The Price of Ambition

"Accept. Of course, accept it," Charis said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his mind.

"Very well, Mr. Charis," Annabella responded smoothly. "As a welcoming gift, you will receive 24 hours of protection. Use this time however you see fit, but note—after 24 hours, you are on your own. I suggest you use it wisely to secure a human soul."

She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. "You have two options: use your own abilities to claim one soul, or use Hell's power to claim ten. But remember, as I mentioned before—nine of those will be taxed, and the one you retain will be used to ensure your protection. The choice is yours."

Somewhere on the Moon

Earth hung in the distance, a silent, beautiful sphere bathed in the light of distant stars. The old man stood there, gazing out at the floating planet, his scythe resting in his grip. He exhaled, shaking his head as a wry smile played across his lips.

"That little demon is still making me pay him," he muttered. "But it was all worth it. I got my scythe back."

He turned slightly, looking at the ground where blood-tainted white feathers were scattered, carried gently by the non-existent wind of space. A few steps behind him lay a decapitated body, two pristine wings soaked in crimson, motionless against the moon's surface.

With a final sigh, the old man disappeared, leaving only silence in his wake.

Back to Charis

A sudden, sharp chime echoed in Charis' ears. A translucent screen materialized before him, displaying a countdown: 24:00:00.

"Damn it," Charis muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Why is there no end to my problems?"

On the other side of the city, in a dimly lit apartment cluttered with unfinished paintings, a man sat before a large canvas, his fingers stained with charcoal and paint. His name was Elias Vayne.

Art was not just his passion—it was his existence. Every stroke, every shade, every imperfect brush of color against the canvas was a breath of life to him. He painted to capture what words could not, to give shape to emotions too wild to tame. He lived for art, and yet, the world refused to see him.

Rejection after rejection had beaten down his dreams, but never his resolve. Gallery owners dismissed his work as "too unconventional," critics scoffed at his lack of conformity, and potential buyers hesitated at the depth of his surreal, almost eerie pieces. But Elias never stopped. He couldn't. Even as his fridge sat empty, even as rent notices piled up on his table, even as the people around him whispered about his "wasted potential."

Tonight, though, was different.

Tonight, failure pressed on him heavier than ever before. Another gallery had turned him down. Another opportunity had slipped through his fingers. He sat before his unfinished painting, staring at the figure on the canvas—a faceless man surrounded by swirling shadows, reaching for a light that seemed just out of his grasp.

He let out a bitter laugh. "Just like me," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. "Always reaching. Never touching."

The weight of it all became too much. He needed air, a distraction, anything to dull the ache gnawing at his insides.

The bar was a haven for the lost. Dimly lit, filled with people drowning their regrets in liquor and smoke. Elias found himself at the counter, a whiskey in front of him, untouched. He wasn't here for the alcohol. He was here to escape himself.

"Rough night?" a voice beside him drawled.

Elias turned, his tired eyes meeting the gaze of a man who looked equally burdened. Charis, though he did not appear out of place, had an unnatural stillness to him. His presence was… compelling, like he belonged yet didn't.

Elias exhaled. "You could say that."

Charis tilted his head, studying him. "Artist?"

Elias blinked in surprise. "How'd you know?"

Charis smirked. "You have the look. The kind that sees the world in colors most people are blind to."

Elias chuckled, the first genuine sound he'd made all day. "Yeah, well, seeing doesn't mean much if no one else wants to look."

Charis tapped his glass against the counter thoughtfully. "Rejection?"

"Story of my life."

A pause. Then, Charis leaned in slightly, his voice lower, inviting. "What if I told you… there was a way to make them look?"

Elias frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Charis took a slow sip of his drink, setting the glass down deliberately. "What if your art could become more than just paintings? What if your name was known in every gallery, every museum, every collector's lips? No more rejections. No more wasted potential. Just… success."

Elias scoffed, shaking his head. "Sounds like a dream."

"Dreams can be made real," Charis said smoothly. "For a price."

Elias let out a small laugh. "What price? My soul?"

Charis smirked but said nothing.

Elias rolled his eyes. "Alright, sure. Why not? Let's make a deal, oh great demon of the night." His voice was laced with amusement, clearly not taking Charis seriously.

Charis chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Very well. Consider it done."

Elias lifted his glass. "To my impending damnation, then."

They clinked glasses, and as Elias downed his whiskey, he had no idea the joke he just agreed to… was anything but.