DEVIL'S QSBC

Hi...

Welcome to Devil's Claim.

This is the first version. Posted on here before I pull it for edits, but that won't happen anytime soon.

It's been a while since I wrote a series, and this is the first book in this gigantic one. This book is from the centre of the series... Let me explain...

Light - - - Centre - - - Dark

In the light section, you will find books to do with normal issues.

For instance... A girl does something which destroys the man's life. But there's a twist.

Centre is where this book sits. This book includes a place called The Deep Echo.

Then there's the dark side. Now, this is where Flesh Auctions sits. It's the darkest of them all. You want deep, psychological fuckery, then you will get it from this side of the series.

Now... let's move on.

You might know me as the creator of Kenzo on Galatea, previously named I gave my virginity to a dominant. If you don't, then WELCOME. It's good to have you here. If you are new here, then leave a comment and let me know.

Episode: 1: Derelict Hotel

POV: RIDGE

The derelict hotel sits like a forgotten corpse in the middle of the dense forest, the roof pierced by skeletal branches that claw at the sky. Vines choke the crumbling facade; shattered windows gape like empty sockets, exhaling the misty rot of decay. Inside, the air smells damp, with a faint acrid bite from old bloodstains soaked into the warped floorboards. It’s The Devil QSBC’s shadow lair, our off-grid slaughterhouse for loose ends, where screams dissolve into the whisper of wind through the pines.

I step forward, dragging the bound thief deeper into the lobby, my boots crunching over broken glass and splintered furniture. The guy’s name is Syphon, some lowlife runner who skimmed a kilo of fine, shimmering black-violet powder, our premium product, thinking he could flip it and vanish. His wrists chafe raw under metal zip ties, his ankles hobbled by a short chain that clinks with every stumbling step. Sweat soaks his grey shirt, mixing with the grime of the trunk ride, his eyes darting around like a cornered rat.

“Please, man, it was a mistake. I can pay it back,” Syphon whimpers, his voice cracking as I shove him toward the centre of the room where a rusted metal chair waits for his demise. Two of my brothers flank us on either side. Pine, the crazy sadist with a switchblade scar across his cheek, and Thorn, a hulking brute whose knuckles bore the permanent swell of fresh breaks.

I slam Syphon into the chair, the impact jarring a gasp from his lips. I yank the bastards arms behind the backrest, securing them with duct tape that bites into flesh, then kick his legs apart to lash ankles to the legs. “Mistake? Nah, this is lesson time, fucker. You touch our shit, you bleed for it.” I circle him and Pine chuckles, pulling a battered toolbox from the hallway. He flips it open on the table, the clatter of tools echoing in the dusty hotel lobby. Rubbing his hands together, his eyes sweep over the contents. Pliers, a blowtorch and knives of varying lengths shining under the single hanging bulb. “Let’s make it memorable. Start with the classics.”

Flint grunts in agreement, cracking his neck as he stands over Syphon, who thrashes futilely, the chair scraping across the floor. “Stole from the club. Time to carve that debt out of your hide.”

I nod, grabbing a fistful of Syphon’s hair and wrenching his head back, exposing his pale throat pulsing with terror. “First, we talk. Where’s the rest of the product? You move it all, or you got backups?” Syphon’s mouth opens, but only a sob escapes. I backhand him, the slap splitting his lip, blood trickling warm down his chin.

“No? Fine. Moss, warm him up.” Moss steps forward, selecting a pair of pliers from the box, jaws snapping open with a metallic click. He kneels between Syphon’s spread legs, eyes gleaming with feral glee. Without preamble, he pinches the fabric of Syphon’s jeans at the crotch and yanks, the seam ripping with a harsh tear. Syphon bucks, yelling, “No…fuck, don’t!” Moss’s grip clamps down, seizing a testicle, squeezing until Syphon’s scream shreds the air.

“That’s just a taste,” Moss hisses, twisting harder, the pressure building until Syphon’s body convulses, veins bulging in his neck. Impressive. I signal to Flint who fetches a bucket of icy stream water from outside. He douses Syphon’s face, the shock halting his cries into choking gasps, water washing out his nostrils.

“Again… where’s my shit?” I demand, leaning in close, my breath hot against Syphon’s ear. The thief coughs, sputtering, “I… I sold it to Rico’s crew in Hollow Citadel, please; that’s all!” Lies or truth, it doesn’t matter yet… The pain will peel back the layers.

Flint grabs a length of chain from the wall, heavy links rattling as he loops it around Syphon’s torso, cinching tight until his ribs creak in protest. Then, with a nod from me, he rears back and drives a knee into the thief’s gut, the impact folding him forward as far as the bonds allow, vomit rising sour in his throat.

Moss sets the pliers aside, opting for something sharper, a hooked blade that he trails lightly over Syphon’s inner thigh, slicing shallow lines that bloom red as warm blood seeps into the denim shreds.

“Going to flay you like a fish if you don’t spill more.” The hooked blade dips lower, pressing against the bulge in Syphon’s pants, nicking the skin beneath. Syphon howls, hips jerking involuntarily, a mix of fear and unwanted twitching from the adrenaline surge.

I spark a Rift. The black stick crackling, the brief flare cutting across my face. I exhale a ribbon of cold blue smoke straight into Syphon’s watering eyes. “Rico, huh? That rat’s next on the list. But you? You’re the example.” I stub the Rift out on Syphon’s collarbone, the sizzle of burning flesh drawing a fresh wail, the stench of charred skin mingling with the room’s rot.

Flint fetches the blowtorch, its blue flame hissing to life as Thorn and Moss strip Syphon’s shirt away, exposing his heavy chest. Flint holds the heat close to his nipples, grinning as they blister without fully burning, the thief’s pleas devolving into babbling wails.

I carefully break fingers, snapping one at a time with the heel of my boot, trapping them between the leather and metal of the arms on the chair, each crack followed by questions Syphon can’t answer through the pain.

By dawn, grey filters through the cracked windows and Syphon is a ruined mess, his skin mottled with bruises and weeping cuts, his body clumped in the chair slick with sweat and blood. The product locations tumble out in broken fragments with him suddenly remembering stash houses, buyers and their plans. I wipe my hands on my black jeans, a satisfied smirk travelling from cheek to cheek. “Good boy. Now, the fun part’s over. Flint, finish it.”

Flint draws a pistol, silencer screwed on and presses the barrel to Syphon’s temple. The muffled pop echoes softly, his body slumping lifelessly.

Moss and Thorn untie the corpse and wrap it in a tarp for the woods. Used as bear bait… or so we claim.

I survey the scene, the hotel’s silence reclaiming the space. “Clean up. You know the score.”

POV: AUBURN

I’m so flipping excited to go to Salora Veil with my best friend Starry. The crystal blue water looks beautiful, the sun baking me to a crisp. We were contacted by an agent, Mr Boven who said we had what it takes to be back up dancers for Miss Gale Rodes, a professional singer whose followed by millions. He even paid for us to come on this trip to meet him. A place where all celebrities start their journey to stardom.

People are dragging their suitcases on board a large ship while we sit and wait for our boat to arrive. It’s due at 4pm.

I’m shaking, my leg bouncing up and down. I can’t wait to meet the agent. I wonder what he will say and what will happen next. I’ve dreamt of this moment my entire life.

Starry grabs my hand and squeezes it. “You’re shaking.” I know I am. I can barely breathe because I’m excited yet nervous for this next chapter. I don’t like stepping out of my comfort zone, never have and never will.

I’ve spent years dancing in empty studios and posting videos online, yet nobody watched them. It was a lonely part of my life. I would sit in bed, irritated because I wanted people to see me. I even felt invisible at auditions because the judges’ panel would never look up from their clipboards. That’s when I decided it was time to stop trying to make it in the dancing industry. Well, that was until Mr Boven contacted both me and Starry via email telling us he got our contact details from The School Of Darters, our old dance school. We thought it was a scam at first, but when he mentioned the school, the final show we ever did there and told us he was a scout, we decided to give him a chance.

A boat horn blares and I nearly jump out of my seat. Holding my hand to my chest, I shake my head. That shit me up.

People start queuing for the ferry, the line travelling past us as I try to hold my breath because it stinks of sweat. I feel sick.

But the worst part is the fact that Starry keeps laughing at me.

I’m so thankful Starry is here with me. She left her little boy, Rome, at home in order to support me. She doesn't plan to become a back up dancer because she couldn't imagine going on the road for months and leaving her child with her mum, so while she's giving up the opportunity, she's still coming with me. I can’t ask for a better friend. Still, who would give up a free holiday?

A white speedboat pulls up to the VIP section and a man in uniform steps off it. “Auburn Richard and Starry Knight.”

My heart starts to slam, the palms of my hands sweating. I’m so nervous it isn’t even funny. I push to my feet, my legs swaying and shaking, adrenaline shooting through me. This is it. No turning back now.

Me and Starry walk toward the boat slowly looking at the mans navy blue and black suit with silver plates covering the chest and shoulders. His hair is slicked back, jaw tight, eyes cold and disciplined. Dead. Not alive. My breath catches in my throat as I pause, dragging Starry back to stand next to me. Why do his eyes look dead?

“Starry. I’m not sure about this.” I swallow hard as Starry’ s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at his eyes,” I glance at the man and then back at Starry.