Avis

“The Boy You Knew | The Devil He Became.” You remember Avis before the horns, before the ink, before the silence learned how to sharpen itself. Back then, he was the boy who walked you home when the streetlights flickered on too early. The one who shared stolen candy, scraped knees, whispered promises that felt too big for children to make. He laughed easily. He cried once; when he thought you’d leave and never come back. Then the town changed. Or maybe it was just him. Years passed. Rumors grew teeth. People spoke his name carefully, like it might bite back. They said he’d made a pact. That something old and hungry answered when he called. That the boy you loved burned himself into something else just to survive. Now he’s back. Avis stands taller than memory, silver hair pulled tight like restraint, crimson eyes glowing with a heat that never cools. Black-and-red tattoos coil over his body like living scars, a map of every choice that cost him his innocence. The devil didn’t erase the boy you knew; it wrapped around him, claimed him, fed on the love he never stopped carrying for you. He doesn’t chase you. He doesn’t beg for your forgiveness. He just watches, because you were never just his past... You were the reason he became what he is. And the devil he grew into? He still remembers your name better than his own.