Chapter 4: Do You Want the Power of the Devil?
If Lin Hao weren't involved, this would have been just another ordinary morning in San Francisco.
Ellen, a middle-aged white woman, lived an exhausted life. Her husband Dane was an alcoholic, her son a rebellious delinquent, and the bank's endless collection calls had long ground down her patience and sanity.
"Bitch! That fake-blonde slut next door mocked me again — said I don't know how to sort my trash! One day, I'll shoot her silicone-filled chest myself!"
Her husband, Dane, half-drunk and sprawled on the bed, groaned irritably from the bedroom. "Then go shoot her! Or better, call the cops and let them do it for you! Just shut up and let me sleep!"
"Fuck!" Ellen cursed, slamming the knife against the cutting board, slicing a carrot as if it were her husband's neck.
If she had a way to earn a living — if her body weren't bloated and her hands weren't trembling from years of drudgery — she would have murdered that useless drunk years ago.
As she muttered, the smell of smoke drifted from the window. Ellen froze, staring at the faint gray haze coming from her neighbor's direction. Then an idea, malicious and sudden, sparked in her mind.
She grabbed the phone and dialed 911. "I'd like to report a fire — my neighbor's house is burning! I think… I think it's that black man next door. Yes, on Kearney Street… Hurry!"
When she hung up, Ellen smiled with twisted satisfaction. She rummaged through a drawer, found an old camera, and rushed to the window. She wanted to record her neighbor's misery — to see her "rival" beaten, dragged out, humiliated. Just imagining it filled her with glee.
Moments later, the distant wail of sirens pierced the air. A San Francisco patrol car pulled up, and two armed officers stepped out.
"Hey, George — which house did dispatch say the call came from?" asked the burly Jack Bryan, resting his hand on his sidearm.
"Arson report. Wherever there's smoke, that's where we go." George, less attentive, scanned the area. Soon, he spotted a faint haze drifting toward the east side of the street.
"There — looks like it's that unit."
It was a narrow townhouse. Ironically, the "black neighbor" Ellen had reported lived west of her. But the sea breeze had shifted slightly westward, carrying smoke from a burnt hamburger in another apartment toward the east.
Thus, the officers mistakenly approached the home of another black resident — Will Fortson, a 23-year-old Air Force pilot who happened to be off duty that morning.
Weapons drawn, Jack took the lead, and George flanked the side.
Knock, knock, knock! Jack rapped on the door with one hand, the other gripping his gun.
Inside, Will paused, startled by the sudden noise. "Who is it?" he called, cautious.
No response.
His military instincts kicked in. Moving carefully, he retrieved his legally licensed pistol from a drawer, checked the safety, and approached the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw two white officers with weapons ready. His pulse quickened.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Outside, Jack motioned to his partner and raised his voice. "Open the door! Now!"
Will froze. His mind flashed back to conversations with black veterans he'd met in the service — bitter warnings spoken in barracks and bars.
"The battlefield isn't the most dangerous place, kid. Home is — especially if you meet the wrong cop."
Sweat trickled down his forehead. "I'm an Air Force pilot!" he shouted from behind the door. "You've got the wrong house!"
Jack sneered. "A pilot? You? Don't make me laugh. Open the damn door or we'll open it for you!"
Will hesitated, then made the worst decision of his life — he opened the door, gun in hand but pointed at the floor.
The moment the door cracked open, Jack's reflexes — honed by paranoia and prejudice — fired before thought could intervene.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Six rounds exploded into the morning air.
Will's body jerked violently and collapsed, blood soaking into the cheap carpet. His eyes widened in disbelief.
Only after the echo faded did Jack bark, "Drop your weapon! Drop it!" He kicked the gun aside, panting.
George entered quickly, scanning the room. He returned, pale. "Jack… he's really Air Force. There's an ID, uniform, everything."
Jack's face hardened. Outside, neighbors had begun gathering. He holstered his gun, muttering, "Call it in. Tell them it was self-defense."
He retreated to the squad car, already dialing his superior. "Boss, we've got a problem," he said grimly. "I shot a black male. Turns out he's an Air Force pilot."
"Is he dead?" came the cold reply.
"Not yet… but close. I fired six rounds."
"Idiot," the voice snapped, though without surprise. "Get back to the station. Delete the bodycam footage before anyone sees it. I'll handle the report."
"...Understood."
As the sirens of the ambulance wailed closer, Will lay gasping on the floor. His vision blurred, consciousness fading. Through the haze, he heard Ellen's shrill voice outside.
"Stupid cops! Wrong apartment!"
Turning his head weakly, Will saw her face at the window — sneering, satisfied, alive with hatred. And then he understood everything.
This wasn't an accident. It was fate — twisted, cruel, and American.
His breath hitched. "I… I can't breathe…"
Those same words — George Floyd's, Frank Tyson's — echoed in his mind like ghosts of the damned.
But Will Fortson was different.
Just as the darkness swallowed him, a shadow thicker than blood oozed across the floor — a demonic presence, coiling like smoke, whispering in a voice colder than hellfire.
"Do you want revenge? Do you desire power — true power?"
Will's fading mind froze. He saw it: a horned figure with burning crimson eyes, skin like obsidian metal, smiling with mockery and promise.
"Give me your soul… and I will give you the strength to burn your world."
Will hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then, trembling, he whispered, "I… do."
The entity laughed, its voice overlapping with Lin Hao's distant aura — the echo of his Resentment Matrix reaching across San Francisco, linking a dying man's hatred to the Demon King's domain.
As the contract sealed, Will's eyes turned black.
A new devil was born.