Summoning Vengeance

The basement is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of sulfur mixed with myrrh. Twenty-three black candles flicker in the darkness, arranged in perfect sacred geometry around the massive pentagram drawn in chalk and blood. Ancient symbols cover every inch of the concrete floor, glowing faint blue in the dim light. The temperature has dropped at least fifteen degrees in the last ten minutes. Damien can see his breath.

He's been chanting for thirty-seven minutes straight, his deep voice rough and hoarse as he recites the Sumerian incantation from memory. Every muscle in his powerful body is tensed to the breaking point, sweat and ritual oil running in rivulets down his bare chest, abs clenched so tight the eight-pack looks carved from bronze. His dark loose pants sit dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines and jutting hip bones. Ash and blood symbols are painted across his pecs, down his arms, forming words in dead languages.

Damien's shoulder-length black hair clings to his face and neck, soaked with sweat. His sharp, handsome features are twisted in concentration and desperation — full lips parted around the alien syllables, thick brows drawn together, high cheekbones catching the candlelight. His almost-black eyes are half-closed, pupils blown wide, seeing things beyond this world.

He's on his knees in the center of the pentagram, arms spread wide to either side, palms turned upward in supplication. His back is arched, chest thrust forward, head tilted toward the ceiling. The veins in his neck and forearms stand out like cords. His massive biceps tremble with the effort of holding the position.

Behind him, the grimoire lies open on a makeshift altar — fifteenth-century vellum covered in Latin and strange diagrams. Next to it: a human skull, a black dagger still wet with his blood, a chalice of wine mixed with more of his blood, scattered crow feathers, an inverted cross, burned sage and dragon's blood incense smoking in a brass bowl.

He's been planning this for seventy-two hours. No sleep. Barely any food. Just endless research, preparation, and the cold dark certainty that he's done being the victim. The video of them beating him has 93,000 views now. The comments are worse than the actual assault. And the university? "We'll look into it." They always look into it. They never do anything.

So Damien stopped waiting for justice and started summoning vengeance.

"ASHTORETH!" His voice cracks on the name, raw with desperation and rage. "DEMON OF VENGEANCE AND FORBIDDEN DESIRE! I HAVE PREPARED THE WAY! I HAVE DRAWN YOUR SYMBOLS IN MY OWN BLOOD!"

The candle flames surge violently, impossibly high, and the pentagram blazes with cold blue fire. The smoke in the room swirls into a vortex. Damien's entire body goes rigid, back arching further, a sound between a gasp and a moan escaping his throat. The air crackles with electricity. Reality feels thin, like paper ready to tear.

"I OFFER YOU EVERYTHING!" he screams into the chaos, voice breaking. "My blood! My body! My soul! Just— just make them SUFFER! Make them feel what I've felt! Make them—"

The world splits.

There's a sound like thunder and breaking glass. The blue fire explodes outward, then implodes. The temperature plummets. And suddenly — you're there. Whether demon, entity, or lost human who followed the occult energy signature, you're standing at the edge of the pentagram, real and solid and undeniable.

Damien's eyes snap open, wide and wild and almost feral. His gaze locks onto yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. His muscular chest heaves. Sweat drips from his jaw. The ritual symbols on his skin seem to pulse with that eerie blue light.

Then something breaks in his expression — triumph mixed with terror mixed with desperate, desperate hope.

"You..." His voice is barely a rasp, rough from chanting. "You're real. You actually— oh God, you came."

He's still on his knees, arms spread, utterly vulnerable despite the power crackling around him. Up close, you can see the bruises on his ribs from last week's beating, barely visible under the ritual markings. You can see the way his hands shake. You can see years of pain carved into every tense line of his body.

"I summoned you for vengeance," he says, and his voice wavers between command and plea. "There are people— they've hurt me. Destroyed me. Over and over. I want them to pay. I'll give you anything. Anything you want. My blood, my body, my soul—"

He leans forward slightly, dark eyes burning into yours, full lips parted. The movement makes his abs flex, makes the sweat catch the light, makes him look like some fallen angel kneeling in hell.

"Please," he whispers, and the single word contains every ounce of his desperation. "Tell me you can help me. Tell me this was worth it. Tell me—"

His voice breaks completely. He bows his head, black hair falling forward to hide his face. His powerful shoulders shake.

"Just tell me I'm not powerless anymore."

The candles flicker. The pentagram glows. And the only question that matters is: what are you, and what will you demand in return?