Luke did not remember the walk home clearly.
Fragments lingered—broken, jagged pieces of sound and sensation stitched together by anger. The slam of lockers. The echo of laughter that cut deeper than any blade. The dull ache radiating through his ribs where Brandon's fist had connected. The sharp sting across his cheek, still burning faintly where skin had split under impact.
But none of it mattered.
Not anymore.
The front door burst open with a force that rattled the frame, the sound reverberating through the quiet house like a gunshot. Luke stepped inside, his breathing uneven, shoulders tense, his backpack hanging loosely from one arm as though even its weight had become unbearable. The hallway lights flickered slightly as the door slammed shut behind him, sealing him within the suffocating stillness of home.
Silence greeted him.
Warm.
Ordinary.
Unaware.
It felt wrong.
His shoes scraped faintly against the wooden floor as he moved forward, each step heavier than the last. His knuckles throbbed—raw, bruised, split open in places where his desperate attempt to fight back had amounted to nothing more than a futile act of defiance. Blood had dried along his skin in thin, cracked lines, staining his fingers a dull crimson.
His hands curled slowly into fists again.
Too weak.
Always too weak.
The memory surged forward uninvited—Brandon's grin, wide and merciless, as he had driven Luke back into the lockers, the metal slamming against his spine with a hollow clang. The way the others had laughed. Not just Brandon. Not just his friends.
Everyone.
Watching.
Enjoying.
As if Luke existed for nothing more than their entertainment.
His breath hitched.
Then steadied.
Then deepened.
Something shifted.
Not outwardly.
Not visibly.
But inside—
Something fractured.
His bedroom door closed softly behind him, a stark contrast to the violence with which he had entered the house. The dim light of the room cast long shadows along the walls, stretching and bending in unnatural shapes as the evening darkened outside. The air felt heavier here, thicker, as though the walls themselves had absorbed every moment of pain he had endured within them.
Luke sat down on the edge of his bed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His head lowered, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes, concealing the storm building beneath. His breathing began to slow, each inhale deeper than the last, each exhale heavier, more controlled.
No more.
The thought surfaced quietly.
But it did not fade.
It repeated.
No more.
He had begged before.
Prayed.
Cried into the emptiness, hoping something—anything—would answer him. That someone would hear. That something would change.
Nothing ever did.
The world did not care.
God did not answer.
And the strong—
The strong thrived.
His fingers tightened against his knees, nails pressing into fabric, into skin beneath, grounding him in the rising intensity of his own thoughts.
If no one would save him—
Then he would save himself.
At any cost.
"Come to me…"
The words slipped from his lips almost without intention, barely more than a whisper, yet they carried a weight that seemed to distort the space around him.
The shadows shifted.
Subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
"…Prince of Darkness…"
His voice steadied, losing its tremor, gaining something colder.
Something sharper.
"I summon you."
The air changed.
It wasn't immediate.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was undeniable.
The temperature dipped, just slightly at first, enough to send a faint shiver crawling along his spine. The silence deepened, thickening into something oppressive, something that pressed against his ears until even the smallest sound felt amplified.
"Give me your strength…"
The walls creaked.
"…Give me the power…"
The shadows stretched.
"…to destroy him."
Silence answered.
Long.
Unmoving.
Suffocating.
For a moment, doubt flickered.
Had he gone too far?
Was this nothing more than—
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Low.
A chuckle.
It slithered through the room like something alive, curling around the edges of his thoughts, sinking into the spaces between his breaths.
Luke froze.
The temperature dropped sharply now, the air turning cold enough to sting against his skin. The faint scent of sulfur crept into his senses, acrid and unmistakable.
The shadows moved again.
This time—
They did not stop.
They gathered.
Coiling.
Rising.
Breathing.
And from within them—
A voice emerged.
Deep.
Smooth.
Ancient.
"Are you willing… to give me total control of your soul, Luke?"
The words did not simply reach his ears.
They filled him.
Wrapped around his thoughts.
Pressed against his very being.
Luke's eyes lifted slowly, the hesitation that once lived within them now drowned beneath something far more powerful.
Desperation.
Rage.
Certainty.
"Yes."
The word came out instantly.
Without pause.
Without reconsideration.
"Yes! Give me all the strength I need to kill that bastard!"
The moment the words left him—
The darkness surged.
It did not consume him gently.
It invaded.
His body convulsed violently as something vast and incomprehensible forced its way into him, flooding through his veins like liquid fire. Every nerve ignited at once, pain and power merging into something indescribable, something that shattered the boundaries of human experience.
He gasped—
But no sound came out.
His vision fractured, colors bleeding into one another before collapsing into a void of black and red. His heart pounded, faster, harder, until it felt as though it might tear itself apart within his chest.
And yet—
Beneath the agony—
There was something else.
Strength.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Absolute.
His pupils expanded, swallowing the light, his body trembling under the weight of it before slowly—slowly—steadying.
Control.
It came naturally.
As though it had always been there.
Waiting.
Luke stood.
The movement was smooth.
Effortless.
He turned toward the mirror.
And for a moment—
He did not recognize what stared back.
Gone was the boy.
Gone was the weakness.
In his place stood something else entirely.
His hair, once unkempt, now fell in sleek, controlled strands, darker than before, almost absorbing the light around it. His posture had changed, his presence sharpened, refined into something precise, something dangerous.
And his eyes—
They no longer held fear.
Only certainty.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Cold.
Measured.
Satisfied.
With a single thought—
He vanished.
Brandon Hayes never saw it coming.
He lay sprawled across his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating his face as he scrolled aimlessly, his mind occupied with trivial distractions. The world outside his room did not exist to him. Consequences did not exist to him.
He was comfortable.
Untouchable.
Safe.
Then—
The temperature dropped.
His fingers paused mid-scroll.
A faint prickle crept along his skin.
Something wasn't right.
A shadow flickered across the wall.
He looked up.
Too late.
"Hello, Brandon."
The voice was calm.
Smooth.
Unfamiliar.
And yet—
Somehow—
Terrifying.
Brandon bolted upright, his phone slipping from his hand as his eyes locked onto the figure standing in the corner of his room.
"W-what the hell—?!"
Luke stepped forward.
Slowly.
Each movement deliberate.
Controlled.
"What the hell are you doing in my room, freak?!" Brandon snapped, forcing aggression into his voice as he reached for the baseball bat beside his bed.
Luke smiled.
It did not reach his eyes.
"Tonight," he said softly, "you'll learn what true fear feels like."
Brandon lunged.
He never stood a chance.
The moment he moved, an unseen force slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and pinning him violently against the wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs, his body locking in place as though held by invisible chains.
His eyes widened.
Panic set in.
"W-what the hell is this?!"
Luke approached, his gaze steady, unblinking.
"This," he said, his voice lowering, darkening, "is your reckoning."
His body shifted.
Bones cracked.
Flesh warped.
Horns tore through his skull, curving upward as his fingers elongated into clawed extensions. A tail lashed behind him, and in his hand, a trident formed from black fire, its edges pulsing with something alive.
Something hungry.
Brandon broke.
"P-please—!"
Luke tilted his head slightly.
"Now you beg?"
The trident moved.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
Screams filled the room.
Raw.
Desperate.
Unheard.
Until—
Silence.
Luke exhaled slowly.
And smiled.
When Satan emerged, peeling away from Luke like a shadow shedding its host, the room seemed to shrink beneath his presence.
"You have served well," the ancient being murmured.
Then he vanished.
And Luke—
Luke stood alone.
Changed.
Forever.
"Luke! Dinner's ready!"
The voice called from downstairs, warm, ordinary, untouched by the horror that had just unfolded.
Luke adjusted his sleeve.
Smiled.
And stepped forward.
"Coming, Mother."
He paused briefly in the doorway, glancing back at his reflection.
At what he had become.
"Oh, you look fancy, Luke. Is there anything you want to celebrate?" his mother asked, unaware.
Luke's smile deepened.
Cold.
Certain.
"Oh, there is, Mother," he said softly.
"From now on… we rise."
And somewhere—
Far beneath the surface of the world—
Something ancient stirred in approval.