The Devil's lease

Chapter five: Past due

The door didn’t just open—it unraveled.

The wood groaned like it was tired of existing, peeling apart in long strips as if soaked in invisible acid. Paint bubbled. Dust rained down. A line of black veins spread across the frame, cracking out like spiderwebs.

Lena screamed and stumbled back, nearly tripping over the coffee table. Caleb, running on nothing but panic and caffeine, did the bravest thing his brain could manage: he swung his guitar stand like a sword.

It wasn’t sharp. Or heavy. Or remotely intimidating. But it was something between him and the nightmare clawing its way in.

Except—it wasn’t a nightmare.

On the threshold stood… a man.

Not a monster. Not a demon. A man.

No horns, no flames, no dripping fangs. He was dressed like an overworked bank manager: scuffed loafers, wrinkled button-down, tie hanging loose. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and he had that permanent hunched posture of someone crushed by paperwork.

In one hand, he carried a clipboard. In the other, a leather briefcase.

“Afternoon,” the man said pleasantly, his voice polite and professional, like a customer service rep who hated his job but needed the paycheck. “Collection department.”

Caleb froze mid-swing. “Collection… like rent collection?”

“Souls, actually,” the man corrected, flipping open his clipboard. His eyes gleamed faint red behind the glasses—subtle, but unmistakable. “You’re behind already, Mr. Cross.”

Caleb blinked. “Uh—what? It’s Harris. Caleb Harris.”

The collector didn’t even look up. “Says here Cross.”

“That’s not—” Caleb jabbed a finger at his chest. “Do I look like a Cross to you?”

The man gave him a dry look. “Names are… flexible in accounting.”

Lena’s head snapped toward Caleb. “Behind? On what? What the hell did you do?”

Caleb slowly lowered the guitar stand. “I… may have signed… a thing.”

“You signed the thing,” the collector said, tapping the clipboard. “Lease agreement. Clause seven, auxiliary recruitment. First task was due at midnight. It is now twelve-oh-five. You are in breach.”

Caleb’s stomach dropped. “Five minutes? You’re here over five minutes? Even my landlord gives me three days before threatening to kill me!”

“Policy is policy,” the collector replied, brisk as a lawyer. He flipped a page. “Signature received. Two forty-seven a.m. Three drops of blood via paper cut. Very efficient.”

Caleb gawked. “Wait—you’re counting me slicing my finger on the page?”

“Intent is irrelevant. Ink, blood, coffee stains—once the clause is acknowledged, the contract activates.”

Lena rounded on Caleb. “You mean you didn’t even sign—you just bled on it?”

“In my defense,” Caleb muttered, “it was sharp paper…”

The collector sighed and snapped his briefcase open. Inside wasn’t paperwork. It was a swirling black void that sucked all warmth from the room. The air stank of ash and ozone.

Lena pressed herself against the wall. “Caleb. What. The hell. Did you sign.”

He flailed. “It was rent control! Half price! Look, it was persuasive!”

The collector reached into the void and pulled out something long, thin, and metallic. A pen.

Lena blinked. “That’s… that’s your big scary weapon? A pen?”

“Standard issue,” the man said smoothly. “Signs your eviction notice in blood, stamps your file, ties up loose ends. Very tidy.”

He stepped forward. The overhead lights flickered. The fridge door creaked open on its own. The fruit inside had rotted black in seconds.

Caleb’s grip tightened on the guitar stand, his knees shaking. Then, in desperation, he blurted:

“I’m broke!”

The collector paused.

Caleb gestured wildly. “Flat broke! Negative account balance! You can’t repossess what isn’t there. I’m like—human bankruptcy! I’m worthless! Zero assets, zero income! You’ll get nothing out of me!”

The collector frowned, flipping through his clipboard. His brows furrowed. “Hmm… account balance… assets… oh.”

“Oh?” Caleb squeaked.

The man’s expression soured. “Oh.”

Lena’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Are you telling me Hell is second-guessing because Caleb’s too poor to be worth it?”

The collector adjusted his glasses, flustered for the first time. “It appears this account—Mr. Cross, Mr. Harris, whatever—has been flagged for low-value extraction. I’ll need to escalate this to my supervisor.”

Caleb raised a shaky fist in triumph. “Ha! Even Hell doesn’t want me!”

Before the collector could respond, another voice rang out, smug and cheerful:

“Told you he was special.”

Dev leaned casually against the splintered doorway, sipping a caramel latte like he’d just strolled out of Starbucks. His black suit was immaculate, his grin infuriating.

He winked at Caleb. “My favorite little investment. Unprofitable in all the right ways.”

The collector scowled. “Handler Deverax. This is a violation of—”

“Relax,” Dev cut him off, brushing lint off his lapel. “Caleb’s not defaulting. He’s… under review. I’ll file the paperwork.”

The collector pinched the bridge of his nose. “Paperwork. Of course.” He snapped the briefcase shut, sighing. “Very well. But if there’s no turnaround within thirty days, repossession resumes.”

“Thirty days, got it,” Dev said breezily. “Stamp someone else’s soul, Gary.”

The collector shot him a venomous glare. Then, with a puff of ink-black smoke, he dissolved, leaving scorch marks on the carpet.

Silence fell.

Lena slowly turned her glare on Caleb.

“Thirty. Days,” she repeated flatly. “You sold your soul and now you’re on a countdown clock?”

Caleb groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It was either this, or die choking on instant noodles alone at thirty.”

Dev clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, roomie. Thirty days is plenty. We’ll snag a few souls, meet quota, keep the perks flowing. Easy.”

“Souls?” Lena snapped. “You think I’m just going to watch you drag people into damnation?”

Dev tilted his head, smirking. “Would you prefer watching your buddy get repossessed like a used car?”

Lena’s face darkened. She didn’t answer.

The fridge creaked shut on its own, the hum of the apartment returning to normal. Almost satisfied. Almost.

Caleb looked at Lena. Then at Dev. Then at the scorch mark on the carpet where the collector had stood. His stomach churned.

Thirty days.

And the clock was already ticking.