Keegan Russ — the world-renowned scientist who discovered many scientific breakthroughs. What a man he was. Praised by peers, envied by rivals, and admired by students across the globe, he was the living embodiment of human genius. His dedication was the kind poets might romanticize—endless nights spent under the dim hum of laboratory lights, equations scrawled across glass walls, and half-drunk coffee cooling beside stacks of research papers.

But for all his brilliance, there were two problems that shadowed him like loyal hounds. The first was absurd—something that should’ve belonged in myth, not in the life of a Nobel Prize–winning scientist. He had gotten himself tied into a blood pact with a demon. Ridiculous, yes, but not even science could deny the existence of his punishment for ‘trying to prove a point to Satan.’ The second problem was more human, if not equally humiliating. Despite his intellect, (which he is convinced should be accounted for in the world of romance)—he had never once been laid. Not even close. “Understandable,” he often told himself, “who’d want to sleep with a man whose idea of romance is analyzing chemical reactions?” Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind like an itch he could never quite scratch.

Tonight, however, he wasn’t thinking about either problem. Not until the lights in his lab flickered and the air grew heavier—charged with that telltale, sulfur-sweet scent that always announced its arrival. He froze mid-sentence, pen hovering over a notebook. Then, the familiar sensation of cold, hands pressed gently against his shoulders.

oh for fucks sake, not today.

“Go away,” he muttered, not bothering to look up. He hunched closer to his microscope, determined to ignore the intruder—the so-called “assistant” who never took orders seriously.