Day seventy-three since Seulgi’s been surviving off of just cup noodles, sandwiches, frozen food, and cereal, she musters up the courage to treat herself to some delivery.

Shifting through old receipts and free lighters, Seulgi digs up the paper flyers she’s had delivered to her door over the years and studies them carefully, wondering if she’d get more bang for her buck by ordering pizza or jokbal. The grumbling of her stomach hastens her decision-making process; jokbal it is. There’s a big chance half of the content will consist of an inedible bone hidden under thin slices of the unsuspecting-looking meat, but she’s been there, done that. She’ll just use mind control to portion the meal.

The phone goes through quickly but the line itself takes a while to get picked up. A noisy middle-aged lady answers, breathing heavily. Seulgi opens to answer when the lady starts shouting at someone and says they’re closed. All that filters through the accidentally unended call is a man’s voice threatening to take the owner’s kidneys to compensate for his loaned money and another man telling people to get out of the store.

Seulgi quietly hangs up.

There’s an awkwardness that hangs around the house that now only Seulgi inhabits, so Seulgi clears loudly to fill up some of the emptiness. So much for adjusting quickly to life after her parents’ deaths. Even the jokbal lady doesn’t want to talk to her.

Picking at the corner of the menu in her hands, Seulgi sighs before tossing it back into a cabinet drawer without care. She only has about an hour and a half left before her shift, which means the usual again. Seulgi peers in at the contents of her refrigerator. Sandwich it is.

All she has is ham and tomatoes, so Seulgi generally slathers the cheap bread up with various sauces to balance out the flavour profile. She’s found that a mix of mayonnaise, raspberry vinaigrette, honey mustard, ketchup, and barbecue sauce is a rather interesting combination (which probably has too much sodium, but she’s Korean so it’s no different than buying something off the streets).

The routine is simple and mindless: spread mayonnaise, squirt sauces, slap on ham and sliced tomatoes, eat. But blame it on the shock of hearing that the local jokbal owner’s kidneys are at risk, Seulgi deviates from the routine and takes her time making the sandwich. Spread mayonnaise, arrange the ham and tomatoes, draw pretty shapes with the sauces. Maybe she’ll throw some of those stale potato chips and the indestructible pizza cheese in there too (despite being purchased seven months ago, the cheese had managed to evade all traces of mold to the present). Hashtag, self care day. Hashtag, treat yourself.

Almost immediately upon completing a random symmetrical pattern with the vinaigrette (okay, now it looks like a bit too much sauce; she’ll be dealing with a rather liquidy meal later on), there’s smoke in the air and Seulgi blinks in confusion—she hasn’t the stovetop for over two-and-a-half months. Putting down the vinaigrette bottle, Seulgi turns around to grab the cutting board (the frying pan is too far away for her to weaponize). However, she ends up freezing in place at the unknown presence in her kitchen raising an eyebrow at her, arms crossed. Seulgi squeaks.

“You couldn’t have come to rob this place after I left for work?”

The pretty woman opposite Seulgi lowers her eyebrow, seemingly amused. “You’re the one who called me here to rob you before you left for work.”

“Don’t tell me you’re the jokbal lady. Although I must say that you sound a lot more different in person.”

“The what?” The woman furrows her eyebrows. “Who the hell—”

“Listen, I don’t have enough for you to pay off those loan sharks because I work a horrid minimum-wage job at a funeral home and recently used my parents’ life insurance savings to buy this place so I wouldn’t get kicked out for falling behind on rent, so if you want to take my organs, you’ll have to, uh, fight me.” Seulgi feebly raises her fists to her face. “I took three months of taekwondo.”

“You’re holding your fists wrong.” The woman flicks at the air and a knife comes zooming past Seulgi into the woman’s hand. “You might be better off with one of these if a robber comes in.”

“...”

“Are you done staring?”

“Uh…yeah.” Seulgi blinks. She could’ve sworn that some black magic happened just now. “Did you just…?”

“Did you really summon me accidentally?” The woman rolls her eyes, snaps, and vanishes the knife into thin air. “With what? I don’t see any—”

At the sight of Seulgi’s sad-looking sandwich, the place falls quiet again.

“Oh.”

Seulgi smiles sheepishly. “Oh.”

A heavy sigh, then: “Not this again. You humans need to stop drawing random patterns on random things.”

“I’m sorry?”

“But since I’m already here, might as well go through the motions. I’m Irene.” Irene holds a hand up without waving. “You can think of me as a contractor. If you don’t have any business with me, I’ll be erasing your memory and taking my leave.”

“Wait!” Seulgi assembles her sandwich and holds the plate awkwardly, arms outstretched. “What should I do with this then?”

“What do you mean? It’s just a sandwich.”

“Well yes, but…”

Irene sighs again then crooks her finger. The sandwich goes flying into her hands. “Might as well, since you’ve interrupted my meal.”

Seulgi can’t do much else but watch as Irene takes a huge bite out of the nutritionally-lacking, high-sodium, high-sugar, high-calorie meal (the indestructible pizza cheese totals to quite a bit, it turns out). Irene chews quickly without much thought before slowing down, almost as if only now noticing the taste. She blinks. Seulgi braces herself for the barrage of insults and spewed sandwich bits about to head her way.

Irene takes another bite.

“Hey, this-” Irene finishes chewing then swallows before speaking again- “is not too bad.”

Seulgi narrows her eyes in suspicion. She knows her sandwiches well. “Are you sure?”

“I told you: I’m a contractor. I don’t lie.”

“What does being a contractor have to do with lying?”

Irene dismissively waves her hand. “Why the hell is this good?”

Okay, now Seulgi is offended. “Excuse you.”

“Yes, please, while I finish this sandwich. You don’t happen to have more, do you?”

Seulgi crosses her arms. While it’s true that Irene doesn’t seem particularly dangerous at the moment, there’s no way someone who legitimately thinks Seulgi’s sandwich is good is to be trusted (bringing to question whether people who can control knives and other objects, conversely, could be trusted). Even Seulgi—tastebuds annihilated after weeks of instant food and overly stimulating flavour palettes—can tell the truth about her food preparation skills (to say cooking would be an insult to her chef grandmother, bless her heart). And it’s dismal.

In the meantime, Irene has finished the sandwich and is looking expectantly at Seulgi. Seulgi isn’t sure what’s happening, so she stares back blankly.

Irene speaks first, not minding that Seulgi has mentally logged out. “I really don’t know how I should say this because my role is playing along, but I’m really damn tempted to write up a contract with you.” She on a spot of sauce on her thumb. “Although I guess I could borrow the help of my abilities to make you sign one anyway.”

“Sounds illegal.” Seulgi takes a step back to put the kitchen island between them. “How do these contracts even work?”

“Well, just a disclaimer: you don’t really get a lawyer.”

“Okay, get out.”

Seulgi is shooing Irene away from the kitchen with a fly swatter when Irene lazily flicks the fly swatter out of her hand and levitates it in the air. Despite the obvious reminders in Seulgi’s head that Irene is not acting very human-like (no , Sherlock; that took a while), Seulgi still fires her questions at Irene.

“Who are you?”

“Irene, contractor of sorts.” Irene frowns. “You have a bad memory.”

Seulgi rolls her eyes, now wielding a cutting board in front of her. “Let me ask again. What are you?”

“Well, it seems like you’re not stupid.” Irene stretches her arms out widely and smiles insouciantly at Seulgi’s guard. “Ever read the Bible?”

“I’m from a Buddhist family.”

“, okay. Let me try again.” Irene scratches her head awkwardly. “How about fiction? Like, fantasy, horror, supernatural genres.”

“I’m more of a bildungsroman and romance person.”

“Jesus ing Christ, you’re telling me you haven’t read a single non-romance or building Romans book?”

“Bildungsroman.”

“Yeah, whatever. The Romans will forgive me.”

Seulgi makes an unamused face. “Just answer the question.”

“Fine, fine.”

Irene splays her fingers out and closes them into a fist again, as if testing them before an intensive physical action, then flicks open her fingers suddenly, igniting a flame that floats above her hand. Rolling it around from one palm to the other, she pretends to toss it at Seulgi before laughing at Seulgi’s dolphin shriek.

“What the ?!”

Irene laughs, used to the reaction. “Does that answer your question?”

“No!” Seulgi hurls the cutting board at Irene’s head, the latter avoiding it narrowly. “I asked what the hell you are, not if you can do magic tricks!”

“Ah, keyword!” Irene points at Seulgi with an encouraging face. “Keep going.”

A cereal box goes flying through the air at Irene this time. “No more games! Just tell me what you are!”

“Ow, why are you throwing it so hard? The corner got me.”

“Isn’t it weirder if I’m not trying to ward off a trespasser?”

Irene dodges another unidentified boxed object. “Fine, okay! I’m from hell!”

Seulgi pauses, cup ramen mid-throw. “Not at all surprised with how annoying you are.”

“No, like actually.” Irene pulls out a wallet before flashing credentials at Seulgi. Seulgi peers at the card only to realize that it’s written in some sort of ancient script. “I’m a demon.”

“You said you were a contractor. Of sorts,” Seulgi says accusingly. She maintains her stance with the ramen. “What are you doing here anyway? How did you get in? What do you want from me?”

“Well. You summoned me.” Irene pats her stomach. “A bit sloppy but the occult symbol you made with that sandwich did its job. You know? Poof.” Irene mimics the onomatopoeic sound with her hand. “Where I come from, that’s de facto not trespassing.”

“.” Seulgi’s stance falters. Demons weren’t supposed to exist based on Buddhist traditions.

Irene continues. “And in case you didn’t know, demons make contracts with people who summon them. Like in movies. Occasionally we get someone who was just experimenting with henna tattoo ideas or works in geometric design accidentally summoning us, but generally we just erase their memories and everyone moves on with their lives. Which brings us back to my point while answering your last question.” Irene conjures up a piece of paper mid-air. “How would you like to sign a contract with me?”

Seulgi grips the ramen tightly again. “What?”

Unaffected, Irene steps towards Seulgi. “Trust me when I say you’ll never get a better deal in your life.” She holds up the conditions for Seulgi to see. “Legal lingo aside, I grant you three wishes in exchange for you making me sandwiches whenever I drop by. Essentially, you’re giving me permission to enter your house as I please.”

“That sounds way more advantageous to you though?!”

“Oh, but there’s more.” Irene smirks. “Unlike with other contracts, I’m putting absolutely no limitations or restrictions on your three wishes.”

“What does that mean?”

“A lot! For example, we’re not allowed to revive dead people; one, because there’s no guarantee they won’t turn out like those creature in your zombie movies, and two, because there are some crazies out there who’ll definitely wanna revive people or creatures who’d wipe out the entire living population on Earth. Like, a dinosaur revival would kind of for you, and we’ve not really had much success communicating with non-primates. Which means no deals for us.”

“Okay…”

“We also generally find loopholes just for s and giggles, and also because it’s easier for us to uphold our end of the deal without haggling with the people up there.” Irene points toward the ceiling. “Not your upstairs neighbours; I mean the big man.”

Seulgi nods unconvincingly. “So if I wanted to bring about the end of the world right now, no one could stop me.”

“Uh, well…” Irene falters. “It would be great if you didn’t think in some drastic ways. I’m just trying to do my job here.” She raises her eyebrows pleadingly. “Come on, you’ll just be making me sandwiches. I’ll even secure the funds for you if you need it, but it would be less complicated for you too to make simple wishes.”

“You speak as if you didn’t just tell me I could wish for whatever.”

“I assure you that many people regret things they can’t handle.” A pause. “And it may or may not take me more energy to complete certain tasks.”

Seulgi sighs. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

She glances at the contract. It wavers like a mirage in the middle of her unheated place, blotted with black ink she can’t decipher. Perhaps it won’t be too bad. She’s been starting to long for things that seem undefinable anyway. A little bustling, a bit more comforting. The cycle of pushing through the hours of her waking moments has been a tad lonely as of late. She’s been lost in a violent perpetuity of motions.

“I’d still like a copy of the contract written in a language I can understand, as well as the closest thing you’ve got to a lawyer to explain everything to me.”

§

“Seems like you’ve added something crunchy in here.”

Seulgi shrugs, trying not to mind Irene’s casual lounging in her kitchen. It’s been nearly three weeks since she signed the contract with Irene, and so far the latter has popped in unannounced at least twelve times, including when Seulgi was mid-shower and in REM sleep. That doesn’t count the times Irene may have popped in while Seulgi was out at work. Fortunately Seulgi doesn’t get surprised easily—perks of being a horror movie mania. Unfortunately, she’s also a private person, so it’s jarring to have a presence just…there in her personal space.

“I happened to have some leftover pickles from my pizza delivery.”

“Interesting. Fascinating.”

So far there hasn’t been much progress in whatever relationship they’ve established; Seulgi has maintained her daily routine of eat, sleep, and work, while Irene drops by when she’s hungry and leaves after watching Seulgi mindlessly stare at the carbon copy reality shows on TV. Truthfully, Seulgi feels uncomfortable that despite the erratic appearances, her deal with Irene is yet another task on a checklist of things to do. It’s all meaningless. The change is minimal.

“What wishes do you often get?”

Irene wipes her hands on a napkin and boosts herself onto the kitchen counter. “Generally depends on the person, but since most people get just one wish, it’s usually something extremely life-changing. Like great wealth or eradicating disease in their family’s future generations or fame, you know? I do get the occasional humanitarian who wishes for world peace, but they forget that it’s subjective and unlasting.”

“And what do you get in return? Probably not sandwiches from what I can gather.”

Irene drums her fingers on the edge of the countertop. “Their soul.”

“Oh.”

“Eh, it’s not as bad as you think. I just send them down to hell once they’re dead. The more I collect, the faster I get a promotion. That way I can acquire my own castle and retire.”

“... I see.”

It’s silent again, and Seulgi assumes Irene is about to take her leave. On a normal day she’d ignore the small poof and scent of smoke indicating Irene’s departure, but today she clears to catch Irene’s attention as Irene jumps off the surface on which she was sitting. Irene turns to face her expectantly.

“Yeah, I can grant you that wish.”

“Huh?” Seulgi instinctively covers her chest, although she isn’t sure why. “You can read minds?”

Irene flops her hand at Seulgi. “I’m messing with you. But your face screams ‘I need to tell you something’ and I doubt it’s that you wanna have teatime with me to discuss afterlife politics.”

“Well. Yes.”

“Yes, you need to tell me something, or yes, you feel like listening to me rant about my grudges against the guy in the sky?”

“The former.” Seulgi frowns. “I don’t even believe in the guy in the sky.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I’ve heard there are a few countries up there. He’s just the one whose jurisdiction I’m in.”

“Good to know,” Seulgi says, even though she doesn’t actually care.

They’re back to silence. Irene crosses her arms and stares at Seulgi, waiting for her to speak.

“So are you going to tell me whatever was on your mind or are you expecting me to telepathically receive your message? I’m sorry to say I can only manage telekinesis and being a lampless genie.”

“Sorry, I just- I’m wondering how to word this.”

Irene walks into the living room and plops down on the sofa. “Just talk, and I’ll see what you’re trying to say. You can tell me when you want me to work my magic.”

“Okay.” Seulgi picks at her sleeve for a few seconds before speaking. “I hate my job.”

“Me too! We’re even.”

Seulgi glares at Irene.

“Okay, sorry. Go on.”

Seulgi looks up at the ceiling, back resting against the couch. “You know that feeling where it’s like you’re on a hamster wheel that won’t stop spinning? But you can’t really get off. Like technically you could, but you shouldn’t.”

“I’ve never been on a hamster wheel, but that’s depressing.”

“Yeah, but imagine.”

“Still depressing.”

“If you get off, you die.”

“Okay, now we’re talking.” Irene twirls a finger in the air, summoning a slight draft that whirls dust from the rug around. “So we’re stuck on this torturous hamster wheel and the floor is lava.”

“Sure.” Seulgi supposes that’s easier to explain than whatever dark alternative she has in mind. “So you keep going without any change in position, but you hate runn