He could feel the connection between them, a faint tether from the contract binding her to him, an instinctive awareness of her presence, thoughts, even her discomfort.
And she could feel it too.
After a long pause, Faust tilted his head slightly.
"Just to check something…" he said softly.
"Let me see your underwear."
Cynthia's face twisted in outrage.
She tried to protest, but no words came.
Her body moved on its own, trembling as she unfastened her trousers and slid them down, revealing her underwear and the skin beneath.
Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the ground, humiliated.
Faust studied her for only a few seconds before waving a dismissive hand.
"I understand," he said calmly.
"Put your clothes back on. I don't care how you handle the rest of this situation. I'll contact you when I'm ready."
And just like that, he vanished.
The body of the man whose heart he'd torn out disappeared along with him, leaving the alley oddly quiet.
Meanwhile, Faust reappeared atop the high fence at the alley's end, surveying the view beyond.
A faint smirk curved his lips as he murmured to himself:
"I think I've lost most of my desires as well."
Standing at the edge of the high fence, Faust stared out into the distance, the salty breeze ruffling the trousers now hanging loosely on his hips.
The moon cast a soft sheen across the waves below, rolling, endless, indifferent.
He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to be doing. Coming back from the dead didn't come with a manual.
Who planned for that, anyway? Dying, sure.
But dying and coming back? That was a curveball life, or whatever force ruled it, liked to keep in its back pocket.
His thoughts coiled in on themselves like smoke.
"I died a stupid, accidental, yet strangely typical death. I wasn't murdered. I wasn't sick. It just… happened. Traffic accident. Boom. Gone. At my age, I was already ahead of the average lifespan. I had a few years left to pension, some lazy Sundays, maybe a mild health scare or two. Was I a good person? Not really. Do I regret it? No. That's just who I was… who I am."
He slapped his cheek lightly.
The sound echoed faintly over the hill.
"Still. I've been given a second chance, something people beg for on their knees and still don't get. Do I deserve it?"
He shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. Most people don't deserve half the things they get. The point is, I'm here now. I can only be what I am, and if I've got eternal life… let's see what I can really make of it."
A slow smirk curved his lips as he turned to the dead man slung over his shoulder.
The guy's shirt was too torn and blood-soaked to salvage, but the trousers? Clean enough.
He stripped the corpse with mechanical efficiency and slipped into the pants.
A bit loose, but comfortable.
He looked down at the lifeless body, gave it one last once-over, and casually hurled it over the fence.
The body bounced off a few rocks, then splashed into the sea below, swallowed whole by the darkness.
Faust turned back toward the alley.
Cynthia was still there, frantically dragging Samuel's limp body, screaming for help.
Her cries echoed faintly, but they barely registered to him; however, it wasn't long before she got an audience.
His gaze shifted slightly left to something else.
A tug on his awareness, subtle but unmistakable.
It was the other thread, the second contract.
Clinton.
The man had given him everything, karma and ownership rights, but Faust had only taken the first half of the deal, specifically the karma.
The mechanics of it annoyed him.
If the man offered everything, why had the contract only allowed him to claim part of it?
But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Built-in limitations.
Protections.
Rules.
The contracts weren't designed to be loopholes for him.
They were agreements.
Balanced, binding.
Fair.
Annoyingly so.
Some clauses were non-negotiable: for instance, neither party could directly harm the other while the contract was in effect.
But nothing said anything about harming people around them. Still, that felt like a waste of time.
And more importantly… unnecessary.
It wasn't just his abilities that had changed.
His thinking had, too.
He wasn't weighing options like a man anymore.
He wasn't pretending to be something dark.
He was dark.
His mind didn't ask,
"What would a demon do?" It simply acted on instinct.
The reasoning came after.
And in that clarity, he saw two truths.
First: no human on this planet could harm him. That was just a fact, even if he didn't fully understand the mechanics of it yet.
Second: he had all the time in the world.
Literally.
So why rush anything?
Patience wasn't just a virtue.
It was inevitable.
Time was a luxury Faust had in abundance.
So why rush? Everything he wanted would come back to him eventually and with interest.
"The literal definition of a deal with the devil," he murmured to himself, chuckling under his breath.
With a simple thought, Faust decided to jump to the location of his contractee.
A strange pressure built in his chest as though he were about to fall forward over the fence.
He made no move to stop it.
Instead, his body dissolved into black ash, scattering into the breeze only to rematerialize in front of a hospital entrance several streets away.
He turned to glance back.
The hilltop fence was a distant speck now.
"Damn. Guess he took a cab," Faust mused as he spotted Clinton sprinting out of a taxi, arms dangling broken and useless, screaming for help.
Clinton was so focused on getting into the building that he didn't even notice a bare-chested man standing off to the side.
Within seconds, hospital staff had whisked him into the emergency room.
Faust stood there a while, shirtless and unconcerned with the curious stares gathering around him.
His mind drifted to other possibilities.
"I wonder… how many profitable deals could I make in a place like this?"
He glanced up at the modest two-story hospital.
Maybe 100, 150 people inside.
Of those, how many might be desperate enough to want supernatural healing? A handful, maybe forty.
But how many could afford the price he'd demand? Servitude wasn't useful if he ended up with a horde of people he had no practical use for.
Besides, he was here for more mundane needs.
He stank.
He needed a bath, clothes, real food, and, crucially, money. Hopefully, Clinton's finances were decent enough to bankroll Faust's next few days.
And there was another limitation.
He realized that initiating a contract seemed to drain him, but not in the way he'd expected.
It wasn't just karmic energy, it felt as if each time he offered a contract, he gave away a sliver of his soul.
Tiny fragments, barely noticeable, but still a piece of him.
The upside was that every deal he closed refreshed him, growing his power along with the karmic energy he harvested.
As this realization solidified in his mind, Faust couldn't help but grin.
"Being a demon has its stressful bits," he admitted.
He started walking toward the hospital doors but was immediately halted by a uniformed security guard who stepped in front of him, hand resting lightly on his sidearm.
"Sir… are you okay?" the guard asked, scanning him up and down.
"Yes," Faust replied blandly.
"You… do realize this is a hospital, right?" the guard pressed.
"I do."
"And you're sure you're okay, sir?"
"Is there a problem?" Faust asked, polite but faintly impatient.
"Well, for starters, I can't just let you stroll into a hospital buck naked. This isn't a place for a fashion statement, trust me. Everyone in there's dealing with wounds, physical, mental, or… spiritual. You walking in like this ain't helping any of them. So, please… go get some clothes, then come back."
Faust studied him calmly.
Fair skin.
Average height.
Round belly pressing against the guard belt.
Balding.
Soft, kindly eyes.
Compassionate, Faust concluded.
After a moment, he spoke up:
"Could you spare me some cash, then? I need clothes… and a bath. I smell atrocious. I promise I'll pay you back with interest, you have my word."
The words slipped out naturally, as though some instinct deep in his new nature urged him to bargain, even for something as trivial as pocket money.
Before Faust could even finish the sentence, the guard pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it into Faust's hand.
"Don't worry about any interest, or paying me back," the guard said firmly.
Then he rummaged around and handed him another five.
"And get yourself something to eat while you're at it."
Faust blinked at him.
He accepted the $25 cash with a gracious nod and turned away from the hospital.
As Faust disappeared into the street crowd, another guard walked over.