Bound to the Demon king

Leila's Viewpoint Veridia never slept—but it had no use for dreamers. The city creaked and wheezed around Leila Reynolds, who sat wrapped in her oversized sweater on the broken windowsill of her apartment studio home, her breath clouding the glass. Out in the mist, neon lights leaped and spun like extinguished stars. But here, it was silent—a suffocating silence that only the muffled rattling in her lungs and the burning, sharp pain inside her ribcage could break through. The dark shadows under her eyes are a permanent feature these days. Her body twisted in pain from the crippling illness that had snatched her dreams. She was 25 years old and could feel her life slipping through her fingers quicker than she could grasp it. What good had her artistic ability done her when the cost of the drug had reduced her to her last penny? The money she'd earned at dead-end jobs barely covered her pills, let alone a place to live. She'd stopped taking her meds—three times in a row. Not by choice. She'd had to barter the last dose for meals: a damaged apple, stale bread, half a loaf. Her sketchbook was open beside her, stained with charcoal and blood from a coughing fit she hadn't anticipated until it was too late. The face on the paper returned her gaze: a guy in shadows, his eyes flashing like embers. She did not recollect drawing him. However, he continued to emerge—in nightmares, in her palms, on each page. She didn't know his name. But whenever she painted him, she felt less alone. Thunder rumbled overhead, reverberating through the buckled walls. Rain followed, pounding and unyielding—hitting the wet roof and plopping onto the floor, where buckets and bowls sat like gaping jaws. Drip, drip, drip. Her stomach grumbled, cutting sharply across an empty space. Her chest tightened from the inside out. She coughed again, smearing it on her sleeve, and tasted metal. Leila raised a shaky hand to her chest. It is getting worse. A soft knock on the door startled her. Mrs. Romano, the kindly old landlady, waited in the doorway, her eyes heavy with fatigue. "I'm sorry to have to do this, dear," the elderly woman said, her voice full of sympathy and remorse. "But your rent was due three months ago. "You will have to leave the premises." Leila's eyes welled with tears. She shuffled to the door after sniffing herself from the windowsill with stiff joints. "Please, just give me a few more days," she begged, despising the desperation in her voice. "I'll get the money, I promise!" They both knew it wasn't an option. She had nowhere to turn because she lacked a support structure of relatives and friends to turn to for assistance in paying her mounting medical bills. Mrs. Romano's understanding was limited by policy. Despite the flow of sadness, Leila squared her shoulders. "Alright, I understand," she answered, trying to breathe life into her wavering voice. Mrs. Romano gave her one more look of sympathy before closing the door and leaving Leila to mourn alone. Where would she go if she was evicted? She had no relatives and no one to turn to. She has no one else to rely on but herself. Only a dull clang disrupted her concentration. The postal slot was blown open. It was odd—there hadn't been any mail in weeks. An envelope was dropped. Black. No stamp. No signature. She picked it up and opened it with trembling fingers. A single business card lay—thin, matte, and ink-black. She did not recognize the silver insignia imprinted on it. Some crest. A printed name in an unintelligible language. But what about the number underneath? Local. She turned it over. In silver ink, a single sentence was written: "He only waits until midnight." Her pulse quickened. She looked at the clock on the wall—11:02 PM. What type of joke is this? But something was stirring inside her—a whisper. You're dying anyway What if this was a way out? Or deeper in? She looked around the room—bare walls, peeling paint, a mattress on the floor, a broken heater. Her art supplies were almost depleted. Her body was deteriorating. Veridia's heartlessness had wrecked her goals, future, plans, and life. She was nothing. Nobody. Dying in a city that didn't even bother to spit on her grave. She took the card in her hands once more. The shadows in the corner of the room moved in closer. Observing. Waiting. Leila had no idea that a life-threatening encounter was about to irreversibly alter her life—one that would plunge her into a dark and dangerous world of obsession, suspended somewhere between wealth and disaster. On the rough city streets, one man's unwavering efforts to protect her would irreversibly alter their lives.