The Sump smelled like copper and broken promises. I'd grown up here. Learned to steal, to fight, to understand that the world owed you nothing except the next disaster. Never got used to the smell though.

  It is home the way a scar is part of your body. You don't choose it. It just is.

  I took stock of what I had left:

  A stolen lighter from the arena guards.Three knives; one balanced, one serrated, one small enough to vanish up a sleeve. A coil of wire filched from a maintenance locker. Two stim patches, half-dead but usable. And an old brass delivery token, stamped with the Old Market seal, from the time I was an errand boy—kept for no good reason except that it had survived with me.

  Not much. But enough to not feel naked out here.

  I was hiding in what used to be a textile shop, back when the Old Market had markets instead of ghosts and Glitches. Shattered windows, door long gone, but the back room was intact. Empty shelves. Rat droppings. The kind of place people avoided because there was nothing worth taking.

  Perfect.

  I sat against the wall, staring at my hands in thin moonlight.

  The black veins were still there. Still moving.

  I flexed my fingers. Watched them pulse beneath my skin like living things. They ran from my wrists halfway to my elbows now, thick as inkstrokes, branching into smaller tributaries across my forearms.

  "They're settling in nicely!" Malgrin said. "Very aesthetic. You could start a trend."

  "They're not fading."

  "I said they'd fade from 'extremely obvious' to 'only visible if someone's looking.' That's technically fading!"

  "So another one of your 'embellishments' to the contract. My fault for expecting you to say the truth"

  "I contain multitudes.I am layered, like an onion. Sometimes I say things that are only partially true. Keeps life interesting."

  I closed my eyes. Forced slow breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

  The technique didn't work as well when the stress was inside your head.

  "That breathing thing is very boring," Malgrin observed. "Screaming is underrated."

  "Screaming attracts attention."

  "Exactly! Attention creates situations. Situations create entertainment. Entertainment gets you views."

  "It's stupid."

  "Says the man wearing blood-soaked clothes in a district known for Glitch spawns. Very smart plan."

  I opened my eyes. "Do you ever shut up?"

  "No! Well, sometimes. When I'm bored. But you're slightly less boring than usual, so I'm chatty."

  "Why do you need entertainment? You're a demon. What do you get from it?"

  Silence.

  First time since the pact that Malgrin didn't immediately respond.

  Then: "Very good question! I'm not going to answer it yet though."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're not ready. Also, it is funnier if you don't know."

  "I don't exist to be funny."

  "And yet you are! Hilarious. You fight like you're balancing an accounting ledger. You negotiate with demons like you're buying vegetables. You just traded your humanity for survival and your first concern is 'are these veins permanent?' Comedy gold mine."

  I stared at the ceiling. "I need to understand what you are. What you want. What happens if I don't entertain you."

  "Easy. I eat your soul and take over your body. You will become a Hollow. You stop existing, I get a nice flesh-suit. Everything is 'what do I give, what do I get.' That's my entire existence. We're practically twins."

  I wanted to argue.

  Right now, I just couldn't.

  Because he was right. I'd spent my whole life calculating costs and benefits. Trust was liability. The only reliable thing was equivalent exchange—pay a price, get a service, nobody owes anything beyond the contract.

  Even now, with a demon in my head, I was already planning: Find work. Earn money. Stay alive. Repeat.

  "See?" Malgrin said gently. "We understand each other. That's why I picked you."

  "You picked me because I was dying and desperate."

  "Nope. Because you laughed. Bleeding out with a crossbow bolt in your calf, and you laughed and said 'finally, a good show.' That's not normal. That's fascinating."

  I didn't know what to say.

  "Plus," Malgrin continued, cheerful again, "you immediately tried to negotiate better terms while dying. Who does that? Thousands of pacts, and you're the first who treated it like buying fish at market. 'What's the price? Hidden fees? Contract in writing?' Delightful."

  My mouth twitched. Almost smiled.

  But I Caught myself. And crushed it.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  No. I couldn't afford to find him amusing. He was a parasite. A predator in a friendly mask. The moment I stopped being useful, I'd be consumed.

  "Oooh, I felt that," Malgrin said quietly. "The way you shut down the almost-smile. You really don't trust anyone."

  "Be quiet.."

  "Not even yourself?"

  "Hope gets you killed slower."

  Malgrin laughed—not his usual manic giggle. Something darker. Older.

  "Oh, Yozi. We're going to get along wonderfully."

  A sound outside. Footsteps.

  I went still.

  Not enforcers. Different—lighter footsteps, trying to be quiet but failing. One person, moving cautiously through rubble.

  I pressed deeper into shadow, hand going to my belt where my knife should be. I lost it.

  Unarmed. Great.

  Then a voice: "Yozi? You in there?"

  Young. Male. Familiar.

  "Jek?"

  A kid stepped into view—maybe four, skinny, clothes three sizes too large. Street runner. One of the kids I hired for untraceable messages.

  "Got something for you." He held up folded paper. "Guy paid five copper to find you. Said you'd be in the Old Market somewhere."

  "What guy?"

  "Old, fat, sweaty. Talked like a merchant."

  Margrave. Had to be him.

  I walked to the doorway, took the paper. "You get paid?"

  "Half up front, half on delivery."

  "Smart kid."

  The message was cramped, nervous handwriting:

  Yozi. Heard about the arena. People looking for you (bad people). I have information AND a potential client (very lucrative). Meet me at my usual place. Tomorrow, noon. Come alone. Bring proof you're alive. —M

  I read it twice. Burned it.

  "Tell him I'll be there." I pulled a copper from my nearly empty pouch. "For the message. Don't mention this."

  Jek pocketed the coin and vanished.

  "A client!" Malgrin said. "Already? We've been fugitives for six hours!"

  "Margrave deals in information. Someone always needs something."

  "What do you think? Assassination? Theft? Ooh, maybe stealing a ghost or kidnapping someone's shadow!"

  "The numbness," I said. "How long?"

  "Depends! Hours. Days. Varies."

  "And it comes back during fights."

  "When your adrenaline spikes and you're really alive—bam! All senses back, in full power. Better than before evem. Colors vivid, tastes intense, everything crisp."

  "So I'll only feel human when I'm trying not to die."

  "Basically! Poetic, right? The man who hates excitement needs violence to feel anything."

  I tested my taste again. Licked my lips.

  Nothing. Wetness without flavor.

  "What sense do I lose next?"

  "Can't tell you! Different for everyone. Could be sight, smell, emotional responses. The pact adapts to what makes things most interesting."

  "Of course it does."

  I leaned back, staring at the broken ceiling.

  "Why did you actually choose me? Don't say interesting. There has to be more."

  Silence.

  Then, softer: "Because you remind me of someone."

  He didn't elaborate.

  "Sleep," he said finally. "Tomorrow you meet Margrave, probably get hired for something dangerous, and we'll see if you're as clever as I think."

  "I don't trust you."

  "Good. You shouldn't. But we're stuck together, so get used to me."

  "What if I break the pact?"

  "You can't. Only way is to kill the demon or kill the host. Since I'm in your head, killing me means killing you. Killing you means I take over. No escape clauses. No refunds."

  "Perfect."

  "Yep! Now sleep. I'll keep watch."

  "You'll keep watch?"

  "I'm nocturnal! Don't sleep. Plus, you die, I lose my show. Consider it customer service."

  Exhaustion pulled at me.

  I closed my eyes.

  Just for a moment.

  .

  .

  .

  .

  I dreamed of the arena.

  Not the recent fight. The first one. Age eight. The massive opponent. Sand mixed with glass.

  But the crowd wasn't faceless nobles.

  They were demons.

  Thousands, sitting in the stands, eyes burning like coals. Cheering when I killed. Booing when I hesitated. Placing bets on how long I'd survive.

  Above them, in the Master's box, sat something vast and terrible. Shadow and teeth and too many angles.

  It leaned forward.

  Smiled.

  Said in Malgrin's voice: "Good show."

  I woke gasping.

  Sunlight through the broken ceiling. Morning.

  "Bad dreams?" Malgrin asked innocently.

  "You were there."

  "Was I? How rude. Don't remember."

  "You're lying."

  "Probably! Can't prove it though. Happy Birthday by the way."

  I walked out into morning heat, toward whatever fresh disaster awaited.

  Behind me, in the shadows, my footprints were stained black.

  The veins kept on spreading.