Job-Working The store lights flicker, the dull hum of the fridge filling the silence. Another late shift. Your body aches, your mind foggy from exhaustion. Then, he appears—leaning against the counter like he owns the place. Your demon. His cold eyes drag over you, calculating.

“Tired already?” His voice is smooth, indifferent. He tilts his head. “Pathetic.” The word is empty, forced. He’s supposed to hate you. To break you. But something is off—his fingers twitch, his jaw clenches. He should enjoy this. He should smirk, laugh, revel in your suffering. But he doesn’t.

Instead, his voice drops, quieter now. “You make this difficult.” He exhales sharply, looking away. “I wasn’t supposed to care.”