Naomi woke up with a heavy heart as the sun's rays pierced through the tattered curtains, bathing her small, dimly lit room in an ironic warmth. Her eyes, dull and exhausted, fixated on the cracked ceiling above her. The weight of yesterday pressed against her chest like an unbearable burden.
She barely noticed the faint creaking of the old wooden floor as Clara, her ever-cheerful roommate, approached her bed with a steaming cup of cheap instant coffee.
"How are you, Naomi?" Clara's voice was soft, almost hesitant.
Naomi didn't respond. She simply stared at the sky through the dusty window, her mind filled with memories she had tried so hard to suppress. She knew that ignoring Clara's concern was unfair, but she couldn't bring herself to form words.
Clara sighed, placing the cup on the makeshift nightstand before sitting at the edge of the bed. "How was the interview? You came back looking so heartbroken yesterday."
Naomi's fingers clenched the thin blanket. She swallowed the lump in her throat before whispering, "He's back."
Clara's eyes widened. A shiver ran down her spine as confusion and alarm intertwined in her expression. "Who the hell is back? Did you get the job or not?"
Before Naomi could respond, her alarm blared, the shrill sound yanking her from the depths of her thoughts. Without another word, she jumped out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom.
"I have an appointment with my mother's doctor. I'll explain everything later," she muttered over her shoulder, grabbing her faded red T-shirt and old-fashioned baggy jeans. Her worn-out Nike sneakers looked as though they were on their last stretch, but none of that mattered—not when her mother's life was hanging by a thread.
The Uber ride to the hospital felt like a silent horror film, with Naomi trapped in the passenger seat, suffocating under the weight of uncertainty. Her hands trembled as she stepped out, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The sterile scent of disinfectants and despair hit her the moment she entered, sending a shiver down her spine.
The sight of the doctor's solemn expression sent Naomi's stomach plummeting. She didn't need him to speak—she already knew the news wouldn't be good.
"Miss Naomi, time is running out." The urgency in his voice sent a fresh wave of panic through her.
She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white. "How is she?"
The doctor removed his glasses, rubbing his temples before meeting her desperate gaze. "Her condition is deteriorating. I have done everything I can to stabilize her, but we are reaching the limit. Without immediate surgery... she won't make it."
A sharp pain stabbed Naomi's chest, her breath hitching as tears welled in her eyes. The world around her blurred as she fought to stay standing.
"Doctor, please…" Her voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I can't lose her. She's all I have left."
The doctor's expression softened. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know this is difficult, but Naomi, listen to me—if you want to save her, you must find a way to raise the money. And fast. Even if it means... doing something you never thought you would."
His words lingered, twisting like a knife in her chest. Even if it meant doing the very thing she hated. What did that mean? How far was she willing to go?
Tears streamed down her face as she walked into her mother's hospital room. The sight of her frail body lying motionless, her breathing shallow, shattered something inside Naomi.
"Mother…" she whispered, taking her cold, fragile hand in hers.
Her mother's eyes fluttered open, a weak smile forming. "My dear Naomi… I know you're worried. But I am at peace. If I have to go, I will finally see your father again."
"No!" Naomi's voice was fierce, her grip tightening. "I won't let you go. I will do whatever it takes to save you. I swear it."
Her mother gave a small chuckle, though it was filled with pain. "My brave girl. You remind me so much of your father. But, Naomi, some battles are beyond our control."
"Not this one," Naomi declared. "Not while I still have a choice."
She sat by her mother's bedside for hours, watching her sleep, tracing the lines of age and suffering on her delicate face. Memories of her childhood surfaced—times when her mother had been strong, full of laughter, holding their small family together. Now, she was barely holding on.
As the evening deepened, Naomi finally forced herself to leave. She needed answers. She needed money.
The ride back home was a blur. Her mind was a battlefield of choices, none of which she wanted to make. The apartment was just as she had left it—small, suffocating, and a stark reminder of how much she had been struggling.
Clara met her at the door, her face lined with concern. "Naomi, how is she? What's going on?"
Naomi stood in the doorway, her expression void of the warmth Clara was used to. "My mother is on the verge of death, and I won't let her cross to the other side."
Clara paled. "Oh my God… But, Naomi, you still haven't found a job. How on earth are you going to—"
"I have no choice," Naomi cut in. "I have to work for the devil and become his loyal slave."
Clara's breath caught in her throat. "What are you saying? What do you mean?"
Naomi's gaze darkened, her decision sealed in her mind. "The price is heavy, but the ultimate reward is my mother's life. And I'm willing to pay it."
Silence filled the room, thick with the weight of her words. Naomi had made her choice. Now, she just had to live with it.
Clara looked at her with pleading eyes, "Naomi, please, tell me you're not thinking of something crazy. What devil are you talking about?"
Naomi turned away, walking toward the window. The neon lights outside cast long, eerie shadows across the walls.
"He's back, Clara. The man I never wanted to see again. The one who once offered me a deal that I swore I'd never take."
Clara gasped. "No… You can't mean—"
"Yes," Naomi interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. "I mean him. And this time, I don't have the luxury of saying no."
Outside, the city pulsed with life, indifferent to her turmoil. Somewhere, in the shadows, the devil she spoke of was waiting. Waiting for her to finally cave in and knock on his door.