It started as a joke.
I had been drinking with friends, the kind of half-drunk, half-bored night where someone suggested we try “summoning the Devil.” We lit candles, drew stupid little circles, whispered Latin we didn’t even understand. Everyone laughed when nothing happened.
But I didn’t laugh.
Because when I got home that night, something followed me.
The air in my bedroom felt heavy, the shadows darker than usual. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, whispering the words I remembered from earlier. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I wanted proof. Maybe I wanted something dangerous.
“I’d sell my soul,” I murmured, pressing my lips close to the glass. “For something real. For someone who could ruin me.”
The candle on my nightstand blew out.
I froze.
And then—h
