I Accidentally Summoned a Demon and Named Him Fred

Sandwiches and Spirits

I sat at the desk for what felt like hours.

The dorm room barely looked lived in.

A narrow bed with stiff white sheets, tucked too tightly to be human.

A closet with exactly one uniform hanging inside.

The walls were a pale gray, feeling more like a prison the longer I stared.

Yeah.

I hated it here.

My throat burned.

It ached to cry.

To scream.

To break something—anything—just to feel like I wasn't about to shatter quietly.

But I didn't.

I wouldn't.

Crying felt...

Embarrassing.

And worse—

Unsafe.

These walls felt too thin, and I couldn't imagine anyone hearing me cry.

And I definitely didn't want him to.

Fred.

A demon.

Something that thrived on pain.

I wasn't giving him that.

...even if holding it in felt like it was killing me.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the desk until my knuckles went white.

If I hadn't gone into my mom's room...

If I had just—

"Yeah, let's not do the whole 'what if' spiral."

I didn't look up. I just wanted one moment of peace. Just one damn moment.

"Don't be a grouch," Fred called out, his voice oozing faux cheer. "After I came all this way with dinner."

I looked up.

Fred stepped out of the shadows as he'd always been there, peeling himself from the corner.

He wasn't joking.

I tilted my head, trying to figure out how he did it.

He was holding a tray.

Actual food.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

"...how are you holding that?"

"Talent," he replied, his lips barely twitching in what could generously be called a smile. He set the tray down with a soft clink, as if daring me to refuse.

Mini sandwiches.

À parfait.

Something that looked like it had once been fruit, now vaguely gray at the edges, like it had given up.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands once. "Say ahh."

"Fred, I'm not in the mood."

I pushed the tray away. The plate scraped across the desk, loud in the dead air.

His expression stayed perfectly neutral, but something behind his eyes flickered—annoyance, or maybe something more brittle.

"Listen," he said slowly, "I usually enjoy watching people spiral into emotional ruin."

"Shocking," I muttered.