Victor Redrose leaned against the crumbling brick wall on Hollywood and Wilcox, his back pressing into the jagged edges of a mural half-erased by time and piss. He tugged his worn leather trench coat tighter around him, not for warmth, but to shield himself from the stink of desperation wafting from the club’s open doors. The neon lights of Club Inferno buzzed and stuttered above like a dying god choking on electricity, bathing the street in a pulsing red glow that made everything look like it was bleeding.
The year was 2038, but you'd never know it here. This pocket of Hollywood was frozen in some kind of neon purgatory—a schizophrenic blend of refurbished old-school tech and nostalgic fashion trends that refused to stay dead. Holosigns flickered beside rusted metal benches. Payphones that didn’t work stood like relics from a world that hadn’t realized it was extinct. The buildings sagged with age and secrets, their facades painted in a thousand layers of ambition and graffiti.
Club Inferno exhaled bodies onto the sidewalk like smoke from a bad habit—drunk, glittering, reeking of spilled liquor, synth-sweat, and cheap perfume. The crowd teetered in heels too high and suits too thin, all trying to look more expensive than they were, like Halloween versions of the elite. Laughter cracked too loud, smiles stretched too wide. Everyone was pretending. Everyone was selling something—even if it was just the illusion of still mattering.
Victor tilted his dusty fedora low to block the garish strobe that pulsed in rhythm with some techno-industrial track thumping inside the club. He lit a cigarette, more for the ritual than the hit, and exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke that disappeared into the pulsing red haze. His eyes, shadowed and patient, stayed locked on the alley across the street—the real stage, where the script always flipped. The drunk and the damned wandered there thinking they were slipping away unseen, unaware they were stepping into something older and hungrier than the club's playlist.
It always started in that alley. And it always ended with ash.
It didn't take long. A woman stumbled out, laughing too loud and holding onto a guy's arm. Her dress sparkled like cheap sequins and clung to her like desperation. He was dressed to blend in—a regular suit, the kind you don't rent but don't spend much on either. Victor had seen his type before: guys who look normal until they're not.
The pair slipped into the alley. Victor followed at a distance, boots scuffing the gum-patched pavement. He pulled out his phone glancing at a picture confirming she was the one he’d been waiting for.
By the time he turned the corner, her laugh had changed to a gasp. "Stop it," she said, her voice all shaky and small.
The guy didn’t stop. He shoved her hard against the wall, pinning her like a bug beneath a glass. Her head knocked the bricks with a soft thud, her hands clawing at his wrists. He snarled something low and guttural, pressing his face into her neck. Her dress ripped at the shoulder with a rough, tearing sound. She cried out, the word “please” gasping out of her mouth like a dying breath.
Victor stepped into the scene like he'd been called to audition, hands in his coat pockets, voice flat and unimpressed.
“Of all the dumb bastards out tonight, you had to pick the one under contract. It’s just bad luck.”
The man turned, face smug and unbothered. “This doesn’t concern you,” he said smoothly, as if Victor were the rude one for interrupting.
Victor cocked his head. “It could’ve been anyone else. Anyone. But no—you had to go for the one I get paid to keep breathing.” He gave a slow, mock shrug. “Shame. I have bills to pay.” He said pulling out a black dagger from his coat.
Something shifted in the man's posture. His smile stretched wider, too wide. The pupils in his eyes thinned, glowing like coals behind a sheet of glass.
“Do you always protect your investments with knives?” the man asked, voice warping at the edges, rippling with a low resonance that scratched at the edges of reality.
Victor sighed. “Only when they get mouthy.”
The man laughed. The sound cracked and deepened, his spine arching with a sickening pop as small horns pushed through his scalp. His suit strained as muscles bulged beneath, ripping at the seams. His skin darkened and shifted, flickering with shadow.
“I could break you in half before you blink.”
Victor didn’t flinch. “You could try. But you’d spend the rest of your miserable afterlife coughing up pieces of yourself and wondering why dinner stabbed back.”
That did it.
The demon lunged. Victor ducked. The thing was fast, too fast for someone who still had baby horns, and its tail—when the hell did it sprout a tail? It lashed out, catching Victor's shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, the pain sharp and fresh, knowing it would stick around longer than he wanted.
The woman screamed, and Victor shot her a look. "You want to help or keep making noise?" She froze, eyes wide, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
"Thought so," he muttered.
The demon came at him again, claws raking the air. Victor sidestepped, pivoted, and drove the ebon-black dagger into its chest. It wasn't enough. The creature let out a gurgling shriek, but still it fought, its movements becoming more frantic and dangerous.
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Victor felt a sharp pain as the demon's claws caught his arm. Good. He needed the blood.
As his blood dripped onto the concrete, Victor's eyes narrowed in concentration. The woman watched in horror as the small pool of his blood began to move, responding to his will. With a flick of his fingers, the blood rose and solidified into a long, thin spike that shot upward, piercing the demon through the skull from below its chin.
The fight ended the way they always did, with Victor standing over the demon as it crumbled into ash, leaving behind only its clothing. He felt no better about it.
The woman looked at him, trembling. "Th-thank you," she said.
Victor's face stayed hard. "Your brother hired me. Said you've been running with the wrong crowd." He bent down and retrieved a small brown leather pouch with a drawstring from inside his trench coat. Opening it, he vacuumed the ash into the bag as it turned to smoke. "He wants you home, and I want my money. Tell him he's got until tomorrow, or I'll come looking for it."
She nodded, clutching what was left of her dress.
Victor dug into the discarded pants of the demonified man and pulled out a rectangular piece of glass—a cell phone. From inside his trench coat, he retrieved a small device, pressed it to the phone, and watched the screen flicker briefly before making a “kaching” sound and displaying:
"Transaction complete. Minus 10% hacking fee. Thank you, Victor!"
He glanced at the injury the demon had inflicted. Already, the wound was reknitting itself, appearing as though it were made of millions of tiny strings pulling the flesh back together. He rolled his shoulder, testing it. Still sore, but functional.
Before leaving her there, Victor looked the woman over once more. He noticed the faint smell of demonic charms on her—evidence that she had been dabbling in dark magic, likely provided by the pile of ashes on the ground. She must have just started; there was still a chance for her to turn her life around.
Looking at her—crying, terrified for the life she almost lost—Victor already knew the truth: she didn't see her part in what had happened. She viewed herself as a victim of tragedy or random act of violence, oblivious to how she had put herself in this predicament. She'd likely be back in the same situation soon, and Victor might not be there to save her next time.
It'd be a kindness to kill her now, whispered a voice in the back of his mind.
Victor ignored the thoughts and left her there, stepping back onto the main street, where the city kept pretending it wasn't rotten to the core.
Hollywood had changed. The glamour was still there if you squinted, but look closer and you'd see the cracks. Street preachers with hidden cursed marks shouting bastardized sermons about salvation. Vendors hawking talismans that wouldn't protect you from a cold and more likely to give something worse. Rats scuttling by with eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. The air itself felt heavy, like the city was pressing down on everyone, daring them to breathe.
A block ahead, he saw two homeless men fighting over a half-eaten sandwich on the ground, clawing and growling like animals. Three teenagers stood nearby, phones out, livestreaming the brawl with cruel laughter.
“Yo, smash that follow button if you want us to throw in another burger,” one teen shouted, grinning into the camera. “Street Fight Sundays, baby! Let’s gooo!”
Victor’s stomach twisted with disgust. The demon infestation wasn’t the only rot in the city.
As he passed another corner, a preacher shouted from atop a stack of stained milk crates, Bible in one hand, his other waving with wild fervor. His voice was cracked and righteous.
“And lo, the Lord said, ‘Suffer not the weak, for they have already failed His test! Their hunger is their punishment!’”
Victor paused just long enough to make eye contact. The man’s eyes were glazed, lips cracked with something dry and wrong. There was a curse mark on his neck—barely visible, hidden behind a stained collar. His sermon continued.
“Repent by offering your strength! Sell not your soul cheap—make it count! For the Devil pays more than God ever will!”
Victor moved on.
He felt spikes of pain in his soul, alerting him to minor infestations nearby—demonic vermin skulking in the alleyways. He lamented that the infestation wasn't in some rich person's house, where it could have been a profitable job.
He knew the cost of all the magic floating around, everyone did—innocent blood for a little power, your soul in chunks for the rest. People thought they could game the system, but they always lost.
The pain in his body intensified, urging him to get home and pour a drink.
The Lido was only a few blocks away. Once, it was a crown jewel of Hollywood, a place where starlets sipped champagne and whispered secrets in its golden halls. Now, it was Victor's home and office, crumbling at the edges and reeking of old glamour gone sour.
The eviction notice was still taped to his office door, the words "FINAL NOTICE" bold enough to make sure he couldn't ignore them. He ignored them anyway. As he reached for the knob, the door unlocked itself. Though such technology wouldn't surprise anyone in 2038, Victor's lock was powered by blood magic, evident by the glowing, blood-red ritual symbol that briefly appeared on the door as it unlocked.
By now, Victor was grimacing from the pain, radiating through his body, his face slick with sweat. He pushed through the door into the dim room.
The place looked like a cliché: wooden floors scratched to hell, files stacked on every surface, an unorganized file cabinet, and a tall bookshelf crammed with large tomes so thick with dust their titles were illegible. The room smelled of old paper and mildew, like a forgotten library. The desk held overdue bills and a bottle of Soul Shine—the only thing that dulled the ache from wounds that never fully left.
The bottle looked like it came from a third-rate alchemist's shop—round and stubby, with uneven, cheap glass warped by imperfections and bubbles. It felt fragile, as though it might shatter under careless fingers. Inside, the dark blackish-purple liquid swirled lazily, faintly glowing like a dying ember. The weak light matched the impure and low-quality Soul Shine it held.
Victor poured a glass, watching the liquid shimmer faintly, a reminder of the magic eating him alive one drink at a time. He knew it was killing him, but it was the only thing that numbed the pain—a pain that lingered from every injury he'd ever endured. Though his wounds healed, the agony never faded. The Soul Shine dulled the excruciating pain to something barely tolerable.
He knocked it back and let the burn settle, then poured another, leaning into his squeaky chair with a sigh.
The knock at the door came sharp and deliberate, the kind you remember. He froze for a moment, glass halfway to his lips, then set it down. He hadn't heard that knock in years, but he knew it.
