The fire crackles, sharp and sudden. It spits a few sparks into the night like it's just trying to lighten the mood, tossing out a nervous laugh. Shadows flicker across the clearing, jittering against the trees like they’re whispering about us. Judging. Not wrong.
I sneak a glance at her. Sideways. Casual. Or, that’s the plan. My spine doesn’t get the memo. Shoulders are locked up like I’m bracing for a bar fight that hasn’t started yet. Any second now, I’m expecting a demonic outburst. Maybe a shriek. A table flip. Something biblical.
But she just… sits there.
Legs tucked neatly beneath her like she’s at a mountain-top meditation retreat. Spoon to lips. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. No smoke. No glowing eyes. No demands for my soul in exchange for eternal suffering. Honestly, I feel a little cheated. If you're gonna befriend a demon, you expect a little drama, right?
Instead, I get this blank-faced calm that’s way more unsettling than a tantrum. The kind of stillness you practice in a mirror until every muscle learns how to lie.
I slow down my chewing. Not sure why. Maybe I think if I match her pace, I’ll figure her out. Maybe if I act calm, I’ll feel calm. Joke’s on me. The stew's colder now. Slimier. Each bite feels louder in my head, like I’ve got a megaphone duct-taped to my jaw.
“So...” My voice comes out rough, like it scraped against something on the way up. “You’re just... sticking around?”
She doesn’t even look up. Just blinks. Once. Slow. Lizard-on-a-rock slow. “Where else would I go?”
Fair point. I drag a hand up the back of my neck, scratching through dried sweat and grime. Feels like someone swapped my skin for sandpaper.
“I dunno. Hell? Back to... wherever you crawled out of? Some chaos realm full of snarky little gremlins who don’t understand personal space?”
She shakes her head. No pause. No drama. Just a firm, grounded “No.” Like the kind of no you drop when you’ve already walked out of the burning house and locked the door behind you.
I raise a brow, more out of habit than anything else. “No?”
She meets my eyes. Direct. Steady. “No.”
That’s it. No explanation. No story. Just a hard stop. Granite-solid.
And of course, she’s sitting too close. Close enough I can feel that stillness of hers pressing against the edges of my nerves. Like she's taking inventory. Judging structural weaknesses. Estimating collapse.
I sigh. Loud. Theatrical. The fire cracks again, like it’s offering moral support. I jab my spoon into the stew and stir. Pointlessly. Maybe if I stare hard enough, it’ll turn into steak.
“Alright then,” I mutter.
Apparently, this demon is a murder-kitten in humanoid form. No handbook. No return policy. Definitely no hotline. Just me, a bowl of depressing stew, and a cryptid with better posture than I’ve had in years.
She’s still watching me—unblinking. It's not curiosity. It's calculation. The kind that curls up behind your ribs and makes you wonder if you’re being sized up or studied. Like she’s mapping me out—veins, muscles, pressure points. Makes the next bite of stew stall halfway down my throat.
“You’re a weird one,” I mutter, tapping the spoon against the side of my bowl like maybe the rhythm will cancel out the awkward.
She tilts her head. Again. Twice now. Once might’ve been cute. This one’s clinical. Like I just triggered a flag in some internal system labeled Observed Behavior: Target Reacts to Provocation.
“What do you mean?” she asks. Steady voice. No edge. No tilt. Just... level. It’s not a question—it’s bait.
I shovel in the last lukewarm lump of regret and gravy. “For starters, you haven’t told me your name.”
Basic stuff. First-day-of-camp type stuff. Even the wild raccoon who tried to nest in my shed last fall gave me a vibe. This one? She gives me static.
Her gaze drifts. Not away—just... off. Tracking something I can’t see. Her eyes follow shadows between trees like the woods are whispering to her and she’s nodding along to the chorus. I grip the bowl a little tighter.
“I don’t have one,” she says.
I cough. Violently. A chunk of stew nearly stages a mutiny in my lungs.
“You... what?” I rasp, thumping my chest like that’ll reset my respiratory system. “You don’t have a name?”
She shrugs like she’s telling me the sky is blue. “Nope.”
“Not even a title? Something dramatic? Like... Mistress of Passive-Aggression? Devourer of Joy? Queen of Weird Silences?”
She tightens her mouth, arms folding across her chest in the universal symbol for deeply offended immortal child. “Demon.”
I make a face. “Yeah, no. We’re not calling you that.”
“Not Demon?” she repeats, mouth twisting in actual offense. Somehow that lands harder than if she’d called me a slur.
“Absolutely not,” I say, jabbing my spoon at her like I can exorcise sarcasm with stainless steel.
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That gets her. Eyes narrow. A sliver of wildfire peeks through the practiced stillness. Just a spark. But it's there. Hiding behind her calm like a knife behind a smile.
“I don’t like this game,” she says, voice colder now. Dismissive.
“It’s not a game.” I jab the spoon again. Might as well be a wand at this point. A real wizard of domestic dysfunction, that’s me.
Her expression sharpens, every angle on her face suddenly more defined.
"Then give me a name.”
And that’s when it hits—ding, like the universe ringing a shame bell in my skull.
[New Quest: Name the Problem Child]
[Objective: Give the Demon Girl a Name]
Oh, come on.
Because apparently my life is now a cursed side-scroller with bonus objectives from hell. Fantastic. All I wanted was a quiet night, a hot meal, and maybe five minutes without existential dread. Instead, I’ve got a demon orphan demanding an identity and a Codex acting like this is a dating sim written by someone who hates me personally.
"Stupid System." I groan and throw my hands up to the sky like I’m offering a prayer to the gods of nonsense—palms wide, fingers splayed, as if I could somehow reach far enough to get pulled out of this ridiculous reality and dropped somewhere quieter. Somewhere sane.
No luck. The dark sky above just stares back, empty and uncaring, the stars little pinpricks in the black fabric of night.
Across the fire, she grins—big, toothy, sharp. Fangs just visible enough to catch the firelight, gleaming like polished ivory. Proud. Smug. Like every bad decision that brought us here is some kind of trophy she’s parading around.
“Stupid System? I like it.”
Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? Nothing says good partnership like a demon girl excited about a name that sounds like malfunctioning software with a god complex.
I drop my elbows to my knees, letting my hands dangle, staring into the flames like I might get some divine insight if I just squint hard enough. The fire cracks again, spitting sparks into the air, all of them vanishing before they touch the ground. The smoke curls upward, twisting the scent of woodsmoke and a faint trace of copper into my lungs. I breathe it in anyway, desperate for some kind of spark of inspiration from the embers.
“Alright,” I mutter, my voice thick with exhaustion and smoke, “let’s try this again. I’ll throw out names, and you tell me when I stop embarrassing myself.”
She pouts, like I just kicked her puppy or canceled her birthday. Same energy. “What’s wrong with ‘Stupid System’?”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I sprained something in my skull. “It’s taken. Trademark pending.”
She slumps sideways against a boulder—smooth, cold riverstone—but the movement is so dramatic it belongs in a play. The gloom clings to her for a heartbeat, then burns off. Her face lights up, like kindling catching fire—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, energy rising, crackling in the air like heat from a bonfire.
“Okay. I’m in.”
Fantastic. She’s in. I’m… well, I’m out. Of ideas. Of patience. Of dignity. Probably a few brain cells, too, judging by the throbbing behind my right temple.
I glance around the glade like a man searching for loose change. The trees are tall, silent sentinels, their leaves rustling softly in the cool night breeze. The fire crackles beside me, throwing sparks into the air—orange against dark blue. That’s it? That’s my muse? Fire?
“Since you’re clearly a fan of combustion,” I say, voice flat as dead coals, “how about… Kindle?”
She wrinkles her nose, crinkling it like I just handed her a bowl of oatmeal that’s gone cold and lumpy.
“Kindle? I’m not a spark. That’s puny.”
“It’s not literal.” I rub my temples, fingertips digging into the knot of pain behind my eyes like maybe, if I press hard enough, I can just erase it. “It’s a vibe. Light. Warmth—”
“Sounds weak,” she interrupts, folding her arms tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together. “I like ‘Not Demon’ better.”
I sigh, gritting my teeth, feeling the sharp bite of smoke in the back of my throat.
“We are not calling you ‘Not Demon.’”
She leans in, eyes narrowing, voice low, the kind of serious that cuts right through the air.
"Ok..."
“What about… Kinderlina?”
She snorts, wrinkling her nose again. “Too soft. ‘Lina’ makes it squishy. I’m not squishy.”
“You’re absolutely squishy,” I mutter under my breath. “Emotionally.”
The glare she gives me could dry out a swamp in seconds. The air between us shivers, warming, the shadows flickering as if they're flinching.
“Alright, how about... Blaze?” I offer weakly. My hope is trickling out like water through cracked stone.
She snorts—rough, undignified, like a hyena trying to hold in a belly laugh. It shakes her whole frame, the kind of laugh that could topple kings if it ever let loose.
“Do I look like a campfire?”
“We just went over this,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face, feeling the grit of soot on my skin. My palm comes away smeared, and I wonder if this is my life now—just dirt and fire.
“What about Fireball?” Her eyes light up, eager, like she’s just discovered some great cosmic joke.
“No.”
“Lord of Fireballs?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Heatwave?”
I throw my head back, staring up at the sky, wishing for a meteor to come crashing down and just end me already. “I’m not calling you Heatwave.”
She shrugs like this is all normal. “Fine. Inferno?”
I blink at her, mouth dry. “That’s not a name. That’s a natural disaster.”
Her grin is back, sharp as broken glass. “Exactly.”
My patience evaporates faster than spit on a forge. My jaw tightens so hard I think my teeth might crack.
“We’re calling you Ember. Final offer.”
She rises smoothly to her feet, toes digging into the cool dirt, and rolls the name over her tongue like she’s savoring it.
“Ember… Ember…”
The smile that spreads this time is slower, more genuine, more real—like the first crackle of a fresh flame catching in dry tinder.
“Yeah. That’s good. Fiery. Strong.”
Thank the gods. I sag, relieved, like someone just cut the strings holding me up. My shoulders slump, and I exhale a breath heavy with the weight of smoke and tension.
“Ember it is.”