Chapter 1: The Devil's Deal

Yeah, I’m a washed-up reporter. There, I said it.

Once, I had a reputation. A byline people recognized. Now I’m just another guy drowning his regrets in a dim bar, my press pass buried in my wallet. Every night, it’s me, a whiskey, and the ache of what I’ve become.

He was a ruthless murderer. A murderer. Ruthless.

Not the kind you read about in the papers—well, not until I start writing about him. He’s a shadow in this city, a rumor in the alley, and somehow, he’s the reason my name still pops up in headlines—even if it costs me pieces of my soul.

When we work together, I always manage to catch the wildest stories—the kind that make headlines. Raking in the cash and headlines.

It’s a sick partnership, really. I chase the story. He makes sure there’s one to find. My camera lens becomes a silent witness. My articles, the public’s twisted entertainment. Yeah, the paychecks get fatter, the applause louder. But every time I cash in, I feel a little less like myself.

But at the same time, I watch one life after another get snuffed out in front of my lens.

I used to think I was just doing my job, documenting the world as it is. But the world I’m shooting? He’s the one twisting it. And I’m in on it. The faces in my photos haunt me at night, their eyes accusing, even as the world cheers my work. I can’t shake them.

Until one day, the tables turn. Suddenly, I’m the one being hunted.

Now, the spotlight’s flipped. The hunter’s on the run. I can feel the eyes on me—cold, unblinking, just waiting for my story to end.

"Ethan Grady. You want to turn your life around or what?"

That call came when I was falling apart in a grimy bar in Toledo. One of those places where the jukebox never works. Where the air smells like stale beer and old dreams. Lately, I’ve been drinking too much. Way too much. Heading out after work just to get wasted, not even pretending to hide it. The bartenders at my regular haunts all roll their eyes when I stagger in, like they’re tired of watching me spiral. Can’t blame them.

"Turn my life around? Who the hell’s this?" I barked into the phone, slurring a little. The voice was a stranger’s, but he sounded like he knew me better than I knew myself. My head throbbed.

"The former 'Beacon of Journalism,' Ethan Grady, now doing worse than an intern. What’s even more pathetic? You’re about to get canned." He sneered, words sharp as broken glass. "You tell me, aren’t you just a dead fish?"

…

That stung. Hit me right where it hurt. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles went white. "Who are you?" I managed, trying to sound braver than I felt.

"Who I am? Doesn’t matter. What matters is if you want to fix your life. If you do, do what I say." His voice was unhurried, almost bored. "Tonight at midnight, something’s going to happen at Oakridge Apartments. If you get there in time, you’ll hit the jackpot. Remember to bring your camera!"

My battered Nikon was still in the car. A relic from better days. I tried to steady my nerves.

"Why should I trust you? Hell, I don’t even know you," I snapped, suspicious, fighting the urge to hang up and crawl back into my bottle.

"You don’t have to trust me. Just don’t regret it." He let out a laugh that made my skin crawl and hung up before I could say another word.

I looked at my watch—just over half an hour until midnight. Half an hour. What the hell am I doing?

Should I go? Should I just forget it? My gut twisted.

My boss hates me. She’s been dropping hints for weeks. One more screw-up and I’m out. The newsroom’s gotten colder, my desk closer to the door every week.

Just this morning, she tore into me at a meeting, calling the article I stayed up all night writing "worthless garbage." Getting chewed out in front of everyone? Nothing stings worse. I can still feel the burn of their eyes, the awkward silence when I slunk back to my seat.

I wanted to rip off my badge, throw it at her, and storm out like a badass.

But I didn’t have the guts. Thirty-five. Too old to start over, too young to quit.

So I swallow my anger. Again.

After work, I went out to drown my sorrows again, beer after beer, until I was hammered…

I work hard. Doesn’t matter. Hard work doesn’t mean squat. Sometimes it’s just luck. If I can’t find good news, should I just make something up?

Thinking of that, I stood up and ran out. My head spun, but I didn’t care. People at the end of their rope will grab at anything. Real or not. I had to try. Maybe I really would get lucky!

I swear, I’ve never driven so fast. My hands shook the whole way.

At five minutes to midnight, I arrived at the address the man gave me. Five minutes to midnight. My heart hammered as I pulled up.

Oakridge Apartments are in a rundown part of Toledo, filled with all sorts of people—a haven for low-income residents. Honestly? It’s a slum. The kind of place where the streetlights flicker and nobody asks questions after dark.

It was late. Most people in the building were asleep. A few scattered lights flickered in the darkness, like scattered fireflies. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional barking dog.

So quiet. Was I here to shoot ghosts or just my own shadow?

I lit a cigarette and laughed at myself. The smoke curled in the cold air, and I watched it drift, wondering if I was chasing a ghost story or just my own fading reputation.

Midnight. Still nothing. My nerves were shot. Everything was silent, nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing louder than the night was my own heartbeat, thumping in my ears.

I started to think I’d been played. Serves me right. Trusting a stranger. Risking a DUI for this dump.

Damn scammer, you’d better hope I never see you! You better hope I never see you, pal. I tossed my cigarette and stomped toward my car—

And then, something happened. Something I never saw coming.

Something fell from the sky, landing hard behind me. A wave of air slammed into my back, making me stumble, heart racing.

I turned. My brain short-circuited.