A man with greyish hair, an old-fashioned leather jacket, and jeans stood with arms crossed, leaning on the aquamarine tiles of the operating room. His presence didn’t belong in the sterile scene, but he remained unbothered.

  “Very well. That should be everything,” a blood-stained surgeon announced, pulling off his gloves with a sigh.

  “So… he managed to stick it this time too,” the man said flatly, pushing himself off the wall and stepping toward the lights.

  “He’s a tough one,” the doctor replied. “His current wounds were bad enough, but while prepping him, we saw scars from worse things.”

  The man gave a slight nod, already turning to leave, when the doctor spoke again.

  “By the way, you usually bring in crooks riddled with bullets. Instead, it is a boy, one with significant concussions. Just what the hell did you put him through?”

  “Nothing. It was his own bidding,” the man muttered. He stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. “I only brought him here because he doesn’t have social security.”

  The doctor stared, confused, then turned toward the unconscious figure on the operating table.

  Hours later, the same man returned to the side of a stretcher, still inside the clandestine clinic. Soren lay wrapped in heavy bandages, unable to move—but awake.

  “Here’s what you earned,” the man said, placing a thick packet of bills beside him.

  “Thanks, Marty,” the boy replied, too weak to even reach it.

  Marty sat down next to him, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers together. “So... who did you kill this time?”

  “I’ve got no idea. The bastard looked like an angel.”

  “An angel? Angels exist now?” Marty raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t think so,” Soren replied, then burst into a painful cough. “That guy was too ugly to be an angel. Maybe the angel devil… if such a thing exists. I mean, who’d actually be afraid of an angel?”

  Marty stayed quiet for a moment, then lit a cigarette—despite the clandestine hospital’s no-smoking policy.

  “If you say so…”

  Soren tried to sit up, but pain from the stitches stopped him cold.

  “Ugh… listen. How much do I owe you for this?”

  “You don’t owe me anything this time,” Marty said flatly.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because this is the last time I’m sending you to a hospital,” he inhaled. “Listen Soren, you should really consider dropping this whole demon-hunting thing.”

  Soren’s already pained expression twisted further. “Next time, I’ll be more careful with the surrounding property–”

  “It’s not about that,” Marty interrupted. “You’re only seventeen. I’m sure Sullivan would’ve wanted you to live a better life than this”

  Soren looked away and bit his lip as the sermon continued.

  “Every time you go headfirst at a demon, it’s another miracle you come out alive. I helped you in the beginning because you needed the motivation—and the money. But now you’re older. You’ve got enough saved up. Stop insisting on wasting your life away.”

  The boy doesn’t have anyone else. I’m the only one who can tell him what he needs to hear.

  “Why are you telling me this? ‘Do something better’? What the hell am I supposed to do when I’ve already lost all the good things I could’ve had? It’s not like I chose this life either!” he snapped. “Besides… besides, you’re a gun dealer! Your advice holds zero moral weight!”

  Marty sighed, put out the cigarette, and stood.

  “Believe it or not, you’re not a child anymore. Whatever advice you take is on you now—and on what you want to do with your forsaken life.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ve only been helping you for Sullivan’s sake. So if you ever need money or a favor that’s not tied to this mess… you know who to call. Otherwise, this is it.”

  And with that, the arms dealer left the ICU, heading into the hallway where his bodyguards waited—tuxedos, dark glasses, the whole look.

  “I’m done here.”

  “Yes, sir,” they responded in unison, leaving the main hall of the clinic behind.

  Back in the ICU, Soren was left beneath the weak caressing of the bright led ceiling lights, alone.

  *

  Five thousand dollars. Not bad for killing an ugly bastard. He thought to himself, finally being able to count the money after being discharged, several days after.

  If he’d had to pay for the surgery, it would’ve been five or seven hundred at least. But Marty had never asked for a cut, even though he acted like an intermediary. Thanks to that, Soren got to keep it all.

  Five grand was enough to live off for a while. But Soren had expenses: the van needed repairs, and his silver ammunition—used exclusively for demon hunting—cost a small fortune. Most of his earnings vanished quickly.

  And now, without Marty’s backing, getting access to the demon-hunting black market had become nearly impossible. That also meant an unofficial and awkward exit from the American demon-hunting scene.

  If he wanted to continue, he’d have to go back to the old days—drifting from job to job in the van, most of them inconvenient or risky as hell.

  The only other lucrative option? Going back to human targets. Something he swore he’d never do again.

  Once recovered, Soren stopped by a local steakhouse to try the famous St. Louis BBQ. One last taste of bittersweet victory before hitting the road.

  Then, with what little money he had left, he drove east—far from the green plains.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Fuck me... How does gas keep getting this expensive? At this point, how is there not an inflation devil? he muttered to himself while refueling at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

  Once full, he went to open the van’s door—but something jammed. He forced it, and it popped open with a loud creak. That’s when he noticed a compartment he’d never seen before. Not completely hidden, but tucked away just enough to be easily missed.

  Inside was a small, dusty red notebook… and an eyepatch.

  A notebook? From Uncle Sullivan?

  He flipped through the pages with his heart racing. Most of the pages were blank, only the final one had anything—some barely legible cursive: a name and what looked like a phone number.

  “Adom… Humt? Adam Hunt?”

  His first thought on the name was for another acquaintance of his uncle, much to the likes of the arms dealer. Eager, Soren stepped into the phone booth next to the station and dialed the written number.

  The phone rang a couple of times only to hang up immediately.

  Weird. Maybe I’ll try again later.

  As night fell, Soren covered the van’s windshield with blinds and eased the seat back. Despite the space in the back, it was filled with his uncle’s old belongings and hunting gear.

  Still aching, he got ready for sleep.

  But just after midnight, a squadron of armed organized men quietly surrounded the van. Once in position, the squad punctured the tires and disabled the engine— leaving no chance of escape.

  Soren, light sleeper and battle-worn, jolted awake the moment the car shifted. But before he could act, they shattered the windows and held him down in a choke position. He resisted and grunted as much as he could. Yet, they also released a narcotic gas through the broken window to which they remained unaffected thanks to their gear.

  Unprotected, Soren passed out instantly, his head slamming into the steering wheel before his body crumpled sideways.

  With the target unconscious, the unknown authors moved in to inspect him—and the van. Later, their whereabouts were none to be found.

  *

  Somewhere within a cold, concrete dungeon, two men in heavy winter coats were relentlessly punching and kicking a young boy, already covered in bruises and torn stitches.

  After several minutes of constant beating, they finally stepped back. One of them spoke in a furious tone.

  “Ты сейчас назовешь свое имя, сукин сын?”

  Without understanding the words, Soren lifted his bloodied face and spat a thick, red phlegm onto one of the guard’s boots.

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  The guards exchanged glances—then resumed beating him with renewed fury. Soren’s grunts and screams echoed down the desolate corridors of the gulag.

  Outside, a military helicopter landed shakily on a snow-covered platform, managing to touch down despite the raging blizzard. A line of Russian soldiers, rigid in posture, saluted the couple disembarking.

  The first was a tall Slavic man with a cold, disinterested expression. He wore an old-school olive trench coat. Beside him stood an Asian woman with short black hair and a designer version of a traditional Eskimo coat.

  The prison’s highest-ranking officer immediately approached them, avoiding the man’s gaze.

  “Welcome, Director…”

  “Where’s the boy?” the Director, with a sharp look nearing his fifties, asked curtly while walking briskly toward the prison’s interior.

  “Still under interrogation, sir,” the officer replied, keeping up with the Director and the woman.

  “Good. Have you gotten anything out of him?”

  “No, sir. We extracted a DNA sample, but there’s no match in the U.S. system—or anywhere else. No criminal record, no birth certificate, no false ID... It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  “Ghosts don’t exist in this era,” the Director muttered, stepping past the prison gates. “Get me a room, two coffees, and one snuffbox. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  A few minutes later, the couple and a group of armed soldiers stood behind a one-way mirror, observing the scene inside the interrogation room. There sat a battered Soren, handcuffed to a steel chair, slumped in front of a metal table. Two guards yelled at him in Russian, pointing and gesturing aggressively.

  The Director finished sipping his coffee, then gave a signal with his hand. “That’s enough.”

  Soren watched the guards leave with narrowed eyes, then turned to the trench-coated man.

  The Director sat down and lit a cigarette, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the room. Neither of them spoke for what he felt like a long time.

  Eventually, it was Soren who broke the silence with a scoff.

  “Is this supposed to be some psychological tactic?”

  “No. I’m just enjoying my cigarette,” the man replied, blowing smoke in his face.

  Soren coughed, wincing from the pain it triggered in his broken body.

  “Boy, do you know why you’re here?”

  “How would I know? As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never had any dealings with the Russian mafia.”

  The man scratched his chin, unbothered.

  “This is not the Russian mafia. Right now you are being held in a KGB prison.”

  “KGB? Isn’t that—”

  “Russian intelligence,” he interrupted. “You’re in a gulag in the middle of Siberian permafrost.”

  Soren blinked, then laughed bitterly. “That’s a good one. Okay, let’s play pretend! Even if that’s true, I don’t care.”

  The man stared at him with a corpse-like stillness, then raised his voice.

  “You’ve got one chance to deliver the answer I want before I leave you here to rot. Where did you get this?” He pulled the red notebook from his coat and slid it across the table.

  Soren followed its movement, weighing his options. Despite the man’s calm demeanor, something about him radiated danger.

  “It’s my uncle’s. I found it yesterday.”

  “And you called the number inside?”

  “You could say that.”

  The man leaned back and picked up the notebook again. “Did you really expect me to believe that?”

  “What?” Soren growled, yanking against the cuffs.

  “This notebook is only meant to be in one man’s hands. If you don't give me the name I want for you ‘supposed’ uncle...”

  “You think I’d sell out my uncle to a bunch of stupid Russians?” he snapped.

  Without warning, the man drew a dark red blade from beneath his coat and slashed an X across Soren’s chest. The cut was shallow—meant to bleed, not kill.

  From behind the mirror, the woman with the schimo coat took another calm sip of coffee.

  “I’ll give you one more chance, just because I find that bratty attitude of yours amusing,” the Director said, raising the blade again.

  Well, it’s not like they’d have better luck finding him anyways…

  Finally succumbing to the pain, Soren gasped out a name.

  “Sullivan… O’Connors.”

  He braced for another blow—but it didn’t come. Instead, the Director’s face shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking his stoicism. Then, just as quickly, he returned to his cold demeanor.

  “Sullivan didn’t have any biological siblings. How can you claim he’s your uncle?”

  Does this guy know my uncle?

  “He did have a brother—my father.”

  “Then what’s your father’s name?”

  Soren hesitated, then exhaled slowly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “...You would have a name for yourself at least.”

  “Soren… Soren O’Connors.”

  The Director studied him in silence, then stood. “I suppose that makes sense…”

  “So, you do know my uncle?”

  “Sullivan and I have been friends for a very long time.” He meditated while contemplating his reflection on the one-way-mirror. “As for your unknown father, I wouldn't have any reference.”

  “But, why haven’t I heard of you then?” the boy contested.

  “Are you conducting the interrogation now?” the man asked, lighting a second cigarette. “Instead, how much do you know about Sullivan O’Connors?”

  “Farmer. Ex-military. He was the only family I’ve ever had.”

  “And why are you speaking of him in past tense?”

  Soren went quiet. Memories surged through him. “He disappeared seven years ago… the same day the demons appeared.”

  Again, the Director flinched ever so slightly, rubbing his forehead. “There has to be more to that story. Before he was a decorated soldier, your uncle was also a demon hunter– the strongest in the whole world.”

  “The strongest?”

  “I suppose you already knew about it,” the man replied, sliding one of Soren’s pistols onto the table. “It would’ve been impossible for you to take one of these by force, just like all the other junk we found in your car”

  “That means…”

  “I had to make sure. The matters regarding your uncle are very important to me, both personally and professionally. Besides, it never hurts to be extra cautious”

  “Never hurts you…” he complained, eyes rolled sideways.

  “Now, what is the last thing you remember about him? At this point, anything could be useful for me to continue the search” the slavic man insisted, leaning over the table.

  “We were at our house… then I saw the incident happen through TV. I don’t remember much after…”

  Despite the lackluster answer, Adam Hunt managed to sense the truth in his statement. With that said, the man unsheathed his blade again—this time cutting Soren’s handcuffs.

  However, Soren didn’t waste any time by hesitating. He snatched the pistol from over the table and pointed it directly at the Director.

  Thereafter, the interrogation room's reinforced door immediately burst open. The woman and the prison guard soldiers flooded in, yelling and spreading chaos.

  “Director!”

  Even at the brink of death, the man didn’t move an inch. His olive colored eyes remained dark and lifeless, but still focused on him. “Releasing you marked our score even. Besides, you’ve got a lot of reasons not to shoot,” he said calmly.

  “Friend of my uncle or not, you’re still a piece of shit.” Soren asserted, getting ready to push the trigger.

  “Now tell me, how do you know the gun I handed you isn’t empty?”

  “It might as well be, yet I'm still willing to take my chances.”

  But before he could pull the trigger, Soren felt a crushing grip around his neck. Invisible hands squeezed the air from his lungs.

  A demon contract?

  “I just told you one could never be too sure”

  “...then why am I still alive?” he croaked.

  “Because of that attitude of yours. You really remind me of Sullivan when he was your age”

  Soren dropped the gun. It fired harmlessly into a concrete wall. He then got released by the demon, falling onto the cold floor. In the meantime, the director signaled all soldiers to stop aiming at the boy.

  “Just who the hell are you?” Soren muttered, trying his best to stand up.

  “You can call me Adam Hunt. I’m the current Director of the European Anti-Demon Commission.

  Devils Don't Cry is my first experience trying to write a webnovel-type project. However, this is actually the third time I've attempted to write this story. English is not my native language, so right now I'm in the process of translating my previous drafts. Since I’m an amateur writer, I find myself needing to use automatic grammar and writing assistants—hence the AI-assisted tag. That said, the story is entirely my own, and the corrections I mentioned are only meant to help with flow and to avoid awkward phrasing.