Chapter 1: THIS NEVER ENDS

  The rain drizzled down the windows of the black van as it slowed to a halt in front of a towering mansion on the Upper East Side. The kind of place that reeked of old money and fear. Milo stepped out, the faint scent of ash and leather trailing behind him as his boots touched the wet pavement.

  He stood still for a moment, staring up at the house—three stories of stone and stained glass. Behind him, John climbed out from the passenger side, clutching the worn brown satchel that held their tools.

  “You sure it’s not just a prank?” John asked, adjusting his coat against the cold. “Kids in rich families do weird things for attention.”

  Milo didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the upper floor, where a single light flickered erratically in the corner window.

  “His eyes were black,” he said finally. “No whites. No pupils. No kid fakes that.”

  John went quiet.

  The door swung open before they could knock. A tall man in a silk robe stood there—Edward Beckett, one of the city’s most influential businessmen. But tonight, he looked like a broken father.

  “He’s upstairs,” Beckett said quickly, stepping aside. “Ethan. My eldest. It started four days ago. Voices. Screams. The staff all quit. My wife left the house yesterday. Said she couldn’t bear the sound of him anymore.”

  Milo walked past him without comment, his eyes already scanning the dark interior. The scent of lavender and old wood hung in the air. But beneath it—something foul. A metallic bitterness.

  Up the staircase, the lights dimmed as they passed. At the end of the hallway stood a tall oak door, slightly ajar. A whisper escaped through the gap—guttural, in a language that didn’t belong on Earth.

  Milo reached into his coat and pulled out a strip of paper, marked with handwritten symbols in ink so dark it looked like blood. He pushed the door open.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The boy hovered a foot above the bed, body rigid. His head twisted unnaturally toward them, mouth curled into a grin that wasn’t his own.

  “So,” the voice said, though the lips barely moved. “The grandson of Elijah arrives.”

  John shuddered. “It knows who you are…”

  “Of course it does,” Milo replied, voice low. “He taught me everything it fears.”

  The boy’s body jerked violently, and the lamp on the nightstand shattered without warning.

  “You stink of holy fire,” the demon spat. “Your blood is cursed.”

  Milo stepped forward, placing the talisman on the floor beneath the boy. He knelt beside it, murmuring the words his grandfather had made him memorize under candlelight and pain.

  “Adligo te, spiritus malignus, in nomine flammae sacrae.”

  The reaction was instant. The boy’s body was thrown against the far wall, limbs stretched, as if held by invisible chains. He screamed, voice splitting into two, then three, before fading into a sickening moan.

  John hesitated. “Is it over?”

  Milo shook his head. “No. It’s hiding. Demons like this—they cling.”

  He turned to John.

  “Petrol. My right hand.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  John opened the bottle with shaking fingers and poured the liquid over Milo’s palm. Without flinching, Milo struck his lighter. Flames bloomed across his hand, the fire licking his skin without consuming it.

  He walked slowly toward the boy.

  “You want fire, demon? You’ll have it.”

  With a final chant, he pressed his burning palm to the boy’s chest.

  The room exploded in light.

  A scream tore through the mansion, high and inhuman. The windows shook, the floor creaked. Then—silence.

  The boy dropped to the floor, unconscious, breathing shallow but steady.

  Milo extinguished the flames on his hand with a cloth, then walked to the door without a word.

  Edward Beckett met them in the hall, terror and gratitude etched into his face.

  “He’ll live,” Milo said. “But keep him away from dark corners. And mirrors. For a while.”

  Beckett tried to thank him, but Milo was already moving down the stairs.

  ---

  Later that night, back at the office

  The room was dimly lit, papers and relics scattered across the desk. Milo sat on the edge of a leather armchair, bandaging his hand while John poured two cups of black coffee.

  There was a knock at the door. No one was outside.

  Instead, a sealed envelope lay on the floor. Thick parchment. No return address. Just a crimson wax seal in the shape of a dragon.

  Milo opened it silently. John watched his eyes scan the letter.

  “Well?” John asked.

  “They want help,” Milo murmured. “A small town. China. Something old is stirring. And they’re willing to pay... handsomely.”

  John leaned back, sighing. “This never ends.”

  “No,” Milo agreed. He looked out the window at the stormy sky. “And it never will.”

  ---

  Hey everyone! Thanks for reading this. Let me know what you think! If I ever feel a bit bored, don’t worry—it’s just the beginning. I’ll do my best to give you the best I can. Share it around if you like it!"