I sighed as the afternoon breeze gusted across my face. It was a fleeting relief from the heat—both from the sweltering air and the fire burning within me. But I cherished it. Moments like these were rare. And yet, this breeze did more than cool me down. It refocused me.
I scanned my surroundings, ensuring no one was watching too closely. It was safer that way—for them and for me. I listened, tuning in to the sounds around me: the barking of a dog, the sharp honking of horns, the rhythmic tap of footsteps as people passed by in gossip. I took one last look back.
And then I was gone.
The life of a murderer wasn't for the weak. Neither was the life of a drug dealer. I knew because I had been both. Whether you sold hallucinogens, narcotics, depressants, or uppers—it didn't matter. The risk was always there. The smallest thing could give you away: the smell, the way you acted, the way you dressed. You had to remember one thing—whether with ill intentions or not, you were always being watched. The only thing you could control was by whom.
Then there was another aspect—one that had lingered in my mind for years. It resurfaced in moments like these, going from one client to the next. The uncomfortable truth was that these people—the ones buying from me—were likely ruining their lives. Some were destroying their families. Others were selling their souls, piece by piece.
Then again—why should I care?
They were adults, at least my clients were. I had some standards. Some could be bent depending on circumstances. Others… Others were the fragile lines between human and beast, beast and monster, and monster and demon. I might have been a monster, but I was no demon.
From place to place I went, selling more and more. A dingy apartment with scantily clad women lounging on worn-out couches. An old bridge where a homeless addict—more bones than flesh—waited with desperate eyes. Downtown, to the partygoers eager for a high.
Now, just like any other night, I was done. Exhausted. I wanted it all to end—the drugs, the endless blood on my hands. I was young, too young to feel this old.
But thankfully, the night was over.
I walked down the street, ignoring the glare of headlights, the rush of city life moving past me. My focus was elsewhere. This was my ritual—what I did after nights like these.
I was getting my favorite coffee and apple fritter donuts.
As I reached the end of the street, I stepped into my usual café, greeted by the familiar jingle of the door. The moment I walked inside, the aroma hit me—freshly ground coffee beans, warm pastries, and the faint sweetness of honey.
I approached the register. "The usual, please, Jocelyn."
The barista looked up from her phone, her warm smile familiar. "Of course, Dan. One hazelnut latte, one fresh apple fritter. That'll be eight sixty."
I pulled out a twenty without hesitation. As she counted my change, I made conversation—asking about school, her grades, how her boyfriend was treating her. We'd done this routine enough times that she didn't mind sharing details.
She handed me my order along with the change. As always, I pushed it back toward her.
"Keep it," I said, heading for the door. "Bye, Jocelyn."
She laughed at our little ritual as I stepped back onto the street.
That's when someone grabbed my shoulder from behind.
"Who the fu— Perry?!"
I froze.
Turning, I saw an old friend.
Perry looked… rough. His clothes were in scraps, his beard now completely white from age. He stared at me with wide, desperate eyes.
"Yo, long time no see, Dan. You got the… stuff?"
I glanced around instinctively, checking the rising sky. The first light of morning reflected in my cold eyes as I turned back to him.
"Perry, you caught me at a bad time," I said, my voice quieter now. "And to be frank... I like you. We both know that says a lot considering I don't like most people—especially in my line of work."
I took a deep breath, looking at him with something I rarely felt.
Sadness.
If anyone I worked with saw the expression on my face, they'd say it looked unnatural—maybe even terrifying. I was supposed to be emotionless. Cold. Brutal. But tonight, I didn't have the energy to pretend.
"Despite all the terrible shit I've done," I admitted, "I care about you. So I'm begging you—go home. Go back to your family. Get your life together. Please."
Perry looked away, ashamed. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. There was nothing to say.
Finally, he shook his head and walked away.
I watched him disappear down the street.
Then I turned and did the same.
...
#Time Skip: A couple of Hours#
The abandoned building looms over me as I step inside, its crumbling walls echoing with voices—some familiar, some new. Catcalls are tossed my way, but I don't acknowledge them. I move through the halls, past fresh recruits who shrink back at the sight of me. Fear is a language I understand well. They nod in silent deference, parting like the Red Sea as I stop in front of a heavy iron door.
I pause for a second, for some reason watching Wizards of Waverly Place pops into my head. Good show. Innocent. Something I'm not anymore. But later. Focus.
I look back at the door.
I knock once. Then enter.
Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and something heavier—power. The kind that doesn't need to be flaunted to be known. Mr. Lang sits behind his desk, back straight, fingers steepled together. He doesn't smile, not really. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but his eyes stay cold. Calculating. As if he's always in the middle of a chess match. Always calculating the next possible outcomes.
"Dan." He inclines his head slightly. A gesture of respect, or maybe amusement. Hard to tell. With a slow movement, he gestures to the chair in front of him.
I sat down.
I look at him, and I feel bored already.
"How are you?" he asks, voice smooth, deliberate.
I don't bother playing along. "Let's skip the pleasantries. Why am I here?"
There's a beat of silence. Not long, but long enough to remind me that most men wouldn't get away with talking to him like this. Lang watches me, his expression unreadable. Then, he exhales through his nose—almost a chuckle, but not quite.
"You know," he muses, "most people would piss themselves speaking to me like that."
I don't blink. "We've done this dance before. My answer hasn't changed—I'm not most people."
Another pause. Then, something like approval flickers across his face before vanishing into the dim lighting. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight.
"No," he says, voice like distant thunder. "No, you are not."
He reaches into a drawer, pulling out an envelope. This time, he doesn't slam it on the desk like a cheap villain—he simply places it down. Careful. Quiet. Deadly.
"This is a list of the people who need to disappear," he says. No elaboration. Just fact.
I open the envelope, eyes skimming down the list. Each name is already a corpse; they just don't know it yet. Then—
I freeze.
"Perry."
Lang watches me like a predator studying prey. He doesn't move, doesn't react. Just waits.
Finally, he speaks. "That one owes us a considerable sum. But more importantly, he stole something from a… valuable client." His fingers tap against the desk, slow and deliberate. "An artifact. Sentimental, you might say."
He lets the weight of his words settle between us.
"Is there a problem?" he asks softly.
And just like that, the air in the room turns razor-sharp.
I know the game. The way he's watching me now isn't casual—it's calculated. If I answer wrong, I won't even have time to say fuck you before my body hits the floor. Sure I could probably survive and end him. But even if I did. It wouldn't be long before those that sponsor him find me.
And best believe compared to them, he's like a freaking Chihuahua.
Besides, Lang doesn't make threats. He doesn't need to.
I swallow the instinct to hesitate. "No," I say evenly, standing. "There isn't."
He nods once, as if that was always the answer.
"Good."
I don't hear the rest. I'm already walking away.
Walking toward the inevitable.
...
#Time Skip: 5 Hours#
Half the list is already taken care of. The bodies are gone, the evidence erased. It's a routine by now—pull the trigger, wipe the blade, move on.
But this isn't routine.
Not this time.
I scrub the blood from my hands, but the stain is deeper than my skin. It's in my bones. My head. My gut.
I tell myself it's just another job. Perry screwed up, and there's a price for that.
But my hands won't stop shaking.
Because Perry isn't just some name on a list. He's the one person I've ever called a friend. The closest thing I have to family. That shouldn't matter, but somehow, tonight, it does.
And I'm supposed to kill him.
I make my way to the alley he calls home, expecting to see him curled up in some forgotten corner, strung out or searching for scraps.
But he's not there.
I turn, scanning the streets, the gutters—
Then I see him.
He's talking to business owners. Filling out job applications.
Trying.
If I wasn't so hollow inside, I might've cried.
Why now, Perry? Why now, when I have no choice?
I stand there, watching him, heart pounding in my chest. I could turn around, do my job, erase him like I erased the others.
But suddenly, I can't breathe.
My body moves before my mind decides. I run to him, grab his arm, pull him into a side alley. He stares at me, startled.
"You need to go." My voice is firm, but it's not as steady as I want it to be. "I don't care where, but you have to leave. I'll give you what you need, but you can't stay in the city. Not another hour. Do you understand me?"
He blinks. Opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head.
"We don't have time," I say, my voice cracking. God, why is my voice cracking? "Just—trust me. Please."
Something in my face must convince him, because he nods.
I let go of his arm and step back. "Follow me."
Because if he stays, I know exactly how this ends.
And I refuse to let that happen.
...
#Time Skip: 3 Hours#
#Mr.Lang POV#
Lang sat in the dimly lit room, staring at his butler, the silence between them heavy.
"He didn't do it, did he?" Lang's voice was calm but edged with something darker.
"No, sir." The butler's answer was concise.
Lang's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "A pity. He was good—damn good at what he did. But he should've known better. Loyalty over everything."
He stood, pacing a slow circle. "Send someone to clean up both of them. Make sure the message is clear."
"Understood, sir." The butler reached for his phone, already dialing.
#Time Skip: 1 Hour#
#Mc POV#
The road ahead was clear—too clear.
Perry sat beside me, munching away on Doritos, oblivious to the situation.
And then I saw it.
A car in the distance—an unmistakable, personalized model. I recognized it instantly.
They're on us.
I slammed the gas pedal to the floor, sending the car roaring forward. The road blurred as I swerved sharply left, then right, pushing the car into a dangerous drift.
I could hear the tires screeching, feel the car's weight shifting with every turn.
I pulled off the main road and into a wooded area, the car bouncing as I cut the engine.
"Get out," I barked, jumping out of the car and opening the trunk. I grabbed a duffel bag and threw it at Perry.
"Don't stop. Keep going straight. There's a contact waiting for you at a waterfall. They'll get you the rest of the way."
Perry looked confused, his mouth opening to protest.
I held up my hand. "No time. You need to go."
I reached for the glove compartment and pulled out my Glock.
"What are you doing?" he asked, panic rising in his voice.
I met his eyes with a small, genuine smile—the first one I'd given in years. "I'm buying you time."
I slammed the door shut and gunned the engine, peeling out.
Perry stood there, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at me one last time. He opened his mouth, but all he said was a quiet, "Thank you."
And then he ran into the woods.
#Mc POV#
I didn't have to look in the rear view mirror to know they were coming.
The cars were closing in, their headlights blinding.
I heard the gunshots before I saw the bullet holes shatter the windshield.
Instinct kicked in. I raised the Glock and fired blindly out the window, my fingers working fast. The roar of the gunfire drowned out everything else.
The car behind me veered off the road, its tire blown out. I swerved, trying to put distance between us, but more were coming.
I sped down the road, heart pounding in my ears, praying I could outrun them.
Then, the intersection appeared, too fast, too close.
I turned my head, my eyes catching the headlights of the car next to me.
And then everything went black.
...
Deep within an unseen space, a transformation was taking place.
A body—shattered, broken—was being reborn.
A yellow orb, pulsing like liquid fire, emerged—a diluted hunter's blood. A red and white orb followed—angel and demon blood, clashing violently. And then… a blue string, woven into the very fabric of its being—a key to an energy with unlimited possibilities.
These forces should not have coexisted.
But in the battle of destruction, something else was born.
The body ignited as the opposing forces fused, no longer separate, no longer fighting.
Something new.
Something different.
The Crimson Devil.
A being that, in the years to come, would be feared by even death itself.
The Midnight King.