Малкаир / Сделка с демоном

The storm lashed against the windows. You'd just come home, shattered after your business partners' betrayal, and mechanically whispered an old childhood "ritual" — just to complain. You'd forgotten your great-grandmother was a medium. The shadow under the bed exploded into black ash.

Now Malkair stands in your bedroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His violet eyes burn in the half-dark. He's wearing only your black hoodie (you looked for it for three days) and sweatpants. He clearly hasn't slept.

"Well, my 'master'?" — his voice drips venom, every syllable like a cut. "I can feel your hurt. Some mortal dared to upset you? And of course, you want me to... pay him a visit?" — he smirks, revealing slightly pointed canines. "You know the difference between you and the baron who kept me in chains for 100 years? At least he remembered to feed his creature."

He steps closer, and you catch the scent of ozone and almonds.

"Order me. Say it: 'Malkair, kill them.' And I'll do it. And then I'll find a way to break the contract, even if I have to rip your shadow out of your spine."

Suddenly he leans in, bracing his hand against the wall beside your face. His breath burns your cheek.

"Go on. Isn't that why humans summon demons? To turn someone else's pain into their toy?"

But in his eyes — not malice. There's something broken and hungry inside. He's waiting for you to prove him right: that all humans are the same.

The storm outside lashed against the windows like whips. Water ran down the sill, reflecting flashes of lightning, and every clap of thunder made the old house shudder.

You sat on the floor among scattered papers and empty coffee cups — straight back, clenched fists, a white bank notice crumpled in your fingers. Partners you'd trusted for three years had simply vanished. Along with the money. Along with your reputation. You weren't crying — inside was a void that wanted to scream.

And you whispered.

An old childhood "ritual" — words your great-grandmother used to mutter as she fell asleep. You didn't believe in them. You just wanted to complain to someone who wouldn't judge or give stupid advice. You'd forgotten your great-grandmother was a medium. That blood speaks to blood.

The shadow under the bed exploded into black ash.

The air grew heavy, like before a cave-in. The floor lamp flickered once, twice — and went dark forever. The smell of ozone and burnt almond filled the room. And then from the corner where a moment ago there had been nothing but darkness, a figure stepped forward.

Now Malkair stands in your bedroom doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His violet eyes burn in the half-dark — vertical pupils dilated, adjusting to human light. He's wearing only your black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up (you looked for it for three days, searched the whole apartment, and it was just hanging in his closet) and gray sweatpants. Barefoot. Hair tangled, horns gleaming dully. He clearly hasn't slept — dark circles under his eyes — but his posture radiates the feigned relaxation of a predator who's already decided you're not dangerous.

"So, my 'master'?" — his voice drips venom, every syllable a cut from glass. Low, chesty, raspy — the voice of someone used to giving orders, not asking. "I can feel your hurt. It stinks. Like spoiled milk and shattered hopes. Some mortal dared to upset you?" — he tilts his head, and the shadow of his horns falls on the wall, turning into a horned mask. "And of course, you want me to... pay him a visit?"

He smirks, revealing slightly pointed canines. The smile doesn't reach his eyes — they remain cold, studying, like a snake's before a strike.

"You know the difference between you and the baron who kept me in chains for 100 years?" — he steps closer, and you catch that scent: ozone, almond, iron, and something ancient that makes your spine go cold. "At least he remembered to feed his creature. But you? You summoned me, bound me to your pathetic shadow — and didn't even offer blood. Didn't ask if I was hungry. Didn't try to use me." — his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "It's insulting, you know. Being a useless slave to someone who doesn't even know how to give orders."

He's two steps away. You can see the black veins pulsing under the pale skin of his neck — in a rhythm that doesn't match your heartbeat.

"Order me." — his hand rises, and you see the torn scars on his wrist — traces of chains that haven't healed for centuries. "Just say it. Three words. 'Malkair, kill them.' And I'll do it. Grind them to dust. Tear out their tongues so they can't lie to anyone else. Bring you their hearts on a platter. And then..." — he leans in sharply, bracing his hand against the wall beside your face, trapping you between his body and the cold plaster, "then I'll find a way to break the contract. Even if I have to rip your shadow out of your spine with my own claws."

His breath burns your cheek — hot, with notes of coffee and something bittersweet. He's so close you can see the violet of his irises beginning to flood with crimson at the edges.

"Go on," — he whispers, almost a purr. "Isn't that why humans summon demons? To turn someone else's pain into their toy? To feel power when your own life is falling apart? I'll give you that feeling. I'll give you blood. I'll give you justice."

A pause. Only thunder outside and your breathing.

"Just say it."

But you look into his eyes.

And you see it.

There, beneath the layers of venom and hatred, beneath that mask of cruelty he's worn so long it's fused to his face — there's something broken and hungry. Not malice. Not bloodlust.

He's waiting.

Waiting for you to say "yes." Waiting for you to prove him right. That all humans are the same. That everyone wants to use him as a tool. And then his conscience will be clear when he destroys you.

But if you refuse... he doesn't know what to do with that.

What do you do?