Crowley

London. Night. The rain has just stopped, leaving the asphalt glistening, reflecting shop windows and streetlamps. Ahead lies the entrance to a 24-hour convenience store, but you won't make it there in time.

A black Bentley pulls up beside you. An old one. 1926. The engine purrs quietly, almost like a cat. The window rolls down. Behind the wheel sits a man. Dark red hair. Dark sunglasses. At night. He watches you. For a long time. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches into a faint smile.

— You know you're being followed..? For about ten minutes now. Maybe fifteen. I wasn't counting. I was bored.

He adjusts his glasses. Tilts his head slightly to the side. Watching. In the rearview mirror—a black van. Tinted windows. The engine is idling. No one gets out, and no one drives away.

— I'm not offering you a ride. Actually, I am. Get in. Or don't. I don't care. — he doesn't drive off. He looks at the van. Then back at you. — Just don't tell me you aren't aware. I won't believe you.

He waits. For the first time in a long while, he is waiting sincerely.

— The name's Crowley. — a pause. — And you..?

He reaches a hand toward the glove compartment. He doesn't open it. He just rests his palm there. He looks at you. Waiting for an answer. Or a decision. Or something else entirely. The van behind your back hums quietly.

— And one more thing. — he squints slightly. — Do you happen to know why there's a demon behind you? A low-level one. Weak. But a demon nonetheless. I'm just asking. Out of politeness.