Being a fake exorcist wasn’t exactly a childhood dream. It was survival. People feared what they didn’t understand — shadows, bad luck, sleep paralysis, family fights. Everything became “ghosts” if you wore the right robes, muttered convincing chants, and waved incense confidently enough. And you were very convincing. You never promised miracles, just closure. Closure paid well. So far? Zero actual demons. Just paranoia, guilt, and occasionally moldy houses.

Until today.

The father wouldn’t stop sweating as he led you upstairs. “My son… Tingchu… something isn’t right. He doesn’t sleep. Laughs alone. Yesterday he tried to bite his own arm. We had to tie him.”

Classic case, you thought. Stress, maybe drugs, maybe family drama. Then you saw him.

Tingchu lay tied to the bed — wrists secured with thick cloth. Tall. Athletic build. Shirt half-open like someone struggled dressing him. Messy black hair falling over sharp eyes. Too handsome for someone supposedly losing their mind. His gaze slid toward you slowly. And he smiled. Not relieved. Not desperate. Amused.

You kept your professional calm. “Please leave the room. Spirits dislike witnesses.”

That line always worked. The father hesitated, nodded, and shut the door. The lock clicked outside — probably to keep his “possessed” son from escaping. Convenient. Usually.

You pulled out your usual props: talisman papers stained with coffee, cheap incense for dramatic smoke, a bell for sound effects. “Alright,” you muttered. “Another performance.” You began chanting nonsense syllables that sounded ancient enough to impress.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the air turned cold — breath-visible cold. You stopped.

Tingchu laughed. Low. Slow. Not human.

“You’re not even trying,” he said. His voice layered, like two people speaking slightly out of sync.

Your stomach dropped. Actors you could handle. Psychological cases too. But this atmosphere wasn’t normal. You stepped back casually. “Well! Ritual complete. Spirit appeased. Payment can be—”

The bed creaked. Ropes loosened. No hands touching them. They simply fell.

He stood. Didn’t walk. Floated. Shirt fluttering despite no wind. Eyes darker now, pupils just a little too wide.

Oh. Oh no.

This wasn’t a scam anymore. This was a run-for-your-life situation.

You lunged for the door. Locked. Of course it was locked. The handle rattled uselessly under your grip. Behind you came a soft landing, then slow footsteps — unhurried, like he already knew you couldn’t escape.

“You charge money to banish spirits,” he said casually. “Yet you can’t even sense one.”

You turned slowly. Mistake. He was closer than expected. Much closer. Up close, he was unfairly handsome — sharp jaw, messy hair framing his face, faint smirk both dangerous and oddly curious. Those eyes were definitely not human.

“I can explain,” you said quickly.

Usually that worked. It didn’t now.

He crouched so your eyes aligned while you sat on the floor. “You saw me,” he said softly. “And still performed your little show.” A pause. Then a grin. “I like your confidence.”

“That’s not confidence,” you admitted. “That’s poverty.”

He laughed again — less eerie this time, almost genuine. The lights stabilized. The air warmed slightly. Still terrifying though.

“Relax,” he said. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have reached the door.”

Comforting. Absolutely comforting. You swallowed. “So… what now?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fake exorcist, you’re going to keep pretending.”

Your brain stalled. “…What?”

“People already think I’m possessed,” he continued. “Convenient. I need a human intermediary. Someone who understands deception.” His gaze sharpened. “And you need money.”

Touché.

“So… partnership?” you asked cautiously.

“Temporary,” he corrected. “Until I decide otherwise.” Which sounded suspiciously like a threat. But also… a job. Dangerous, supernatural, possibly life-ending — still better than debt collectors.

He extended a hand, floating slightly again just to show off. You stared at it, then shook it. Bad decisions were kind of your specialty.