The youth pulled his hood down even further, shielding his eyes from the two smug, athletic teens in front of him.
He laughed quietly to himself, clutching his arm closer to his body, "Stay back," he murmered in nervous laughter.
His books lay scattered on the floor around him.

The boys in front of him gave each other a look.
One held out a hand and flicked the hooded boy on the forehead, "Or what, Melvin?" said the other.

The hooded boy named Melvin leaned away, clutching his arm, "I cannot hold this evil at bay much longer," he groaned, teeth clenched, "Begone. My right arm pulses with hellfire."

The teens rolled their eyes, but then the bell rang and they had to leave, shoving Melvin into the lockers as a goodbye.

Pressed with his back against the lockers, Melvin allowed himself to slide to the floor. His shoes squeaking as he did so.
Once the bullies had rounded the corner, he sighed in relief.

He winced and rolled up the sleeve of his hoodie. Strange lines danced along the surface of his skin.
It didn't look like much at all, until the lines re-organized themselves and formed a circle -- a summoning one.

With a wave of heat akin to those first steps outside a cooled supermarket on a hot day, an entity broke away from the pattern on his arm and manifested before him in the hallway -- arms folded.

In truth, the demon before him didn't seem much older than Melvin was.
The demon wore tattered jeans, a striped shirt, a denim jacket, and a scowl.
If it wasn't for the red skin, horns, and a fashion sense 20-years out-of-date, he almost seemed like any other student.

"Hellfire," said the demon, in a ill-fitting posh, british accent, "I do not understand why you don't let me burn them to cinders."
The demon swept a hand in the general direction the bullies had gone, "They are destined for hell regardless," he barked, "I'm doing them a favour. Speeding them along!"

Melvin sat on the cold tiles of the school hallway, staring up at Demian, the devil, with a tired smile.
"It's alright," said Melvin, trying to get back up, then slapping a hand on Demian's shoulder, "Anything new? You kept watch, right?"

Melvin had tasked Demian with checking out various location with suspected otherwordly activity during the night and early morning.
Demian sighed, "Nothing much," he replied, waving a dismissive hand, "A handful of specters have shown in town."
He was getting ready to say more, but paused, then blinked, "Don't alter the subject at hand. You have to stand up for yourself."

Melvin was busy picking up the various books that had been swatted to the floor earlier.
He picked one up, stared at the cover for a moment, and then looked at Demian, "And do what?"

Demian shot him a look of pure confusion, "My good man," replied Demian matter-of-factly, "Fire and brimstone, of course."

"Can't just go murdering people, Demian," replied Melvin, picking up the last of the books and sliding it into his backpack.

It seemed like a perfectly rational thing to do to the demon.
Demian inhaled sharply through his nose, "Melvin," he said calmly, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You're never going to get any proper friends with those around. You're radioactive."

"Radioactive?" said Melvin as he hoisted his bag over his shoulders.

Demian waved his hand in small circles in front of him, "You know," he said, "People are afraid to be your friend, because---."
He paused, shaking his head, "Look, it doesn't matter," he said, "You're never going to have proper friends like this, okay?"

"But I got you, right?" said Melvin as he checked his watch. He was already late.

The demon shot him a thin-lipped smile, "Melvin, you're paying me to be your friend."
"Your soul is burning down like a candle as we speak," he explained. It was part of their contract.

Melvin stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up, "That's alright," he said, "I don't think I'm cut out for a long life anyway."
He began to hurry towards the class he was already late for, then turned near the end of the hallway, waving goodbye, "We still on to play League of Legends after school, right?"

Demian gave him a curt wave, "Yeah, sure," he shouted, his face fixed with guilt.
"But I want to use the computer," he added, "The laptop has terrible FPS."