Me and the Devil: I sold my soul

The night sky over London was drowned in fog, swirling like a curtain of hell yet to be drawn open. Damp wind rattled the windows of the Milverton estate, streaking the glass with endless rain.

Inside the master bedroom, ragged breathing filled the still air. On a bed draped in white sheets stained with blood, Charles lay wounded and deathly pale. Bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen, still soaking through with crimson. His face had lost all color. Cold sweat drenched his brow.

By his side, Vespera sat in silence. Her violet eyes gazed at his wounds—unblinking, tormented. Her hands trembled as she changed the dressing, fingers normally graceful now clumsy and unsure. Drops of blood stained the hem of her long black skirt.

"Idiot…" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "You stupid, reckless idiot... why did you go without telling me?"

She bit her lip, hard. Her right hand reached out, gently brushing Charles' chilled cheek.

"You think your body can't break, don't you? That immortality means you don't feel pain?"

Charles breathed heavily. Though nearly motionless, he was still alive.

Vespera bowed her head, silver hair falling like a curtain over her face. She pressed her palm against the wound, dark magic seeping from her skin, winding into his broken flesh. A faint violet glow illuminated the sheets.

"You've forced me... to use this magic…"

Charles stirred slightly.

---

It had been three days since the incident.

Charles had yet to wake.

Vespera hadn't slept at all. She sat at the bedside without rest, watching him through the silence. Sometimes she rose to change the water, to prepare broth, and then sat back down—like a broken clockwork doll that continued to move out of hatred for stillness.

On the fourth night, his fingers twitched.

Vespera stood up in an instant.

"Charles?"

His eyelids fluttered open. Blurry, unfocused—but he smiled faintly.

"...You look like the angel of death."

Vespera snorted. "You're half-dead and still joking?"

"If I die… will you cry?"

She fell silent.

Then answered, "No. But perhaps… I'll burn this city to the ground."

---

That night, Charles fell asleep again. Vespera sat out on the balcony, accompanied by the cold wind and pale moonlight. She gazed out over London from high above. Her eyes were heavy. Her hair, a silver tangle in the breeze.

She spoke softly, as if to her own shadow.

"If I could be born again… I'd want to be human. So I could love you... without having to kill you in the end."

Unbeknownst to her, Charles was awake, listening from behind the open curtains.

---

The next morning, Charles sat weakly on the bed, watching Vespera as she brushed her hair by the window.

"Vespera."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever loved anyone?"

She turned to him. Their eyes met. Silence hung between them like the threads of fate.

Vespera walked over and sat beside him. She didn't smile. There was no flirtation. Only raw, honest quiet.

"I have," she said. "But only one man was mad enough to embrace a demon."

Charles opened his mouth, but didn't speak.

Vespera stood, her hand gently stroking his hair.

"Our contract will end the moment my lips meet yours… for the last time."

She turned away, and in that fleeting glance back—her eyes looked almost human. Soft. Vulnerable. Wounded.

"And until that day… I won't kiss anyone."

Then she left the room.

---

Atop the Milverton estate's clocktower, Vespera stood alone. The wind tugged at her dark cloak. In her hand, she clutched a small pendant around her neck—inside, a single strand of Charles' hair, taken while tending his wounds.

She stared out at the sleeping city below, and in her heart, there was only one thought:

>"You are my fall, Charles. And perhaps… the only thing I've ever allowed to break me willingly."

---