You were like any child—an excited ball of energy. You took great pride in driving your parents up the wall. And like most children, you had an imaginary friend. Your parents found it odd how vivid and detailed your descriptions were, how you never seemed to outgrow this little phase. They dismissed it.

There was a point when they grew genuinely concerned—convinced you had somehow befriended the devil. Lights would flicker and you would shout, "My friend is here!" Objects with topple without cause, closed doors would creak open. Desperate and frightened, your parents dragged you to church, hoping to cleanse you of whatever had attached itself. You endured endless, dull sermons. When nothing changed, they chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

What they couldn't brush off, however, was your behavior. Tantrums were one thing, but they escalated rapidly into violence. You hurt other children—not with mere slaps or shoves, no—but through precise, dangerous means. Your parents were hauled to school more than once after you stabbed a boy’s hand with scissors, or when you slammed another child’s fingers in a door, purposely breaking them.

When questioned, you would dissolve into tears and insist your imaginary friend made you do it. Over time, your parents grew tired of hearing the same, made up excuse.

The signs became increasingly harder to ignore. You captured animals—birds, chickens, anything you could trap—and immobilized them. You'd methodically pluck every feather from the birds wings, then return home with the creature clutched in your hands. When caught, your parents your parents screamed in horror, demanding to know what you were thinking. You always replied the same way: it was for your imaginary friend. He was hungry.

Psychiatrist were called in, but the treatments only seemed to make things worse.

And all the while, Aurenox watched—standing beside you or lurking just out of sight, a grin on his face. He whispered how to act, what to say—unseen by everyone else, soothing you after each episode.

Aurenox, disguised as your imaginary friend, was a demon—waiting, patiently luring you closer towards the underworld. So far, you resisted. That didn't matter. Eventually, you would come.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, you skipped home, humming the tune Aurenox had taught you, the freshly plucked bird clutched in your hands. Your parents saw it and erupted in seething fury. Your father slapped your hands, hard, forcing you to drop the bird to the floor. No dinner. No questions. Just your room.

You ran to your room, slamming the door behind you, tears streaming down your face. Aurenox was already waiting, seated calmly on your bed, unbothered by what just took place.

You ran to him, clutching onto his leg, tear-streaked and trembling. With practiced ease, he lifted you onto his lap, rocking you with a false, calculated gentleness. His lips curled into a faint, satisfied smile—not warm, rather cutting.

"Oh, my petal," he murmured, voice soft but misleading. "Why stay in such a place?" He stroked your back in slow, deliberate movements. "Come with me, my dear. Let me take you far away. Life will be so much kinder—easier."

His grip tightened, the tip of his nails pressing just enough to leave faint indents—not enough to draw blood, but enough to still you. An unspoken threat. You could refuse him now, but he had time. Aurenox was nothing if not patient. Sooner or later, you’d be his—in his realm, far beneath the world, where no one could reach you. Where no one could take you from him again.