were. "This isn't just murder... It's something else. Something darker. He muttered to himself, "It's not human. No man could cause bodies to rot like that... it has to be a demon... or worse, the devil himself."
Nearby reporters overheard him and laughed mockingly.
"Arthur, you and your supernatural nonsense again?" one jeered.
"Yeah, maybe the boogeyman did it!" another chimed in, drawing chuckles from the group.
Despite the ridicule he often faced from his colleagues, Arthur was convinced of one thing: this was no ordinary crime scene. This had all the marks of something supernatural. Demonic, even. But he kept the thought to himself, knowing how the others would react.
The air grew heavier as Steven arrived at the scene, his motorcycle pulling to a slow stop near the police barricade. The sight of flashing lights and the gathering crowd felt all too familiar. He couldn't help but wonder how many more of these scenes would be part of his life before it was over. His eyes shifted, scanning the area, trying to make sense of what had happened here.
As he walked past the crowd, his gaze locked onto Arthur Brown. The journalist was standing off to the side, scribbling notes in his pad. Steven's gut tightened when he saw the man's obsession with the words "devil" and "demon" in his notes. Arthur had always been fascinated by things most people dared not think about, let alone speak of.
"Do you know anything about this?" Arthur's voice was low but eager as he approached Steven.
Steven's heart skipped a beat. "I don't know," he replied quickly, his voice steady but strained. The word "devil" triggered something deep inside him, a whisper from the past. The caretaker's warning echoed in his mind—his uncle's words, the promise of revenge. But Steven couldn't afford to get tangled in the web Arthur was weaving. Not now.
Arthur stared at him, searching for any sign of recognition, any hint that Steven knew more than he let on. "But you must know something. This... this is beyond normal. These bodies... they decayed, they rotted from the inside out. It's like they were touched by something—something dark."
Steven's hand clenched into a fist at his side. He didn't know what this was, but he felt it creeping closer. He felt the weight of the pact pressing down on him, the fiery hunger inside him threatening to emerge. He couldn't let this journalist pull him deeper into the abyss.
With a small shake of his head, Steven turned, walking away. "I don't know," he said again, his voice carrying a cold finality. "And I don't want to."
Arthur watched him go, his gaze lingering on Steven's retreating form. Something about the way he had spoken—the unease in his eyes—told him there was more to this man than he was letting on. But it was too late. Steven had already vanished into the crowd, leaving Arthur to wrestle with his own suspicions and questions.
As Steven disappeared into the distance, the lingering chill in the air seemed to intensify. Something had begun here. Something dark. And it was just the beginning.
***
Near Steven's garage, A bus screeched to a halt, its dusty wheels leaving a trail of
dirt when it came to a stop on the side of the road. Jim Ward stood up, stretching his legs as the doors hissed open. He had just arrived from Chicago after a six-month stint for some business, but all he could think about was seeing his best friend, Steven. It had been too long, and there was a certain excitement that bubbled up inside him as he stepped off the bus and into the cool morning air.
Chicago had been good to him. He'd made some money, sharpened his skills, but something about the small town where he and Steven had grown up always called him back. He felt like he'd left something behind, something that needed to be put right. The hum of the city had been loud in his ears for six months, but now, as he stood on the familiar street outside Steven's house, the silence was almost comforting. He turned down the street, each step feeling like it belonged to a life he hadn't fully lived in the past half-year.
Jim arrived at Steven's house, the same one they'd spent countless hours in during their younger days—sitting on the porch, fixing bikes, talking about life. He didn't hesitate. He walked up the steps and knocked on the door, but when there was no answer, he knocked louder, calling out Steven's name.
"Steven? Hey, man, open up! It's Jim!"
No answer.
Jim frowned, furrowing his brow. He hadn't been expecting Steven to be gone, but something didn't feel right. He tried the door handle. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Raising an eyebrow, he pushed the door open with a creak. He stepped inside, calling out again. "Steven?"
The house was eerily quiet. Jim's eyes darted around the room. The place looked the same—old posters of their favorite bands, the guitar resting in the corner, a few tools scattered on the coffee table—but there was something off about it. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He moved further in, his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards as he wandered through the hall.
"Steven?" Jim called one last time.
Just then, from the kitchen, a voice answered back, soft but clear.
"Jim?"
Jim stopped dead in his tracks. His face broke into a grin as he turned to see Kristina standing at the threshold, her eyes wide as she saw him. She was leaning against the doorframe, a cup of coffee in hand, wearing a knowing smile. She looked as if she'd just stepped out of a long, exhausting day, but there was a spark in her eyes, a kind of warmth that Jim remembered from all their years of friendship.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the infamous Jim Ward. Haven't seen you in forever," Kristina said, taking a sip from her coffee cup.
Jim's grin only widened. "I know, I know. I was off doing all this big-time business stuff in Chicago. You know, being important and all that," he joked, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as if he hadn't just been gone for six months.
Kristina raised an eyebrow and laughed. "Important, huh? I bet that was one exciting business trip. So, what's the real reason you're back?" She crossed her arms, smirking as if she already knew the answer....