The forest was drowning in shadows. Moonlight spilled through gaps in the canopy like silver threads, weaving patterns on the dirt road that cut through the darkness. The night was still, unnaturally so—no chirping of crickets, no rustle of leaves, as though the world itself held its breath.
A lone figure walked that path.
Tall, elegant, but with a presence that whispered of danger, he carried himself like a creature untouched by time. His black hair glimmered faintly beneath the moon's glow, and his crimson eyes glowed faintly, betraying the power he carried. He was not human. He was something far older, far more terrible.
A demon.
And not just any demon—one of the highest, feared even among his own kind. His dominion was over shadow and flame, his power enough to bend the wills of lesser creatures. And yet, tonight, that power meant nothing to him.
He walked aimlessly, his long strides carrying him deeper into the human world. For centuries he had lived by instinct and purpose, certain of who he was. But lately… the certainty had begun to fracture. A gnawing confusion plagued him, an ache that no war, no conquest, no abyss of the underworld could satisfy. So he wandered, seeking something he could not name.
His thoughts were broken by the sudden hum of an engine.
Headlights pierced the dark, scattering the shadows like frightened birds. The demon's gaze narrowed, crimson reflecting against the blinding beams as he turned his head.
A car hurtled down the road, weaving dangerously from side to side.
The faint sound of music leaked through the air—tinny from cheap speakers, but strangely haunting. The words floated into the demon's ears with startling clarity:
"Hello darkness, my old friend…"
Inside the car, a young man gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His eyes were rimmed red from alcohol and grief, his lips moving silently with the song. The weight of the world pressed down on him—loss, betrayal, emptiness. His heart was a battlefield of memories he wanted to forget. The bottle on the passenger seat clinked every time the car swerved, nearly empty.
His life was unraveling, and in his drunken haze, he had chosen speed over reason, recklessness over safety. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, he hadn't cared what the outcome would be.
The demon's first instinct was disinterest. He had seen humans destroy themselves countless times. Their lives were brief, fragile, and soaked in sorrow. What was one more wasted existence to him?
And yet—something compelled him to stay.
The car swerved harder now. Tires screeched against the asphalt, fighting for grip. The young man's face twisted in panic, too late to regain control.
The inevitable came.
Metal screamed as the car slammed against a tree. Glass exploded, scattering into the air like shards of stars. The sound echoed through the silent forest, then faded into stillness once more.
Smoke rose from the hood. The music still played, warbled and broken but clear enough for the words to carry into the night:
"I've come to talk with you again…"
The demon stood there, unblinking, his crimson eyes fixed on the wreckage. He could walk away. He should walk away. Mortals were not his concern. Their fates were their own.
But his feet carried him forward anyway.
Through the smoke, he saw the young man slumped over the wheel. Blood trickled down his temple, dripping onto his shirt in a slow, steady rhythm. His chest rose and fell shallowly. Alive, but barely.
The demon clenched his jaw. He cursed softly in his own tongue, a word that had not been spoken in the human world for centuries. This man was not his responsibility. And yet—
He reached out. Darkness bled from his fingers, coiling like black mist. It seeped into the human's body, finding the wounds, steadying the faltering heartbeat, stitching torn flesh with shadows. The smell of iron and smoke faded, replaced by something warm, fragile.
The young man stirred. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes cracked open—dazed, unfocused, yet undeniably alive. And for the briefest moment, their gazes met.
Crimson against hazel.
His lips parted, a weak, trembling whisper escaping. "…a demon?"
The word hung in the night like a prayer and a curse all at once.
The demon's expression tightened. He should have erased the memory, should have cloaked himself back into the night. But he didn't. He stood there, silent, watching. Something strange curled inside him—unwelcome, dangerous.
The radio sputtered once more, the broken song filling the air with its mournful echo:
"…the sound of silence."
And in that silence, beneath the wreckage and smoke, two worlds collided—one ancient and cruel, the other fragile and fleeting. Neither would ever be the same again.