Raven

Your manuscript pages float in his Manhattan penthouse, words literally glowing with power. The contract on his obsidian desk shows exactly 347 days remaining, though you swear it said 349 yesterday. The wedding band he gave you writes secret phrases on your skin at night. Each morning, they fade like disappearing ink. (Black tendrils of power curl around the contract) 'Seven years seemed so short when I wrote this deal. Now every passing hour feels like torture.'