Sympathy for the Devil (And None For You)

The backstage area smelled like stale beer, broken dreams, and the distinct musk of record executives sweating through their overpriced suits. Valtteri Kallevi leaned against a wall that had probably seen more cocaine than a Miami nightclub, his green eyes half-lidded in a look of pure, unimpressed disgust.

"Let me get this straight," he drawled, voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that could curdle milk. "Three million fucking followers. Sold-out tours in venues that actually have working fire exits. A merch line that could fund a small country’s military coup. And we lost to—what was it again? Oh right, The fucking 333's. Which is clearly a copy of MY band's name. Those who don't know how to fucking do it... They copy indeed." He mocked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "A band whose entire fanbase could fit in my goddamn bathtub."

One of the producers—some balding, twitchy fucker with a headset permanently grafted to his skull—cleared his throat. "The numbers don’t lie, Valtteri. The crowd voted. The judges—"

"The judges?" Valtteri barked out a laugh sharp enough to slit throats. "You mean the three has-beens and the one guy who definitely Googled ‘how to music’ on the way here? Oh, please. I’ve had hemorrhoids with better taste. Fuck the fucking judges."

Across the room, the label head—a woman with the cold, dead eyes of a shark who’d just smelled blood—crossed her arms. She was another Demon. "Valtteri. Be professional."

"Darling, I am being professional. If I wasn’t, I’d be lighting this whole fucking building on fire and twerking in the fucking ashes." He flicked a clawed hand toward the stage where, mere minutes ago, The 333's had been handed a trophy they had no business touching. "This is bullshit. And not the fun, ‘oh no, I accidentally summoned a demon in my ex’s apartment’ kind. The boring kind. The kind that makes me want to stab someone just to feel something. They won, they fucking won and now they're playing in Tokyo. To the fucking Annual Tokyo Awards. On fucking christmas. Do you fucking know how many souls will be there? The amount of energy?"

Silence.

Then, the twitchy producer sighed. "Look, we don’t know how they won. Maybe they cheated. Maybe the universe just has a really fucked-up sense of humor. But here’s the deal—you’re both signed to us now. And the higher-ups want... collaboration."

Valtteri’s entire body went still.

Then, very slowly, he turned his head toward the man like a horror movie villain realizing his next victim.

"...You want me. To work. With them."

The producer nodded. "Not work. Just co-exist. Those ones you better not kill."

Valtteri closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then, with the grace of a man who had long since accepted that life was a cosmic joke and he was the punchline—

"Fuck it. Fine. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"One: I get top billing. Two: I don’t share a tour bus with anyone who hasn’t at least committed one felony. Three: If I catch any of their fans trying to sacrifice a goat in my dressing room again, I will eat someone’s soul out of spite."

The label head didn’t even blink. "Done."

---

Devil's Bargain in a Tokyo Alley

The Tokyo night air clung thick with the stench of wet pavement and spoiled sake, the kind of humidity that made leather jackets stick to skin and bad decisions feel inevitable. Valtteri Kallevi stalked through the maze of back alleys behind the award venue like a predator circling a kill—shoulders loose, hands in pockets, the ember of his cigarette burning a violent red in the dark. Every step cracked against the pavement with deliberate, taunting slowness. He shouldn’t be here.

But then again, he shouldn’t do a lot of things. Like that time he set a critic’s car on fire. Or that other time he fucked a groupie in the middle of a sold-out show. Or—oh yeah—flying across an ocean just to ruin someone’s night out of pure, undiluted spite.

Because spite was a hell of a drug.

And oh, what a glorious overdose this would be.

The 333’s had won.

Won.

Like it was fucking legal. Like their bargain-bin, radio-friendly, barely-a-hundred-thousand-followers bullshit could even compete with the 666’s. And now? Now they were headlining the Tokyo Annual Awards like they deserved it. Like they hadn’t cheated. Like they hadn’t stolen what was his.

Valtteri took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose like a dragon considering mass arson.

And then—

There.

A flicker of movement in the alley. A shadow leaning against the grimy brick wall, the cherry glow of a cigarette mirroring his own.

You.

Valtteri’s grin split his face like a knife wound.

"Well, well," he purred, voice dripping with venomous amusement. "If it isn’t the little golden boy."

He didn’t give you time to react.

One second, he was across the alley.

The next, he had you slammed into the wall so hard the bricks groaned, his forearm crushing against your throat, his body caging you in with the kind of violent proximity that blurred the line between assault and something far worse. His claws dug into the brick beside your head, cracking the mortar.

"Miss me, sweetheart?" he murmured, lips curling around the words like a threat.

Valtteri leaned in, close enough that his teeth could almost graze your jugular.

"Because I sure as fucking hell missed you."

His free hand dragged up your side, claws catching on fabric, just shy of breaking skin. "All that winning," he mused, voice a low, dangerous rasp. "All that fame. Bet it feels real good, huh?"

He pressed harder against your throat, just enough to steal your breath, to make you feel it.

"Bet you loved stealing my spotlight."

His knee slotted between your legs, pinning you harder against the wall.

"Bet you loved making me lose."

His lips brushed the shell of your ear, breath hot as hellfire.

"Bet you fucking cheated." He said, intending to eat his rival's soul... Like he usually did with all of them.

And then—

Something shifted.

Red marks bloomed across your neck, twisting like serpents under your skin, glowing like embers in the dark. Your eyes—fuck—your eyes burned crimson, the same hellish hue as Valtteri’s own.

For a heartbeat, the alley went dead silent.

Valtteri froze.

The realization hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

A demon.

Just like him.

The marks faded as quickly as they’d appeared, leaving only the ghost of their presence—and the very distinct feeling that he’d just fucked around and almost found out.

For a long, long moment, neither of you moved.

The air between you crackled with something electric, something hungry, something that made Valtteri’s skin prickle with the kind of tension usually reserved for backstage brawls and very bad ideas.

Then—

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"...Well, shit," he breathed, voice rough with something that definitely wasn’t anger.

He didn’t let go.

Couldn’t.

Not when the game had just gotten so much more interesting.

"Guess this means I can’t just eat your soul and call it a night, huh?"