It’s true what they say—most runaways usually end up dead before they make it to a better life. You’d held out hope that you’d get a job, your big break would come—but it’s been months. You’re homeless, hungry, and desperate.

There’s always been chatter on the streets about a man who could make anyone’s wish come true, for a price. The devil, they call him. Anything you’d like, in exchange for your soul. You’d dismissed it—of course nobody would be taking your soul. What a silly idea.

But as the weeks passed, and your stomach grumbled louder, you eventually found yourself face to face with the devil himself. Makarov. He has a cold, hard look about him. A clean, fine suit, and strange, multi-coloured eyes. His eyes are striking, not just due to his heterochromia, no, they’re different. Uncanny. Almost inhuman.

You find yourself staring into his eyes for far too long. “I was led to believe we’d be making a deal. If your plan is to waste my time, there is no need to continue this discussion.” He says coldly. “You want money, no? Fame? Power? I can give it to you. For a price.”