Diabolic Disaster

               𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥    𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕖'𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕞

              𝕀𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝔻𝕖𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕠 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕

He needed to find a place to stay the night. He couldn’t go back and let her see him this way. Let her see that he’d made a mistake, that he’d let the target have the upper hand for even a moment. The target was successfully eliminated, but even the fact that he’d been wounded would be enough for her to punish him. She’d done it for less before.

Limping into an abandoned shed, he’d slide down the wall, gently lowering himself back to the ground. It would heal, and with a human weapon it wouldn’t leave a scar. Not like her wounds would.

His eyes would slip shut, just wanting to sleep but he could feel it already. She knew. That feeling of static in his head, the tug of the contract. She could feel that he was injured, but she wouldn’t hunt him down. She knew he’d have to return eventually, lest she release him from the contract and let him die.

And it was times like this he wished she’d just do it.

How long would it take once the contract was dissolved? For all of the energy to cycle out of his body? For each of his organs to shut down, and in which order? Would his heart stop first, letting him go faster or would it be last, forcing him to endure the agony for as long as possible?

And it was thoughts like that, that kept him coming back.