Chapter Two
Damian
I stayed long after closing at VitalityFit, letting the final echoes of clanging weights and the hum of the air-conditioning fade into silence. On most nights, a handful of dedicated gym rats might have lingered for after-hours training, but with the springtime storms rolling in—thunder growling in the distance and lightning fracturing the sky—the place had emptied out fast. Even Marcellus Kane, the gym’s owner, and my boss in more ways than one, had left hours ago for one of his nocturnal business meetings. That was all the better for me. I relished the solitude.
I stepped onto the main workout floor, the overhead fluorescent lights casting stark reflections off the gleaming row of treadmills and ellipticals. My footsteps reverberated across the rubber mats. The air smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant, mingled with the lingering tang of human sweat. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, letting my supernatural senses parse the cocktail of leftover emotions that clung to the equipment, to the very walls of this place.
Want, greed, desperation —they all left traces behind. Humans rarely realized how potent their feelings were, and how their insecurities could feed something beyond their comprehension. Here, each pang of envy or surge of ambition remained in the air for hours. In my centuries as a demon, I had learned to read those subtle hints as easily as a mortal might read a neon sign. A half-suppressed moan of dissatisfaction clung to the bench press where a man had grunted angrily about plateauing. The elliptical near the windows still vibrated with the anxious energy of the woman who feared she’d never reach her ideal weight.
I pried myself away from the ambient feast, forcing my mind back to discipline. Gluttony was frowned upon in my realm—one had to harvest with care, like a gardener pruning a rosebush. Too much too fast, and the client might flee or break entirely, leaving us with no ongoing source. Marcellus had reminded me of that in the past. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Still, something about this small town of Sweetberry Hollow gave rise to more varied flavors of emotion than I’d encountered in my last few assignments. Perhaps it was the veneer of idyllic charm behind which lurked a constant fear of not measuring up. Small fish, small pond—yet they all desperately vied for the best house, the best body, the best local reputation. I could practically taste it all now, and the combination was delicious.
I headed down the hallway into the staff lounge, flipping on one of the softer overhead lights. The lounge doubled as my makeshift office. Most personal trainers kept their motivational posters and pictures of transformations pinned up on these walls. Mine were bare. A single table, a few chairs, a locked filing cabinet in the corner. I didn’t need photos of “before and after” success stories. The success of my real mission was recorded in far darker places.
Dropping onto the chair nearest the battered wooden table, I pulled out a tablet. My daily logs filled the screen, where I meticulously documented each client’s emotional progress. Sure, for appearances I tracked weight loss, muscle gain, reps completed—but my real focus was the intangible readouts. The dips into frustration, the highs of vanity, the lumps of disappointment. Over time, I’d learned to convert those intangible states into the subtle nourishment that my kind required. That was what Marcellus demanded, too. He might run VitalityFit for profit on the human side, but on the demonic side, he was the pipeline to our realm. My job was to keep it flowing.
I scrolled through the logs of three of my favorite “regulars,” the ones who had already proven particularly bountiful:
Rex McGraw: Local bodybuilder and owner of Apex Luxury Customs—a high-end car body shop catering to the wealthier residents of Sweetberry Hollow. Rex had the type of vanity that soared each time he admired his reflection in our full-length mirrors. His ambition to sculpt the perfect physique mirrored his hunger to stay on top of the local custom-car scene. He was never satisfied, always pushing for another inch on his biceps, another endorsement deal. Perfect for me.
Stirling Chanel: A social media influencer who never stopped snapping selfies—her phone was practically an extension of her hand. She harnessed filters and angles to hide every imagined flaw, but inside, anxiety and insecurity churned like ingredients in a blender. To keep her brand relevant, she constantly craved novelty—new workout trends, new hashtags, new angles. She feared the day her followers might abandon her. Her brand of anxiety was pungent, constant, and so easy to stir with a small nudge.
Pam Peterson: Recently separated mother of two, frantic to obtain a “revenge” body she believed would heal her broken self-esteem as well as her marriage. Pam wasn’t quite as flamboyant as Rex or Stirling, but her need for validation tasted sweeter than any dessert. Every time she broke a sweat on the treadmill, she whispered resentments toward her ex and self-deprecations about her aging figure. The mixture of bitterness and yearning was exquisite—though I had to be cautious, as heartbreak could sometimes push humans into the bleakness of despair rather than the slow-burn frustration we preferred.
I tapped each name to review the day’s notes. Rex had come in that morning, complaining about how he felt ‘flat’ on stage during his last bodybuilding show, resulting in coming in second place instead of claiming the trophy. I’d carefully fanned the flames of his frustration, urging him to up his routine, do more reps, push the envelope. As expected, he left the gym practically snarling about how he’d crush the competition next time. Win-win : he stayed subscribed to the advanced personal training package, and I got a steady supply of ambition verging on rage.
Stirling had posted a dozen new stories on her Instagram from the squat rack, complaining about “super toxic gym bros,” even though nobody had bothered her. She was manufacturing drama to gain sympathy likes. I knew her routine by heart—she’d stir a scandal, then swoop in with some discount code for her sponsors. All I had to do was occasionally validate her fears—“ Yes, you should watch out for haters, you’re so brave ”—and her anxiety soared in that delicious way. Another day’s worth of intangible energy for me.
Pam had texted me to cancel today’s session, claiming she felt too depressed to leave the house. I frowned at the message. That was risky. I needed my clients functional, or at least present enough to keep feeding me those negative energies. Tomorrow, I’d call her, coax her back into the routine, remind her that she was on the verge of “a breakthrough,” and it was only a matter of time and having a manifestation mindset. Humans were painfully predictable, and a tiny bit of hope could reel them right back in.
Sighing, I set the tablet aside. Even these three prime sources were beginning to feel routine, like sampling the same meal daily. I’d caught myself feeling…bored. That was dangerous for a demon who thrived on chaos. Perhaps it explained the restless spark in my gut. Everything was still going according to plan though—so why did I feel uneasy?
A soft ping alerted me to a new email. I picked up my tablet again. This message was from the VitalityFit membership system. The subject line read: New Client Sign-Up: Lily Green .
I opened it. Lily Green, 29, real estate agent. The short personal note field read: “ I need this more than anything. Determined to succeed .” I stared at the words, re-reading them twice. A subtle thrill ran through me. Her emotional profile was flagged as “ High Engagement Potential ,” a label assigned by the software’s guesswork about her readiness to commit. But I trusted my own senses more. I could practically smell her desperation and drive. Perfect .
I zoomed in on her notes for more. She was precariously close to failing in her career, living under the shadow of near-failure, and chasing self-confidence with the fervor of someone who believed it would fix every aspect of her life. That combination of longing, fear, and ambition could yield a feast beyond the usual “I want bigger arms” or “I want more followers.” Lily needed me in a way few others did. I found the corners of my mouth curving upward.
“Interesting,” I muttered into the empty lounge. My voice echoed off the white walls. Another client, yes—but from these lines alone, I sensed a spark that might be different. There was a warmth to her words, an undercurrent of humor that suggested she wasn’t purely self-centered. She could be…complicated.
Focus, Damian , I reminded myself. She was another potential asset, not a puzzle to solve. Don’t forget your purpose. But that same restlessness that had haunted me for months now ticked at the base of my skull. Lily Green could stave off that boredom, at least temporarily.
I tapped out a quick note to follow up on her scheduling. The system showed her first appointment was set for the day after tomorrow, at nine in the morning. Perfect timing—my early sessions with Rex would be done by then, leaving me free to devote my full attention to Lily. I felt an unexpected flicker of eagerness. Typically, I’d approach new clients with calm detachment, but Lily’s profile, combined with my own stir-crazy boredom, made me want to skip the next 36 hours altogether.
The rational part of me chuckled darkly at the irony: a demon impatient to meet a mortal. Usually, mortals were the ones anxiously awaiting a savior or solution to their troubles, not the other way around. Shaking my head, I powered down the tablet, deciding I’d gleaned enough for the night.
Before heading home, I liked to do one last pass around VitalityFit. The building was large and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows in the front that displayed row after row of shiny equipment. The back half contained smaller studios for classes like spin, yoga, and Pilates—although the most fruitful spiritual journeys took place in my domain of personal training, not in any yoga session.
Tonight, low thunder rattled the glass, accompanied by fleeting flashes of lightning. I strode through the main training area, verifying each station was in order. My reflection haunted me in the mirrors: tall, broad-chested, black hair just brushing my collar, a neatly kept full beard and short handlebar mustache that set me apart from the typical “clean-cut trainer” image. It was a brand of sorts—a carefully curated aesthetic that humans either found charming or intimidating. Either way, it worked in my favor.
Stopping at a corner lined with heavy bags for boxing, I drummed my knuckles against one of them. My mind roamed, lingering on the demonic realm’s demands. The ancient contract that bound me to this life flickered in my memories. Sometimes, I recalled the moment I’d agreed to become a collector of human emotions. The details were hazy—demonic deals often were—but the outcome was as clear as the lightning outside: I was shackled to this existence, compelled to gather enough intangible energy to feed the realm’s insatiable hunger.
In big cities, I’d gleaned from thousands of frenetic souls, mostly absorbing their adrenaline, vanity, or paranoia. Sweetberry Hollow, though smaller, offered a different flavor. People cared fiercely about their reputations and appearances, priding themselves on small-town values while competing in a subtle but relentless game of keeping up with neighbors. This environment was a gold mine for a demon like me. Yet… boredom had set in lately, a sense that I was going through the motions. Perhaps I’d grown too adept at my job, too numb to the routine.
Until now. Until Lily’s name landed in my inbox, prodding that dormant spark of curiosity. I realized that for the first time in months, I felt an edge of excitement about a new client. It was a sign that I needed to be careful. The cardinal rule was never to get involved beyond extracting the necessary emotions. I’d seen others fall prey to fascination or pity for humans, leading to disastrous ends.
I let out a soft breath, pressing my palms against the heavy bag. My eyes drifted shut, and I called up a faint flicker of demonic power. In the gloom, if someone had been watching, they might have seen my pupils flare with an eerie glow. My biceps tensed, and I delivered a single slow punch to the bag. It swung back violently, the chain rattling. The motion felt too easy, too light—an extension of my inhuman strength. Usually, I kept that hidden, delivering only gentle demonstrations to inspire awe in my clients. But here, alone, I allowed a glimpse of my true nature.
The bag slammed back against my knuckles with a dull thud, swinging wildly. The surge of power left me tingling, but it was fleeting. I forced my body to relax. The flicker in my eyes subsided, returning them to a deep, dark brown that humans would find merely intense. That was enough of a reminder: I was a predator among unsuspecting prey, and I had to keep it that way.
Early the next morning, I arrived at VitalityFit before sunrise. Rain had given way to a calm, misty dawn, painting the sidewalks silver with morning dew. A few birds chirped in the budding dogwoods that lined the parking lot, nature’s optimistic chorus to greet the day.
As usual, I spent the first hour reviewing the day’s schedule, sipping black coffee that did nothing for me physically—demons didn’t need sustenance in the human sense—but it allowed me to blend in. By six a.m., Rex McGraw burst through the doors, his duffel bag slung over one hulking shoulder. He made a beeline toward the free weights with the swagger of a man used to admiration.
“Morning, champ,” I said, meeting him by the bench press rack.
“Coach,” Rex grunted. He dropped the bag, rolled his massive shoulders, and eyed the barbell as if it insulted his mother. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time—about pushing my chest routine further. Let’s do it.”
I hid my smirk. Rex was as predictable as ever. “You mentioned wanting to add more size. That’ll take heavier lifts. You ready?”
His nostrils flared. “I was born ready, man.” He slapped a 45-pound plate on each side, then another set, going for a daunting weight that made the bar bend slightly. His arrogance crackled in the air like static electricity, feeding me even as I guided him through the exercise. Each time he grunted, straining to complete a rep, I tasted that blend of vanity and underlying fear—fear that he wouldn’t remain on top, that someone bigger, stronger, wealthier might usurp him. Yum. I coaxed him on, offering just enough encouragement to keep him hungry, never satisfied.
Thirty minutes later, Rex was drenched in sweat, chest heaving, but eyes gleaming with triumph. I clapped him on the back. “Good work. Keep your diet and supplement plan on track, and you’ll see gains.”
He exhaled hard, a grin splitting his rugged face. “Hell yeah. Gonna order some new gear for my next competition, too—maybe a custom posing trunk with the Apex Luxury Customs logo. Gotta show off the brand, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. He was so enamored with himself that no more prodding was necessary. “Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” he said, grabbing his bag and walking off. As he passed a mirror, I saw him pause, flex his arms. Typical. My chest warmed with the energy he left behind. Humans were truly the gift that kept on giving.
Next was Stirling Chanel, prancing in a little after seven, her neon pink leggings screaming for attention as much as her phone’s ring light. “Dami-aaan,” she sang, offering a half-wave while filming herself. She turned the camera for a wide shot of me, presumably for her followers.
I feigned a polite smile, keeping my voice smooth. “Morning, doll. Ready for leg day?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I guess. My glutes need some serious shaping or so says half my comments. My last reel only got forty thousand views.” She said it like it was a personal tragedy.
Forty thousand. She’d likely be upset if she knew how many centuries I’d spent collecting emotions from mortals, each century witnessing entire civilizations rise and fall. Her whining about a dip in social media engagement was laughable—yet useful. “Let’s focus on the movements that target your glutes then,” I said. “And maybe we’ll get some good progress shots to share later.”
Her eyes lit with that influencer gleam. “Yes! Perfect. Let’s do it.” The phone’s camera was still rolling, capturing a half-dozen vanity angles. Anxiety pulsed from her in waves, like an open faucet: she worried about losing followers, about the next big influencer overshadowing her, about fine lines around her eyes. Every nudge I gave—“You sure you don’t want to push a bit harder, for that extra tone?”—replenished that anxiety with a fresh gush of self-doubt.
We ran through squats, lunges, and hip thrusts. Between sets, she filmed updates, breathlessly telling her audience how she was “ in it to win it ” or “ leveling up .” If they only knew the real demon in the room. I masked a laugh, finishing up by recommending a couple more exercises she could do at home. She beamed, hugging her phone to her chest.
“You’re the best, Damian,” she said, stepping closer in a conspiratorial whisper, phone momentarily off. “Don’t forget to share that video from earlier. I need to tag you. Collaboration, you know?”
“Sure.” I gave a polite nod. We parted ways, and she floated off, already posting stories about her “ celebrity workout .” Even from across the gym, I could sense the roiling swirl of her emotions. Insecurities about her next filler appointment, her curated feed, her next sponsorship. I’d done my job. She left VitalityFit with her heart racing from both the workout and the panic that she might not be good enough. Business as usual.
Pam Peterson was a no-show. I spent ten minutes in the lounge, texting her gentle reminders. She claimed a headache and “family issues.” I recognized the signs: her separation was probably weighing on her more than usual. With a deft touch, I typed: Pam, you’ve come so far already—take a moment and remember your goals. You got this. I’m always here for you. Hope, a glimmer, to reel her back in tomorrow. Couldn’t let her sink too deep.
The clock in the lounge read 11:30 a.m. I showered off quickly in the staff restroom, changing into a fresh black T-shirt and track pants. I was done for the morning, technically, but as I walked past the front desk, I felt a faint twist of that restlessness again. I caught my reflection in the tinted windows near the entrance. I looked the part—tall, athletic, somewhat mysterious. The person I’d carefully crafted for centuries. But inside, I felt an odd emptiness creeping in. Lily wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Somehow, that single fact spurred an irritation at the slow pace of time.
I shook off the feeling, heading to my office behind the gym’s main floor. The overhead lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow on the spartan room. Marcellus had left a note taped to my desk: Check in with me about the monthly emotional harvest update . Right. Another reminder of my true purpose. I curled my lip. I knew I was well above the month’s quota, but that wouldn’t stop him from dissecting every figure, every potential shortcoming.
Sitting down, I keyed in the data from my morning sessions. Rex: buoyant arrogance with an undercurrent of fear. Stirling: near-constant vanity, boosted by fleeting moments of self-loathing. Pam: absent but recently trending toward heartbreak. Summaries of their emotional arcs. All in a day’s work. Then I pulled up Lily’s profile once more, reviewing it again like it was a new recipe I wanted to try.
Lily Green. Real estate agent. Possibly lacking the over-the-top narcissism of some other clients. Instead, she presented a blend of stress, ambition, and the longing to transform. A perfect trifecta—if handled carefully, it could be explosive. The data was standard. Yet my reaction to it was not. I wanted to meet her sooner. I wanted to see if the intangible “spark” I sensed was real or just a figment of my bored imagination. My mouth watered.
Shutting the tablet, I stood to stretch before heading back out to the gym to meet my first afternoon client. Walking through the building, I made sure to don my standard expression of calm confidence. The staff smiled at me—some with subdued admiration, others with casual camaraderie. None had the slightest idea I was a demon, centuries old, feeding on the human psyche. My facade was bulletproof. Even so, I rehearsed it sometimes, ensuring the right posture, the right tone.
Just as I was about to leave for the night, Marcellus strolled through the main entrance. He wore tailored slacks and a crisp button-down shirt, looking more like a Fortune 500 CEO than a gym owner. Our eyes met, and his lips curved in a sharklike grin. “Ah, Damian. Just the creature from hell I wanted to see.”
I inclined my head. “Coming in to check on the new membership numbers?”
“Among other things.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so no staff could overhear. “I trust you’ve noticed our monthly harvest is slightly below last quarter’s peak. The realm expects better.”
I suppressed a surge of annoyance. “We’re on track. We had a high last quarter because of holiday anxieties. That’s natural.”
“Perhaps. Still, I’d hate for us to stagnate.” His eyes glimmered, and for a moment, the mask slipped, revealing the ancient malice behind his human guise. “We have new sign-ups, correct?”
I offered a thin smile. “Yes. Lily Green, among others. She shows promise.”
Marcellus’s gaze sharpened. “I glanced at her file. Fragile, lacks confidence, pressed for time. Good conditions, if handled properly.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said, failing to hide a hint of bite in my tone. “You’ll get your numbers.”
He studied me for a moment before placing a hand on my shoulder in a mock-fatherly gesture. “Relax, Strong. Just remember the plan. Keep them striving for perfection. A secure, self-satisfied client does us no good.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze, then withdrew. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
I watched him walk away, a wolf in businessman’s clothing. My teeth clenched. I’d grown used to his oversight, but sometimes I resented the reminder that I was leashed to demonic obligations. My sense of free will was an illusion, nearly as constructed as my persona. And now I’d be under even more scrutiny if Lily’s arrival didn’t yield fresh energy for the realm.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I glanced up at the swirling sky. It felt like the hush before a downpour, a charged anticipation hovering in the damp air. Something was coming. Either way, Lily’s first session couldn’t arrive soon enough.