The subway car lurched forward, fluorescent lights flickering overhead as we barreled through dark tunnels beneath the city. five days had passed since Malachai's visit to my apartment. Five days of avoiding coworkers concerned glances, of wearing high-necked clothing despite the unseasonable heat, of pretending I couldn't hear the thoughts of strangers around me.
I gripped the metal pole tighter, trying to focus on the mundane sway of the train rather than the cacophony of darkness flooding my senses. It was getting worse. In the beginning, I could only hear fragments stray thoughts from people in close proximity. Now it was like tuning into a thousand radio stations at once, each broadcasting the worst parts of humanity.
The businessman across from me adjusted his expensive tie while contemplating how to hide money from his wife before the divorce.
*She'll never find the Cayman account. Stupid bitch deserves nothing.*
A teenager two seats down scrolled through her phone, outwardly bored, while seething with hatred.
*I'll post the photos tonight. Everyone will see what a slut Maddie really is. Her life will be over.*
The elderly woman beside me, seemingly sweet with her floral scarf and gentle smile, was mentally calculating how much more she could steal from her grandson's college fund before anyone noticed.
I closed my eyes, but it only made the voices louder. Worse still was the hunger that accompanied them. A gnawing emptiness that responded to these dark thoughts like a starving animal catching a scent. I could almost taste their malice, their cruelty, and selfishness. Something in me wanted to devour it.
When the doors opened at my stop, I practically ran onto the platform, desperate for air, for space, just anything that might quiet the noise in my head. The markings on my back burned beneath my shirt, a constant reminder of what Malachai had told me about what I was becoming.
My apartment offered temporary relief. I'd discovered that burning sage and drawing salt lines around my living space created a buffer against the mental noise. The methods came to me instinctively, as if some buried knowledge was surfacing alongside my transformation.
I collapsed onto my couch, rubbing my temples. The hunger was a constant companion now, an emptiness nothing could fill. I'd tried everything—gorging on food, exercising until exhaustion, even meditation but nothing helped.
My laptop sat on the coffee table, open to dozens of tabs on demonic lore. After days of resistance, I'd finally begun researching, starting with academic sources before descending into occult forums and ancient texts digitized by dubious websites.
Most of it was nonsense, but certain elements resonated with disturbing familiarity like demons who fed on human sins, markings that revealed a demon's true name, and the ability to perceive the darkness in human souls.
One particular passage from an obscure 17th-century text had kept me awake for two nights. It says, *The Collectors walk among men, bearing the marks of their true nature upon their flesh. They hunger for the corruption of mortal souls, feeding upon the darkness that dwells therein. Twenty souls must each Collector claim before their transformation is complete to destroy the world.*
Twenty souls. Just as Malachai had said.
I closed the laptop and moved to the bathroom, stripping off my shirt to examine my back in the mirror. The markings had spread further, curving around my sides now, elegant and terrible. No longer could I pretend they were some strange rash or skin condition. They were too deliberate, too patterned of a language I couldn't read but somehow understood was part of me.
A knock at my door startled me. I quickly pulled my shirt back on and moved cautiously to the entryway. Through the peephole, I saw Lisa from work, shifting nervously in the hallway.
I hesitated, then opened the door slightly. "Lisa. What are you doing here?"
"You haven't been answering your phone," she said, concern shows in her voice. "We've all been worried. After what happened with Amy, and then you just disappearing..." She trailed off, studying my face. "Can I come in?"
The thought of letting her into my space, with its salt lines and occult research, made me uneasy. But refusing would only raise more suspicions.
"Sure," I said, opening the door wider. "Sorry about the mess. I've been... researching."
Lisa stepped inside, her eyes widening slightly at the state of my apartment. Books and printouts covered every surface, strange symbols drawn on scraps of paper, bundles of herbs hanging from makeshift hooks.
"Research for work?" she asked hesitantly.
"Personal project," I mumbled, clearing a space on the couch for her. "Can I get you anything? Water?"
"I'm fine." She said, and sat down cautiously. "Ariel, what's going on with you? Everyone at work is talking. Amy swears you moved faster than humanly possible, and your eyes..." She paused. "Martin's talking about mandatory leave. He thinks you're having some kind of breakdown."
I laughed humorlessly. "A breakdown. That would be simpler, wouldn't it?"
"What does that mean?" She asked, seeming curious.
I considered telling her everything. The markings, the voices, Malachai. The words rose in my throat, then died. She wouldn't believe me. Or worse, she would, and then what? I'd be dragging her into something dangerous, something I barely understood myself.
"It means I've been going through some... changes," I said carefully. "Nothing to worry about. I'll be back at work on Monday, good as new."
"Changes," Lisa repeated, her expression seeming skeptical. "Ariel, if you're in some kind of trouble—"
"I'm fine," I insisted, standing abruptly. "Really. I just need some time."
As she rose to leave, I caught a flicker of her thoughts, concern mixed with fear. *She's hiding something. Her eyes look different. Almost like they're glowing around the edges.*
I turned away quickly, escorting her to the door with reassurances that everything was fine, "I just needed rest, see you Monday, sorry for worrying everyone."
When the door closed behind her, I slumped against it, exhaling slowly. I couldn't keep this up much longer. The lies, the hiding, the pretending...
As if summoned by my resignation, a familiar voice spoke from the shadows of my kitchen.
"Your friend is right to be concerned. You're not well."
Malachai stepped into the light, immaculate as always in his tailored black coat. He looked around my apartment, taking in the research materials with mild amusement.
"Quite the scholar now, right? Finding anything useful?" Malachai asked.
"How do you keep getting in here?" I demanded, though the question felt pointless now.
"I told you. Physical barriers mean little to our kind." He picked up one of my books, flipping through it casually. "Interesting choice of reading material, though most of it is nonsense written by humans who've never encountered a real demon."
I crossed my arms, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "And you're the expert?"
"I've been what you're becoming for over five centuries," he said simply. "So yes, I believe that qualifies me."
Five centuries. The casual way he mentioned it sent a chill through me.
"The hunger is getting worse, isn't it?" Malachai continued, setting down the book. "You hear their thoughts more clearly now, feel their darkness calling to you. It's maddening, I know."
"I'm not going to kill anyone," I said firmly, though my voice shook slightly.
"Who said anything about killing?" Malachai raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you think this is about? Slaughtering humans for sport?"
"You said I needed to collect souls," I countered. "That sounds like killing to me."
"So literal," he sighed. "This is why I prefer to guide new collectors through the awakening. You've developed some rather unfortunate misconceptions."
He moved closer, his dark eyes studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen. "You don't need to kill humans to take what you need from them. In fact, most will never even know what you've done. Think of it as... a spiritual amputation. You remove the corrupt, gangrenous parts of their souls. The darkness they've cultivated through choice after choice."
"And what happens to them afterward?"
"Some experience a moment of clarity, suddenly unburdened by their worst impulses. Others feel nothing at all, the darkness already so much a part of them that its absence leaves no impression." He shrugged elegantly. "It varies."
I turned away from him, moving to the window that overlooked the city. Lights sparkled in the distance, thousands of lives unfolding, each with their own darkness.
"Why me?" I asked quietly. "Out of all the people in the world, why was I chosen for this?"
"Your soul was marked centuries ago, as I told you," Malachai replied. "Your bloodline carries certain... qualities that make you suitable vessels."
"Vessels?" I turned back to him sharply. "For what?"
"For what you're becoming." He spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. "A Collector. An arbiter of a very specific kind of justice."
"Justice," I repeated skeptically. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call removing the worst parts of humanity, one soul at a time?" Malachai countered. "The cruel, the predatory, the malicious parts that cause so much suffering? Is that not a form of justice?"
I had no answer for him. The concept was too foreign, too overwhelming to process fully.
"I want to reject this... ?"
Malachai's expression darkened, a shadow passing over his handsome features. "Then the hunger consumes you from within. The markings spread until they cover every inch of your skin, burning like acid. Your mind fractures under the weight of every dark thought you can hear but cannot feed upon." His voice dropped lower. "And when your human form finally collapses under the strain, you will return to Hell for an eternity of torment for having failed in your purpose."
The clinical detachment with which he described my potential fate sent ice through my veins.
"Hell is real, then," I whispered, not really a question.
"As real as the air you breathe," Malachai confirmed. "Though not quite as humans imagine it. More... bureaucratic."
A hysterical laugh escaped me at the absurdity of the statement. Bureaucratic Hell. Of course.
"So those are my options," I said when I'd collected myself. "Become a soul-collecting demon or suffer eternal torment."
"Put that way, it does sound rather coercive," Malachai admitted with a slight smile. "But I prefer to think of it as fulfilling your destiny. Becoming what you were always meant to be."
I sank onto my couch, suddenly exhausted. The hunger in me pulsed like a second heartbeat, demanding attention. The markings on my back burned beneath my shirt. Everything Malachai said resonated with a terrible truth I could no longer deny.
"Twenty souls," I said finally. "That's what the text said. What happens after I collect twenty souls?"
"Your transformation completes," Malachai replied. "You will become fully powerful for what you are meant to be, no longer caught between worlds as you are now. The hunger will stabilize, you will gain full access to your abilities and finally destroys the world of the living."
"And then what?"
"Then you have choices," he said, his expression softening slightly. "More than you might think."
We sat in silence for several minutes, the weight of my decision hanging in the air between us. Finally, I spoke.
"I want to see it," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "Show me how it works. One soul. No killing. I need to understand what I'm agreeing to."
Malachai's smile was warm with approval, almost proud. "A wise request. Tomorrow night, then. I know just a perfect being for you tomorrow."
He rose to leave, pausing at my door. "Rest tonight, Ariel. The path ahead requires strength."
After he left, I remained on the couch, staring at nothing. The voices in my head had quieted slightly, as if responding to my tentative acceptance of what I was becoming. The hunger too seemed less urgent, more patient.
I thought of my life before all this. the museum, my work restoring beautiful things, my simple, human existence. It seemed distant now, a fading photograph of someone I used to be.
Tomorrow night I would cross a line. Not fully committing to the path Malachai offered, but taking the first step toward understanding it. Toward accepting what I might no longer be able to escape.
I was no longer fighting my transformation. That, in itself, felt like surrender. So I'm destined to destroy the world of the living...
****