I don't know what the chances are of you reading this, but if you do, I hope you remember and respond. We were both in fourth grade and were put in the same group at a nature camp. You became my best friend there and we were inseparable. Once, you even fought with another boy who pushed me. On the last day, as we were all leaving, you asked for my number, but I didn't give it to you. I suddenly felt shy, because I came from an all-girls school and thought the only time a boy asked for a girl's number was if he had a crush on her. Maybe you did. Maybe you didn't. Either way, I regret not giving my number to you because you were a good friend and we had a lot of fun together. It would be amazing to catch up after all these years. Hope you're having a good life.

Thrusted against the rough bricks of the wall, his arms encase her body, and in his dark stare, victory shines.

Angela’s gasp turns into measured breaths. She stills herself, as she’d been taught. The demons hands rove over her body, goosebumps rising under his cold touch. His fingers close around the wooden box and he wrenches it out from her coat pocket. He holds it in front of him, studying the engravings. The pause gives Angela a chance to look at his face. This time, he’s taken on the form of a thirty-something guy, dressed in a casual plaid shirt and jeans. A slight stubble rings his sharp jaw. His features are pleasant, but generic. She would not have given him a second glance if he passed her on the street. The expression on his face moves from triumph to puzzlement to anger. He can’t get the box to open. He meets her glance and sneers, his teeth are filed to points - the one sign of his true nature.

“You think you can fool me? Open it!” he barks.

Angela reaches for the box and slides the engraved portion to the right, pulling the base to the left. The top springs open. The box is empty.

The moment he sees this, the demon flings the box right out of her hands. It hits the alley wall with a crash and falls to the ground in pieces. Despite her situation, her temper rises and she scowls at the demon.

“It has a false bottom, you jerk!” She hisses.

The demon is taken aback with her outburst. Angela kneels and starts to pick what pieces of the box she can see. Luckily what the false bottom was treasuring is intact. A glass vial containing a lock of blonde hair. It belonged to her mother. Or so the demon believes. She holds it up resignedly to the figure looming over her. The demon takes the vial and places it in his front pocket. Angela stands up, clutching at the remnants of the box.

The demon opens his mouth to say something, a parting shot, but disappears before he does.

Alone in the alley, Angela is no longer afraid. For once, her temper had been a blessing. In her head, she had built up the demon to be much more than he is.

As she steps into the streetlight, she notices a deep bruise on her hand from when the demon flung the box. She would have some explaining to do to Lola, she thinks, retracing her steps back home. But more importantly, she needs to plot her next move. She has caught a glimpse of the demon’s fallible side. He did not check the vial, was impatient and quick to act. A shiver runs down her spine. She wonders whether it is from the cold night or the thrill of the challenge and stuffs her hands in her coat pockets. There is something in her right pocket, where the pieces of the box lie. It was definitely not there before. A dog-eared business card with a single name on it: James Burns.