If not for Robert's arrival, this would've been just another ordinary morning in San Francisco.
Ellen was a middle-aged white woman. Her life was as average as it could get: a drunken husband, a rebellious son, and endless bills from the bank that completely wore down her patience.
"That bitch! That n***r next door had the nerve to mock me about trash sorting. One day I swear I'll blow up her fake boobs with a gun!"
Early in the morning, her husband Dane, still hungover, heard her cursing. Groggy and annoyed in the bedroom, he shouted,
"If you want to kill her, just do it! Or call the cops and let them do it!"
"Don't f***ing wake me up!"
"F***!" Ellen cursed as she chopped a carrot in the kitchen, slamming the knife onto the cutting board.
If she had any decent job skills—or if she weren't middle-aged, out of shape, and lacking the charm to land another provider—Ellen probably would've killed her drunk husband first.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, Ellen suddenly noticed smoke coming from the house next door. Her eyes lit up with an idea.
She ran to the phone and dialed 911.
"I'd like to report a fire. The house next door is on fire—I think someone's committing arson."
"Yes, that's right, it's a Black person."
"My address is on Kearny Street…"
After hanging up, Ellen grinned smugly. She rushed into the bedroom, rummaged through drawers, and found an old camcorder.
She wanted to film the b*tch next door getting shot.
Just the thought of it made her giddy.
Soon, the sound of sirens approached. Two fully armed San Francisco police officers got out of the squad car.
"Hey, George, which house did the caller report?" the burly Jack Bryant asked, hand resting on his holstered gun.
"It's an arson case. Wherever the smoke is, that's the spot."
George hadn't really listened closely, but he quickly spotted smoke.
"There—over there."
It was a rowhouse apartment. The Black neighbor Ellen had reportedly lived to her east. But with a slight westerly breeze blowing in from the sea, the burnt burger in her yard was no longer producing smoke—while thin wisps drifted toward the next apartment over.
So, the two cops went to the far eastern unit.
Coincidentally, that apartment also housed a Black resident: 23-year-old Air Force pilot Will Fortson, home on leave.
Both officers drew their guns. Jack Bryant led in front, with George following behind.
Knock knock knock. Jack rapped on the door, raising his gun at the same time.
Inside, Will Fortson heard the knocking and called out:
"Who is it?"
The officers didn't respond.
Growing suspicious, Will went to the cabinet, retrieved his legally-owned firearm, and cautiously approached the door. He looked through the peephole—and saw two armed cops.
Startled, he stepped back and shouted:
"Who are you?!"
Seeing that he didn't immediately open the door, the officers raised their weapons higher.
"Open up! Open the door NOW!" Jack barked.
Will suddenly remembered something a fellow Black serviceman once warned him about.
War isn't the scariest thing. What you really need to fear… is American cops.
Panicked, Will made a decision that he would regret for the rest of his life.
He opened the door—gun in hand, but lowered, not aimed.
The moment the door opened, Jack Bryant instantly noted his skin color—and the gun.
Gunfire erupted without hesitation.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang! Six shots in total.
Will Fortson collapsed, blood pouring out and soaking the floor.
Only then did Jack yell,
"Drop the gun! DROP THE GUN!"
He stepped forward, kicked the weapon away from Will's hand, and kept the barrel trained on the still-breathing man.
George searched the apartment and quickly returned, panic on his face. He leaned in and whispered,
"Sh*t. He really is an Air Force pilot."
Jack froze. Outside, a crowd had started to gather. His face turned pale as he lowered his gun.
"Call an ambulance!"
He hurried out of the apartment, back to the squad car, and called his superior.
"Chief, we've got a problem," Jack admitted. "I shot a n****r... and he's an Air Force pilot."
"Is he dead?" his boss quickly asked.
"Not yet, but it doesn't look good… I, uh, I fired six rounds."
"You idiot!" his superior cursed, but kept calm—clearly experienced with this kind of situation.
"Get back here immediately. And make sure no one sees the bodycam footage."
"…Got it." Jack hung up, frustrated. He knew this meant a mandatory suspension—at the very least.
Back in the apartment, Will Fortson's breath weakened. His pupils were dilating.
He heard his neighbor Ellen muttering:
"Stupid cops, they went to the wrong apartment!"
Will turned his head and saw Ellen glaring angrily—not at him, but at the Black woman next door, who had miraculously escaped harm.
And then, everything became clear.
"I… I can't breathe…"
The same words spoken by George Floyd and Frank Tyson, two Black men killed by American police.
But Will was luckier.
Just as he neared death, a shadow enveloped him.
"Do you want revenge? Do you want the power of a demon?"
"Kekekeke… Give me your soul!"
Will hesitated—then answered without a second thought:
"I do!"
A pitch-black figure with twisted horns, glowing red eyes, and an ominous presence appeared before him—just like the devils of myth.
He was already dying. What did selling his soul matter?
Besides, Will Fortson felt utterly, absurdly wronged.
If he had been framed, he could accept it—but to be shot because the police got the wrong address? Even Heaven wouldn't know what to do with that!
Sell? Of course he would sell!
The moment he agreed, a floating parchment appeared by his hand. With his last strength, he pressed a bloody palm onto the contract.
Upon signing, the demon conjured a multicolored apple with strange rainbow patterns.
"Eat it, and you will gain the power of a demon."
The apple floated above Will's mouth. He bit into it, ignoring the disgusting taste. Instantly, power surged through him.
His limbs stretched, his body slimmed, and thick black fur covered his skin. His head morphed into that of a giant panther, and a long tail sprouted behind him.
"Huh." Watching through a lesser demon's eyes, Robert raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't expect such a high success rate from this batch."
After consuming the Smile Fruit, Will Fortson had transformed—except for his belly, he had become a sleek, black panther.
His belly was already black, so fur or not didn't matter.
"Interesting. Looks like this pawn will be useful for a while."
Seeing the transformed Will, Robert got new ideas.
"Go, my servant. Unleash your fury!"
"From today on, you shall worship the great Lord of Demons, His Excellency the Demon King."
"At your command, great Lord of Demons."
Will responded reverently, devoutly.
At that moment, he abandoned God—and embraced the Demon King.
From now on, his life and death would be in Robert's hands.
The darkness faded. To outsiders, it all happened in less than a blink—a flash of black light too fast for the eye.
Will, now back in human form, was picked up by the ambulance. Though his wounds had mostly healed, and bullets were forced out by his enhanced muscles, the medics weren't about to lose out on a $1,000+ trip.
That would be very un-capitalist.
So, despite wanting to rush out and take revenge, Will Fortson was strapped to a gurney by overly "enthusiastic" paramedics and shoved into the ambulance.
"F***, my wounds…" Will began to struggle—then had a better idea.
The great Lord of Demons… needed a grand entrance.
End of Chapter