THE SCREAM SHATTERED THE silence. Steven Henderson jolted upright from the sweat-soaked sheets, chest heaving, skin gleaming under the dying orange hue of dawn leaking through cracked blinds. His breath came hard and heavy, as if he'd just outrun something monstrous. His eyes, once full of fire, were now pale reflections of fear, haunted by visions that hadn't faded with the sunrise.
He sat motionless for a moment, listening.
Nothing. No demons. No fire. Just the ticking of the crooked wall clock and the low, mournful hum of a thunderstorm slowly retreating into the hills beyond Texas.
His bare chest shimmered with sweat, no, not sweat. Rain. His boxers were soaked through. The old window above his bed hung open by a nail and the storm had crept in during the night, dripping its chill and dampness straight onto his sleeping body.
Steven muttered to himself, voice hoarse. "I had a bad dream…"
But he knew better. That thing wasn't just a dream. It never was.
The room smelled of mildew and whiskey. The rotting floorboards creaked as he swung his legs out of bed. Rain had formed little pools beneath his feet, and the cold bit into his soles as he stood up, unsteady. He ran a hand down his face and over his lean torso, scars etched like forgotten history across his skin. Each mark had a story, but only one of them still screamed. His hand grazed an unopened bottle of whiskey on the small wooden table by the window. The label was dusty, untouched. He stared at it for a long while, as if the bottle might hold answers. Or courage. Or the Devil himself.
But what caught his eye was the bra. It hung limply over a wooden chair in the corner, near his weathered leather jacket and dusty jeans. He stared at it, jaw tightening.
Her name wasn't spoken. Not yet. But it echoed in his bones. Every part of her still lingered in this house—her voice, her laughter, her scent.
Then—creeeaaaak.
Steven turned sharply, breath caught.
The front door. Slowly swinging open.
He froze, instinct kicking in. Every part of him tensed. Not again. Not another vision. Not another damned test from whatever Hell he was supposed to fear.
And then she stepped in.
Alejandra Jones. Wearing boots caked in desert dust, a black leather jacket three sizes too small, and a smirk that could slice glass. Her red streaked hair glistened with leftover rain, sticking to her cheek like war paint.
She stopped when she saw him. Her teasing smile faltered.
Steven, soaked, shirtless, wild-eyed, and shaking, it wasn't the Steven she remembered. He looked like he'd stared into Hell and Hell had blinked.
Alejandra whistled low.
"Well... someone's either just seen a ghost, or had one hell of a dream."
She stepped inside with a muddy crunch, her voice sharp and playful but carrying something deeper—concern. She didn't wait for permission to approach.
Steven didn't answer.
"You gonna keep starin' like that, or offer me a towel?" she teased. "Or maybe just let me keep admiring the whole... tragic-hero-in-boxers thing you've got goin' on."
Alejandra wasn't the same anymore. The wild fire in her voice had simmered into something heavier, more controlled, more dangerous. Her words still cut like blades, and her smirk still curled with double meanings, but the storm behind her eyes had grown colder.
Steven said nothing as he motioned toward the nearby chair. She didn't ask. Just dragged it across the floor, its rusted legs screeching like nails on bone. She sat, crossing one leg over the other, eyes scanning the dim room like a hunter scoping for ghosts.
On the table, half-lit by the lazy swing of a ceiling bulb, stood a dust-slicked bottle of whiskey. She grabbed it, inspecting the label that had long since peeled away.
"Classy," she muttered.
She raised the bottle to her lips. But the moment it neared her mouth, she froze. Her nose twitched. Then— "Ugh, god." She jerked it away, gagging. "What the hell, Steven? Did a demon piss in this?"
Steven cracked a dry smile.
"Haven't touched it in months."
"Yeah, I can smell the heartbreak and mildew."
She set the bottle down with a thud, wiping her mouth like she'd just kissed regret.
"Next time offer poison, it's less offensive."
Steven also replied the same "Okay."
Alejandra glanced around the room, her sharp eyes taking in the story the walls whispered. Cracks ran like scars across the faded plaster. The floor was littered with clothes, shirts, jeans, a sock draped over the arm of a chair like it had given up trying to be found. There was a bra near the corner, long forgotten. The place smelled of damp wood, rust, and old memory.
"You livin' in a haunted motel now, Henderson?" she said, her voice dry with amusement. "You trying to seduce demons with laundry decor?"
Steven didn't respond. He just stood there, shirtless, breathing heavy, his skin damp with sweat that hadn't come from heat. His eyes were distant, flicking past her, like he was seeing something only he could.
Alejandra raised an eyebrow, leaning forward, her voice dipping low and playful again. "Unless... you're trying to impress me. Boxers and ghost stares? Real smooth."
That did it.
"Stop it!!!" Steven snapped, his voice like a gunshot in a coffin.
Alejandra blinked. The smirk died on her lips.
That wasn't the Steven she remembered. That wasn't teasing back. That was broken glass under bare feet. That was rage hiding something darker.
She leaned back slightly, her playful confidence giving way to concern. "Okay," she said, quiet now. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I was being eaten alive…" Steven muttered, his voice barely more than a rasp.
His hands gripped the sides of his head as if he could claw the madness out. His breath came in shallow gasps, eyes darting across the room, not focusing—haunted. The soul inside him clawed and howled beneath his skin, a storm threatening to break loose.
Alejandra stood frozen, her smirk long gone, replaced by a quiet, cold focus. She'd seen demons. She'd seen hell. But this, this was different. This was someone being consumed from the inside out.
Without a word, she turned on her heel and left.
Moments later, the door creaked again. She stepped back in, rain glistening on her shoulders, carrying a worn leather bag. She tossed it onto the table with a heavy thud.
Steven didn't flinch. But tears—tears streaked with rage—welled up in his eyes. Not weakness. Not grief. Fury wrapped in despair.
Alejandra opened the bag and pulled out a book, old and heavy, its cover cracked and branded in hellfire symbols.
"Devil's Will."
Alejandra pushed the book toward him, her fingertips lingering just long enough to show it wasn't easy handing it over.
"It's called Devil's Will," she said, her voice low, steady. "Not some bedtime story or a dusty grimoire. This, this shows how to control the hellfire. Not just survive it… use it."
Steven glanced at it, eyes trembling. The leather burned faintly under the lamp light, runes glowing like old embers refusing to die. He didn't reach for it. Not yet. He looked at her instead.
"Why now?" he asked.
Alejandra exhaled sharply. "Because whatever's inside you… it's not just screaming. It's waking up. And if you don't learn to ride the fire, Steven—" she paused, jaw tight, "you'll burn down everything trying to save you."
For a moment, silence.
Rain outside. The ticking of a crooked clock. A torn curtain swaying in the breath of a cracked window.
Steven finally reached forward, fingers brushing the cover.
The heat bit into his skin.
Steven sat with the book resting in his lap, the lamp's flicker dancing over the embers engraved into its cover. He didn't open it yet. Just held it. Like it might bite.
Alejandra sat across from him now, legs crossed, arms resting over the curve of the chair. Her smirk was gone. So was the teasing. Her eyes were fixed on him, steady, searching.
"You remember what I said the first time we met?" she asked, voice softer than usual.
Steven chuckled dryly, running a hand over his wet hair. "Something about my 'angel eyes' not matching the devil's soul?"
"I meant that," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Back then you still smiled. Now? You've gone hollow."
Steven's mouth tightened. "I'm still here."
"Are you?"
Silence again. Thunder grumbled above the roof. Steven turned his gaze out the window, toward nothing.
"I don't sleep, Alejandra. Not really. Every time I close my eyes, it's there. Fire, chains, screaming. The road's never-ending. And it always ends at the same place."
"San Venganza," she said, finishing it for him.
He nodded, breathing shallow.
"It's like I'm being pulled there. Like… something's waiting. Something I know, but can't remember. It wants me to come."
Alejandra stood up slowly, walked toward him. Her shadow cast long and uneven in the dim light. She knelt beside him, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Then maybe this isn't about running from it anymore. Maybe it's time you ride straight into it."
Steven's eyes met hers. A flash of that old pain flickered behind them, grief, fury, guilt. And under all of it, something darker… older.
He looked down at the book again, and slowly opened it. The pages hissed like fire meeting cold wind. Words not written in ink, but carved, scorched into flesh-thin parchment.
"You're not alone in this," she added. "But if you keep pretending you are, you won't survive."
Steven stared at the burning script.
"I'm not trying to survive anymore," he whispered.
Alejandra's eyes widened slightly.
"Then what are you trying to do?"
He looked up, something deeper, darker moving in him now. He blinked his eyes twice, saying nothing...