(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 met. He knew how to whisper poison into your ears and make it taste like honey.

There were moments I nearly gave in. He kept urging me to kill my parents, again and again. His voice never left me, always circling like a vulture, waiting for the moment I'd break.

But I didn't. Somehow, I managed to hold myself back.

Maybe it was because I hadn't committed any sin yet. Maybe that's what gave me 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 me. That would've been too easy. Instead, he waited—planning something far more cruel.

When I turned seventeen, my father kicked me 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 me now. But they never opened the door.

It was as if I had become invisible.

Homeless. 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 me.

Allen—my demon—watched it all silently.

He told me if I killed my parents, everything would be restored. He had healed my face, but that wasn't enough. Not in the media 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 me sympathy.

My time and money was running out. Poverty was no longer knocking—it was devouring me.

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 me die.

Every time I was on the brink, he'd save me. Exactly when I was about to draw my last breath, he'd pull me back. Every night, he whispered in my ears. He filled me with taunts, with bitter memories, 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 me like a ghost. Cleaning floors. Moving crates. Waiting tables. Invisible. Forgettable.

Then one day, while walking past a street corner, something 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 someone had reached into my chest and hollowed me 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 cameras. 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 me at first. It floated there, like background noise. Until the anchor, caught off guard, repeated it.

"Dead?"

That's when it cracked.

I screamed.

Right there. Middle of the street. Cars rushing past, people walking around me, 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 came 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 me.

They had already buried me—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.

Same elegant gates. Same polished stone pathway. Same 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 me.

You'd think after everything—the betrayal, the abandonment, 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 come 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 me.

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. Same framed photos of my little brother smiling, winning awards, standing between them like a trophy. No photos of me.

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 me 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 me, 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 met mine.

And time 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 me, 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 me, stunned. Speechless.

"You told the world I was dead," I continued. "You smiled for cameras. 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 me, right?" I snapped. "So you buried me. 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 moment, 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 somewhere, buried under all the rage and hurt, was something worse than anger.

I wanted them to fall to their knees.

I wanted them to look me 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 moment, I was standing there, holding the knife like it was part of me. 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 me harder than the knife ever could.

Now he remembered I was his son.

Now—when his blood stained my hands and the carpet beneath us.

Behind me, 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 come 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 me.

On the monster she had ignored into existence.

"Aaron…?" she whispered, as if saying my name 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 times 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 remember 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… claimed them.

As if their deaths were payment 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 seemed 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 me. I half-hoped he'd be there. Half-feared it.

Maybe he could stop me.

Maybe he could remind me 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 come.

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, mechanically, as if someone else was piloting my body.

Allen was no longer a whisper. He was my reflection.

I became everything the world wanted me to be.

A celebrity.

A headline.

The directors who once slammed doors in my face now begged me 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 me how to smile for the cameras, how to play the game.

I slept with women 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 me. Watched the flames climb skyward while photographers snapped photos like I was a hero.

"Rebel Star!" the headlines cheered.

"Hollywood's New Bad Boy!"

They called me 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 me.

I had everything.

Fame.

Money.

Women.

But nothing was mine.

Nothing filled the silence.

And deep down, I knew…

Everything ends.

Even madness.

I remember…

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 comes 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 handsome guy,.

No Fame.

No Money.

Just freedom… and maybe, forgiveness.

To be continue.

Author's Note:

I did some 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 becomes.

Some 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 theme of this novel.