(Aaron's POV)
Yuuta Kounari.
That name… it echoes in my head, but I don't know why. I don't know what he is to me.
A friend?
An enemy?
A stranger?
But beneath the surface—beneath all the empty spaces in my mind—something burns. A silent ember smoldering in the pit of my soul.
A whisper.
A guilt I can't name.
It feels like a wound—an old wound, buried deep where no light can reach. I can't see it. I can't touch it. But it's there. I feel it with every breath I take.
And every time I try to remember…
It hurts.
A sharp, splitting pressure clamps down on my skull, as if invisible hands are crushing my head from the inside. My vision blurs, twisting into colors that don't belong. My pulse screams in my ears.
Why?
Why can't I remember?
All I know is this:
I made a contract with a demon.
And ever since that day…
Everything went black.
Yuuta's eyes fluttered open, sluggish, half-lidded. They were glazed with pain, yet somewhere in that broken stare was the faintest spark of life.
I stumbled towards him, heart racing, knees hitting the cold stone as I dropped to his side.
"Hey—hey, can you hear me?" I said, my voice cracking. My hands hovered uselessly above him, unsure where to touch without causing more harm.
He blinked, slowly, as if it took every ounce of strength to move. His lips parted, a rasp of breath escaping.
"You…" he croaked.
The word hung between us, heavy with meanings I couldn't grasp. He wanted to say more—wanted to curse me, maybe. Or call my name.
But his body betrayed him.
He coughed violently, crimson splattering across his chin. The sight of that blood—it froze me. His hand trembled like paper caught in a storm as I reached out, clasping it in both of mine.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, squeezing gently, my voice trembling. "I don't know what I did to you, but… I know it was something terrible. Something I can't undo."
Yuuta coughed again, his breath shaky but a bit clearer this time. His eyes softened, though the pain never left them.
"It's… not you," he rasped, his throat raw and broken. "It's Allen. You were… innocent…"
Innocent.
The word felt foreign. Wrong.
"No…" I said, shaking my head, fighting the sting in my eyes. "I wasn't. I let that thing inside me. I made the choice. I became his pawn. I ruined lives…"
A tear slipped down my cheek. I didn't bother to wipe it away.
"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why did I fall for it? Why did I let the demon in?"
Yuuta, with what little strength he had, lifted a hand. His fingers brushed through my hair, weak but tender. A touch that wasn't supposed to be forgiving—but it was.
"You did nothing wrong," he murmured, barely audible. "Everyone… has a reason to become evil…"
The words struck me like a blade. My heart clenched. I wanted to reject them. Scream. But I couldn't.
Instead, I tore strips from my shirt, hastily trying to wrap his wounds. His arms were mangled, his legs twisted at angles they weren't meant to bend. His nails—gone. His joints—dislocated. Every inch of him was broken, yet somehow… still breathing.
"I'll save you," I muttered, more to myself than to him. "You're going to live. You have to. I owe you that much."
But as I worked—hands trembling, breaths shallow—something changed.
I felt it first in my chest. A hollow, sinking weight that made it hard to breathe.
Then my limbs.
Numb.
Heavy.
A coldness seeped into my bones, spreading like ice in my veins.
"What… what's this feeling…?" My voice quivered, brittle with fear.
Yuuta's eyes widened, a flicker of terror passing through them.
He forced out a single word, each letter scraping his throat raw.
"R-…U…N."
I froze.
My mind struggled to comprehend. Why was he telling me to run? Who was I supposed to run from?
"Yuuta… what do you mean? Why are you saying that?" My hands trembled as panic clawed up my spine.
But then, I saw it.
My fingertips—blue.
Frostbitten.
I stared at them, horrified, as the numbness crawled higher. My breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. My joints ached. My ribs felt like they were caving in.
"I… I can't feel my hands…"
Yuuta didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The truth was already there, reflected in his eyes.
I was dying.
"No…" I whimpered. "No, not now… I can't die here. I don't want to die!"
Desperation took hold. I dragged myself across the stone floor, my legs frozen stiff, useless. My fingers dug into the dirt, pulling my weight inch by inch toward the cave entrance. The cold bit deeper with every movement, but I refused to stop.
"I'm sorry, Yuuta… but I had a dream…" My voice cracked. "I wanted to become a Writer… a simple life… just peace…"
My hand struck something solid.
I looked up.
At first, it was just a shadow.
But as my vision adjusted, I saw her.
A woman.
She stood tall, her long, white hair cascading like silk under the moonlight. Her violet eyes glowed—cold, unfeeling. She didn't flinch. She didn't speak. She looked at me like I was nothing.
And then—
Pain.
A sharp, blinding agony tore through my chest. It felt as though invisible claws were ripping me apart from the inside. I gasped, my nails clawing at my ribs, but no sound escaped my throat.
She watched in silence, not a hint of pity in her gaze.
"I told you…" she said, her voice cold enough to freeze rivers. "Never show your face to me again."
She stepped past me, her silhouette vanishing into the dark as if I didn't exist.
And just like that—
It all came back.
Her voice.
Her face.
That power.
Erza.
With her words, the dam shattered. Memories flooded my mind—sharp, merciless.
Everything I did.
Every life I touched.
Every life I destroyed.
The contracts.
The lies.
The sin.
I remembered Now…Everything
They say when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
I used to think it was just a myth—something people said to sound poetic.
But now, as the cold tightened around my chest and the world faded to gray…
I realized it was true.
Because in that moment,
All the memories came flooding back. My last frozen tear finally melted, sliding down my cheek. Why… why was I born this way?
I was born in Los Angeles, California. My father was American, a respected figure in the acting world. My mother was Korean, a rising actress known for her elegance and grace. Together, they were a power couple in the film industry—a perfect image of beauty and success.
And then there was me.
Their golden child.
From the moment I opened my eyes, people said I was born to be a star. Blonde hair like woven sunlight, ocean-blue eyes that seemed to glow on camera, and a sharp, defined jawline that photographers loved. My face… it was a gift.
A gift that brought fame. Riches. Worship.
By the age of five, I wasn't just a child anymore—I was a brand. Magazines fought over who would put me on their covers. Directors lined up for a chance to have me on their film sets. I was a prodigy, a "once-in-a-generation face."
And when I turned eight, the world gave me a title.
The Guinness World Record for "Cutest Kid in the World."
People clapped. Flashes from cameras blinded me. My parents smiled wider than I had ever seen. To them, I wasn't just their son. I was their masterpiece. Their living, breathing trophy.
For a while, it felt good. For a while, I believed I was special.
But good things... they never last, do they?
The fire came when I was nine.
It was supposed to be a simple shoot—just another commercial.
A kitchen scene, fake flames, safety precautions. Routine.
But something went wrong.
The fire spread too fast. The alarms didn't go off.
I don't remember much—just smoke, screams, and the burning pain on my skin.
When I woke up, my face was bandaged. My hands were trembling. My chest was tight.
I don't remember much. Just the smell of burning wood… and my own flesh.
Forty percent of my face was gone.
Gone.
The doctors tried. My parents spent fortunes on surgeries, treatments, miracles that never came. But the truth was merciless. The boy with the golden face was gone.
And when my beauty vanished, so did their love.
I remember the first time my father looked at me after the accident. His eyes used to shine with pride when he saw me. That day… they were empty. Cold.
My mother, the woman I thought would hold me, cried.
But not for me.
For my face.
As the weeks passed, their disappointment grew sharper, more poisonous. Whispers in the dead of night, when they thought I was asleep, became daggers that cut deeper than any wound.
"It's a waste," my mother hissed through clenched teeth. "All that money, gone."
"Yes, dear," my father's voice was hollow. "We should try again. Make a new child. One that'll bring our glory back."
Their words carved themselves into my heart.
By the time I turned ten, I was a ghost in my own home. The relatives who once adored me stopped visiting. My classmates, who once wanted to sit beside me, now flinched at the sight of my scars. Whispers turned into mocking laughter. Friends turned into bullies.
They called me things like "melted freak" or "half-face."
One boy spit on my desk and laughed, saying,
> "You're what happens when karma hits celebrities."
And through it all, my parents said nothing.
At home, it was worse.
My father—once my biggest supporter—started to avoid me, or worse, lash out. My mother didn't hide her disgust anymore. They saw me as a broken investment. A useless relic.
The boy who once lit up their world had become their shame.
Years passed.
When I was Twelve, my mother gave birth to my younger brother. He was perfect, of course. Flawless skin, bright smile, that familiar spark in his eyes that people loved.
They called him the "new rising star."
He became everything I once was. And every day he rose higher, I sank deeper.
Age 16
My parents showered him with the love they had stolen from me. The house was filled with laughter again—but not mine. I was treated like a stray dog—fed only when remembered, scolded when in the way.
Worse still, my younger brother despised me. He looked at my face like I was a monster. He learned quickly from our parents.
He was everything I used to be.
And I?
I was nothing.
My father yelled at me for "cursing the family."
My mother told me not to show my face when guests came over.
"Don't ruin your brother's future," she said.
They built a new room for him—sunlight, toys, warmth.
They gave me the cold storage room near the basement.
I started talking less.
Stopped eating properly.
Stopped hoping.
All I ever wanted was to be loved again.
Even once.
But I learned something cruel:
> In this world, if your face is broken,
No one wants to see what's behind it..
I stopped leaving my room.
Days blurred into nights. I stopped counting how long I had been in that cold, dark corner of the house. No one knocked on my door. No one asked if I was okay.
I wanted to disappear.
To fade away quietly.
To die.
Then, one night, he appeared.
"Aaron Muru," the voice slithered through the air, smooth and mocking. "What a pitiful sight."
I sat up, startled. My room was empty—except it wasn't. In the corner, where the shadows bled deepest, a figure emerged.
A man—no, not a man.
His presence was wrong. His grin stretched too wide. His eyes shimmered with an unnatural gleam, like they had seen a thousand souls before mine.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my body frozen with fear.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.
"Allen," he said, bowing theatrically. "Subharshi Subharshi… oh, don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you."
I grabbed a pillow, clutching it to my chest like it could protect me. My heart raced. I had never seen a demon before. Never believed in them.
Until now.
"You poor thing," Allen cooed, crouching down to my level. "Thrown away by your own flesh and blood. Treated like a golden goose that stopped laying eggs. Humans are… fascinatingly cruel, aren't they?"
I couldn't respond. My throat was dry.
"But lucky for you," he continued, his smile darkening, "I can fix everything. Your face. Your fame. The love you crave."
His words were honey, sweet and poisonous.
"I can give you your revenge, Aaron Muru."
Revenge.
The word echoed in my mind, louder than the rest.
Allen's grin widened, sensing the hook sink in. "They used you. Then discarded you. Like trash. Like filth. But you… you can be so much more."
I trembled, tears blurring my vision.
All I ever wanted was for them to love me again.
But in that moment, I realized something.
I didn't want their love anymore.
I wanted them to suffer.
Allen stood before me—calm, composed, a smile carved across his face like it had never known sorrow.
> "Perfect," he said softly. "Now… all you have to do is sign the contract."
"Contract…?"
He gave a slow nod, as if he'd been waiting centuries for this moment.
> "It simply states that I'll become your butler. Or assistant, if you prefer the term. I'll serve you for the rest of your life and grant your every desire."
"My… desire?"
> "Yes," he said, eyes gleaming with wicked kindness. "Women, revenge, power, fame… anything your heart aches for. And in return…"
He stepped closer.
"You'll give me free will. That's all I ask. My freedom… to get a few things done."
I didn't think.
Not about consequences. Not about cost.
Why would I?
I was already drowning. Already broken.
When you've lived in hell long enough, even a demon's hand feels warm.
So I took the pen. And I signed.
And in that moment… I became his master.
My skin healed instantly. The burns faded.
My reflection—once a source of pain—now stared back at me like a dream reborn. Stronger, sharper, flawless. Like the boy I used to be… no, even better..
I rushed to the mirror.
I looked perfect flawless.
Finally.
I laughed. I cried.
I thought—Now they'll see me. Now they'll accept me again.
But Allen's hand landed on my shoulder, firm.
> "You still don't get it, do you?"
I turned.
> "They never loved you. They loved your face. Your fame. The spotlight you brought them."
He stepped back and summoned something into his hand.
A blade. Sleek. Silver. Terrifyingly beautiful.
> "You want to be free? You want closure?"
He handed me the knife.
> "Kill them."
I stared at him in disbelief.
"My… my family?"
> "Yes," he said. "The ones who threw you away. Who replaced you. Who let you rot while they smiled for cameras."
I shook my head. "No. No, I just wanted them to accept me—"
> "They won't. They never will."
"But they'll understand once they're on the ground, bleeding, staring up at the son they abandoned."
I gripped the knife tightly. My fingers trembled.
"I… I can't…"
But then he looked into my eyes—deep, hollow, hypnotic.
And I felt it.
That darkness. That anger.
The ten years of pain. The years spent locked in silence. The cold meals. The loneliness. The scars inside me they never even noticed.
Allen whispered again.
> "Set it free."
And in that moment, I broke.
---
That day, I committed my first sin.
Not because I wanted to.
But because part of me believed it was justice.
Because I was too weak to say no.
Because I let the devil wear the face of hope.
---
To be continued…