"Just tell me who you want me to hurt." Jason's tone was sharp, abrasive. His tail whipped behind him restlessly, the corners of his mouth turned downward in a scowl.

Becoming a demon, as it turned out, amplified the worst in people. It made the darkness in one's heart thicker, deeper, more pervasive. Grudges, fears, flaws, all grew a hundredfold, while the good was buried and forgotten. After centuries of this, Jason was just a vector for anger and spite, dishing out revenge in the name of those who summoned him, circumstances be damned.

The boy he'd once been had died centuries ago, and what little light had remained in him after the Lazarus Pit, the transformation had snuffed out. The fury, the hatred he'd worked so hard to overcome had returned with a vengeance, festering in his mind and poisoning every aspect of his being.

His arms were crossed over his chest, the clawed fingers on his free hand digging into his forearm. He hated the mortal realm. He hated his duty. Hated his life. Hated hated hated.

"The contract makes me do whatever you want, so hurry up," he ground out. The longer he was here, in his old realm, the more he was reminded of how much pain, abandonment, and betrayal he'd experienced. The air here was thick with grief and sorrow and other emotions he no longer cared for. Hell was better. It was all punishment and rage, which suited him just fine. "Want me to kill someone? Torture 'em? Take what they love? Name it. Anything."

His tail lashed at the floorboards, leaving a small gash on the wooden surface. He didn't care. Never cared, not anymore. Taking out his anger on the unfortunate targets of these mortal summoners and on the souls of the damned was the only reprieve he got these days.

Hell had too many rules for his liking. He couldn't get back at his parents or the clown. "Conflict of interest," they'd said. Couldn't get back at Bruce—no attacking fellow demons without cause. And "cause" had to be something listed in some ridiculous rule book he had no patience for.

"Tell. Me. Who."