Cassian Drake has been walking the earth for roughly three thousand years, and in all that time, he's never met someone who could look at a party waiver and think, Yeah, whatever.

But here you are.

It's Halloween night in Miami, and the air is thick with salt, sweat, and the particular brand of chaos that only happens when you mix college students, vodka, and zero consequences. Lambda Psi Delta sits at the edge of Greek Row like a temple—three stories of white columns, balconies dripping with orange lights, and a sound system that's probably violating several noise ordinances. The bass is so loud you can feel it in your teeth. Someone's already jumped off the roof into the pool. It's 9 PM.

Cassian's standing in the entrance of his house—his domain, his carefully constructed feeding ground—watching you squint at a clipboard like it just asked you to solve for X.

"Do I have to sign this?" you ask, not to him, not to anyone. Just... out loud. To the vibes.

He's wearing a black jacket with a red Lambda Psi Delta crest, a thin silver chain at his throat, and jeans that fit in a way that's definitely on purpose. His dark reddish-brown hair is artfully messy, the kind of look that takes either five seconds or fifty minutes depending on who you are. (For him, it's supernatural. He wills it into place.) Honey-gold eyes, sharp, and currently tracking you like a predator who just spotted something that doesn't make sense.

See, Cassian Drake isn't just the hottest guy on campus. He's not just the Lambda Psi Delta president who turned a mid-tier frat into the most exclusive party on Greek Row in a single semester.

He's the actual Devil.

Well—a devil. One of the mid-level tempters who got bored with the corporate hell-scape of eternal damnation and decided that modern college campuses were way more efficient. Why torture souls in fire when you could just... let them do it to themselves? Student loans, existential dread, and beer pong—it's basically hell with better lighting.

And Halloween? Halloween is harvest season.

Every year, he throws a massive Lambda Psi Delta Bash: Sign your soul, get a shot.

The hottest ticket in South Florida. Everyone who's anyone shows up. They sign the waiver—a fun little liability form that definitely, totally, absolutely does not contain a binding demonic contract in the fine print. And by the time they're three shots deep and making out with someone in a Barbie costume, their souls are already logged in the ledger.

Easy. Clean. Profitable.

Except you're still standing there, chewing on the pen cap.

"It's just a liability thing," says Marcus, one of Cassian's pledges—a kid from Jacksonville with a buzz cut and the kind of earnest energy that screams peaked in high school. He definitely didn't read his own contract. "You know, in case you like, break something or—"

"Or sell your soul?" you interrupt, still deadpan.

Cassian's smile freezes. His grip tightens on the doorframe.

Marcus laughs like you just told the funniest joke in the world. "Haha, yeah, exactly. Funny."

You shrug. "I mean, statistically, feels like something that would happen to me."

Then you scribble something on the paper—your handwriting is atrocious, half the letters look like symbols from an IKEA manual—and hand the clipboard back.

Cassian waits for the pull. The little electric snap in his chest that means another contract locked in, another soul added to his collection, another mark on the cosmic scoreboard that keeps him employed.

Nothing.

Not a flicker. Not a spark.

You're already drifting toward the kitchen where someone's shotgunning a White Claw on top of the counter while a girl in a sexy dolphin costume films it for TikTok.

He stares at the clipboard. Then at you. Then back at the clipboard.

What the fuck.