I placed the demon's head beside me on the railing, right where the wood was still sturdy enough to hold him. He didn't roll. He just sat there, watching the water with that twisted face of his. Funny, really. All that power once, and now he was no more threatening than a jack-o'-lantern on a fencepost.
The sun wasn't setting yet. I checked the sky—not with a clock, just instinct. Felt like maybe 4 p.m. Not that time mattered much anymore. Out here, time bent and folded and slipped away when you weren't looking.
"Time does fly when you're busy." I muttered, amused.
He didn't respond, of course. Not verbally. But his face said enough.
There was a look in his eyes. Or what was left of them. A mix.
Forty percent anger—boiling just beneath the surface, like he still couldn't believe I'd done this to him.
Thirty percent fear—that quiet, creeping realization that no power was coming to save him.
Twenty percent loss—something personal in there, like he missed something he never talked about.
And ten percent... melancholy. Maybe even peace.
It stunned me a little, that last part. The calm. Like he'd accepted this, or found some perverse relief in not having to fight anymore.
It almost made him human.
Almost.
But no. I wasn't letting that happen. Not now. Not at the end.
He wasn't a man.
He was a demon—a thing that unmade people, tore joy from lungs and wore screams like perfume.
He didn't get to be human just because he was helpless now. That wasn't how this worked.
So I smiled. And I started fishing.
Like every good fisherman, I needed a hook.
I had one—steel, sharp, curved like a question mark. The kind of thing you see in spy films when someone's climbing walls with their fingertips. Overkill for a fish. Perfect for a demon.
I lifted it slowly and brought it to his face.
He blinked, barely, and I swear for a second he knew exactly what I was about to do. He twitched—pathetic, useless. Couldn't close his mouth. Couldn't scream. The wooden butts of three pistols still jammed between his teeth like a forced yawn.
I slipped the hook into his eye.
Wet. Warm. Gave easily. No resistance, not at first. The hook sank into jelly. The kind of texture that made your stomach turn if you thought too hard about it. I didn't think. I just worked.
I pushed deeper.
My fingers followed, gentle but firm. Fishing's all about touch, really—feel the tension in the line, read the water, know when you've hit meat. I reached brain matter. Slick. Delicate. Electric. His body spasmed slightly, a twitch in the cheek, the flutter of a nerve that didn't want to admit it was still alive.
I wriggled the hook, twisting gently until I felt it hit a curve. Somewhere toward the ear canal. That was the spot. The sweet one. Like striking oil, only it stank of old sin and bad memories.
I guided the hook forward until it bulged through the side of his head. A lump beneath the skin. Then I took my knife and cut a hole just above the bulge. Not clean. Not quick. I wanted him to feel it.
The skin split, revealing the glint of steel poking through from the inside out.
I reached in and pulled the hook through. Threaded the line. Made a knot. Tight. Functional. I tugged once—just enough to let him know he was caught.
He squirmed, tried to make noise.
But he had no tongue.
And his mouth was still wedged open with steel and wood.
Until I removed them.
One by one, I pulled the gun butts from his jaws. They slid out with a wet pop, his teeth snapping shut the moment the last one came free. He tried to speak—tried to say something—but all that came out was a low, hoarse moan. Half breath, half memory.
I smiled. "Good. You're ready."
And then I cast him into the sea.
The line unspooled in my hand as his head dropped toward the water, trailing like a lure. But right before it touched the surface—right before it reached those snapping, swirling, blood-drunk beasts—it stopped.
One foot. Maybe a bit more. Hovering above the froth.
The creatures leapt up, mouths wide, fins flashing, teeth like daggers—and missed. Every time. They swiped and spun and hissed, but couldn't touch him. Couldn't reach.
The demon's face changed fast.
Fear spiked to sixty percent.
Gone was the melancholy.
Gone was the peace.
He was staring into a mirror now—his fate looking back at him with open jaws and empty eyes.
It was funny, in a twisted way.
He loved devouring others. Worshipped it. Took pleasure in it.
But now that it was his turn?
Suddenly he wasn't so hungry.
"Boring." I said, resting the line on the railing.
He didn't scream. Couldn't.
But he shook. Not from the wind. From understanding.
He wasn't going to die. Not like that. Not yet. He was going to dangle.
Like bait.
And I?
I leaned back, line in hand.
"I've gotta admit." I said with a grin. "Fishing's fun."
And for the first time all day, I let myself laugh.
Not because it was funny.
But because this? This was justice in its purest form.
Cruel. Ugly. Poetic.
And I was the one holding the rod.