---
The building was burning.
Smoke poured through the broken windows of the skyscraper lobby, turning the air into a black tide that clawed down his throat. Sirens shrieked above the roar of flame, but their cry was hollow, a background wail swallowed by the storm. Damian Cross stumbled through the haze, ribs screaming with each ragged breath. His shirt was in tatters, his suit jacket already scorched into rags, and blood slicked his hands.
It should not have ended this way.
The lobby had once been a monument to his empire — polished marble floors, towering pillars of stone, the gleam of glass polished so clean it reflected the city's wealth. He had walked these halls with board members trailing at his heels, investors groveling for his signature, competitors watching with envy. This was supposed to be his fortress, the palace built on the weakness of millions.
Now those same panels sagged and cracked, vomiting fire and falling ash. Flames crawled up the stone like veins, and each explosion of glass rained molten shards across the floor. The acrid heat pressed in from every side, curling his hair, blistering his skin, as if the building itself sought to devour him — a fitting irony, he thought dimly, for a king eaten by his own throne.
And there, through the smoke, stood the thing that had destroyed him.
A vending machine.
It would have been laughable, if he still had the strength to laugh.
He had built his fortune on machines like that — neat coffins of glass and chrome, spread across the world. They had been his armies, patient soldiers, their unblinking panels glowing in every subway, hospital, school hallway, and alley. They had demanded their coins, swallowed the hunger of the poor and the rich alike, and delivered their cheap comforts in exchange. He had called himself their king, half in jest, half in truth.
The Snack King.
He had fed the cravings of millions and turned their weakness into his crown.
And now one machine had betrayed him.
The memory of it cut sharper than the glass in his skin. The candy bar had jammed, twisted mockingly behind the coil. He had cursed it, slammed his fist against the frame, his fury stoked by pride and pain. He was Damian Cross. Billionaire. Predator. He had stared down regulators, toppled rivals, silenced unions, destroyed empires. He would not be mocked by a box of candy.
But the sparks had burst anyway.
A sudden flare of white light. The scream of wires snapping, the crack of glass, the roar of flame. He remembered flying backward, his body slammed into marble, shards tearing into his flesh. The fire had come next, merciless and all-consuming, swallowing his suit, his flesh, his pride.
He had fallen on the cold floor, staring up at the ceiling as it crumbled into flame. His last breath had carried the taste of smoke and iron. His last thought, bitter and incredulous, was not like this.
Then silence.
Not peace. Not heaven or hell. Just silence.
---
At first, he believed it was death. Perhaps it was fitting: no empire, no legacy, just another man swallowed by fire. He had always expected to go out in a blaze, but not like this — not by accident, not by chance. Damian Cross was supposed to fall at the height of a deal, or on top of the world, not sprawled like refuse on his own marble floor.
But then came sensation, creeping back in strange shapes.
His body was wrong. Heavy where it should have been light, hollow where it should have been full. His chest did not rise, yet something hummed steadily inside him. His skin was gone, but he felt surfaces — smooth, cold, unforgiving.
He tried to move his arm. There was none. Tried to breathe. No lungs. Tried to scream. No throat.
And yet there was light.
Not around him. Within.
Rows of candy.
He froze. They shimmered in the glow of something unseen. Bottles of soda gleamed, condensation dripping across their sides. Bags of chips pressed against one another, rustling faintly.
They weren't in front of him. They weren't reflections.
They were inside him.
"No…" His thoughts raced, scratching at the walls of his mind. "No, this is shock. I'm dying. Hallucinating. This isn't real."
But the illusion did not fade. The candy stayed. The soda whispered, fizzing faintly, hissing like trapped serpents. The coil turned lazily, humming with the rhythm of a heartbeat that was not his own.
He tried to look down at himself and nearly retched. He had no flesh. No arms, no legs, no face. Only glass, only steel, only wires and humming circuits.
A vending machine.
The words seared themselves into his skull.
[New Vessel Acquired: Hell-Class Vending Machine]
[Soul Dispenser System Initializing…]
The voice was neither sound nor thought. It was a law etched into his being, undeniable.
"No," Damian whispered into the silence of his mind. "Not me. Not this. I was a king. I was a man."
He forced himself to remember — the boardrooms with polished oak tables, the city skyline glittering beneath him, the rivals he had broken, the lovers who had clung to him for wealth and power. He remembered laughter over champagne, victories signed in ink and blood. He remembered Damian Cross. Ruthless. Respected. Feared.
He could not, would not, be reduced to this.
But the truth pressed closer with every hum in his wires, with every glow of light behind his glass. He could feel the weight of a single coin waiting to exist, pressing at his chest like a phantom debt.
---
The black around him shifted.
A sound echoed in the cavern he hadn't realized surrounded him: claws on stone, slow, deliberate, dragging.
From the darkness a figure emerged.
It was twisted, bent, its skin stretched tight across its bones. Its yellow eyes glowed with hunger, fixed on Damian's faint glow. Its mouth hung open, jagged teeth slick with saliva that hissed as it struck the floor.
An imp.
Damian's terror surged. What is this place? Where am I?
The machine — his body — chimed. A cheerful note, obscene in the silence.
[New Customer Detected]
Species: Lesser Imp
Hunger Level: Critical
The words mocked him.
"Customer?" His thoughts tore into the void. "I am not—this is not—"
The imp pressed a hand to the glass, smearing black filth across his reflection. Its eyes darted across the shelves inside him, and Damian realized with horror that it was not looking at a machine.
It was looking at him.
The voice returned.
[Available Stock]
Soul-Snack (1 Hell-Coin)
Soda of Forgetfulness (2 Hell-Coins)
Mystery Snack Pack (3 Hell-Coins)
His rage boiled. This is madness. I won't play along.
But the imp already had.
It pulled a coin from its pouch — black, etched with writhing runes, foul with brimstone. With a hiss, it shoved the coin into his slot.
Damian felt it.
The coin dropped through him like a stone into water, reverberating through his frame. His mind recoiled, gagging on the sensation of swallowing something without a mouth. Gears turned, the coil shifted, and with a shudder half-mechanical and half-visceral, something slid loose inside him.
A candy bar wrapped in crimson foil fell into the tray.
The imp shrieked with glee, snatched it, tore away the wrapper, and bit down.
For a moment, silence.
Then ecstasy.
The imp howled as its body swelled, muscles bulging beneath cracked skin. Claws lengthened, eyes blazed, power radiated from its frame. For the briefest instant Damian almost believed, I gave him strength. I provided.
Then the scream broke.
Flames erupted from the imp's chest. Fire burst from its mouth, its eyes, the cracks splitting across its skin. It staggered, shrieking, thrashing as molten blood poured from its veins. The cavern filled with the stench of burning flesh until all that remained was a heap of ash and blackened bone.
The machine chimed.
[Transaction Complete]
+1 Hell-Coin Acquired
[Side Effect: Soul Burn – Rumor of Cursed Snack spreads]
Damian froze.
The coin rattled deep inside him, settling in his core. But it was not metal. He felt it — heavier, colder, fouler. A soul, compressed into weight, chained inside him.
"I didn't do this," he whispered to himself. "I didn't kill it. It chose to eat. It chose…"
But the truth whispered back.
He had dispensed the bar. He had accepted the coin. He had profited from its death.
No different than before.
Hadn't he leeched millions from the world, selling sugar and salt, feeding hunger and addiction? Hadn't he laughed when critics called him a parasite? He had told himself it was only business.
Now he was still a merchant. Only the currency had changed.
Damian Cross, the Snack King, had been reborn not as a man, not as a king, but as the very thing he had once commanded.
A vending machine.
But not one that fed bodies.
This one fed on souls.
---
From the darkness, more shadows stirred.
Eyes blinked open, dozens of them, fixed on his glow. Hungry. Curious. Waiting.
Damian could feel the air thickening, charged with anticipation. The single coin inside him throbbed, its whisper magnified until it felt like a crowd. One voice, echoing endlessly, multiplying in the hollow of his chest.
The machine chimed again, soft and inevitable.
[Notice: Queue forming]
[Next Transaction Imminent]
Damian shuddered. For the first time in his life, he felt fear not as a weapon but as a sentence.
And yet, somewhere deep in the echo of his soul, another voice stirred. If this was his fate, he would not endure it as prey. He would sell. He would trade. He would rule again.
The cavern's air cracked with unseen fire. The shadows moved closer.
And the line of customers had only just begun.
---