Marvel: Ghost Rider

At the first rays of sunlight, which fortunately couldn't penetrate her tiny cupboard under the stairs, Melissa Blaze opened her eyes. The place could hardly be called a room: the bed was narrow, the ceiling low, and there were no windows. A corner for rags, not for the majestic being she once was.

"Ah, luxury," she muttered, swinging her feet onto the cold floor. "I used to dwell in a palace made of stolen souls, and now I've been relegated to a corner next to the mop. What's next? Only scraps for food?"

She got up, stretched lazily, and walked over to a small mirror on the wall. Amber eyes, chestnut hair. Her lips curled into a wry smile.

"So this is what mediocrity looks like," she said, leaning closer to her reflection. "Once my skin radiated ruby light, and my hair flowed like liquid fire. Now? A girl no demon would even glance at."

After critically inspecting her modest appearance, Melissa sighed quietly and began her morning ritual—putting on her maid uniform. A black dress with white lace, stockings, neat heels. She slipped into this sorry excuse for an outfit, adjusted her apron, and, looking at herself in the mirror, smirked.

"Not a uniform, but a constant reminder of my slave status. Well, if they want a show, they'll get one." She clipped two red hairpins to her hair, resembling horns.

Melissa headed to the kitchen, where pots, pans, and ingredients were already waiting. Preparing breakfast for the Blaze family was an art in itself. She approached it with the grace of someone peeling potatoes.

"Oh, the magnificent world of human cuisine," she muttered sarcastically, rolling out dough. "Once, with a snap of my fingers, I could create a feast of fiery apples and ambrosia, and now I'm here, like a slave, warming croissants in the oven."

And it would have been fine, but just as she thought about spitting into the dough, the collar around her neck flared with a fiery red light, reminding her of the contract.

"Ah, yes, free will," she moaned, hissing in pain. "Blessed invention."

Half an hour later, exquisite dishes graced the table: omelets with herbs, freshly baked croissants, fruit salad, and even hot chocolate. The family had gathered.

"Wonderful salad, Melissa," Naomi praised, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thank you, my mistress," Melissa replied with a bow. "But this pathetic salad pales in comparison to your masterful plan to steal my freedom."

"You're too gloomy in the morning," Naomi countered, winking.

"I'm just trying to maintain what's left of my dignity," Melissa replied, pouring coffee.

After breakfast, the garden awaited her. Oh, that cursed place! Flowers, pollen, butterflies—everything she hated, all in one place. But there was one plus: she was allowed to change into work overalls for the garden.

Click. Click. Click.

Melissa smiled lightly as she crushed bugs with her gloved fingers.

"At least here I can still enjoy killing."

Neighbors passed by and, seeing her, praised the beautiful garden. Melissa blushed with humiliation.

"Of course, thank you. Next time, come help," she muttered through clenched teeth as the neighbors walked away.

But the most humiliating task was yet to come: cleaning Barton's motorcycle. She put on gloves, grabbed a cloth, and started scrubbing. Oil, dust, and dirt covered her uniform, but the motorcycle gleamed like new.

"Once, I could destroy a kingdom with a flick of my hand," she grumbled, wiping the headlights. "Now I'm wiping a headlight because magic is powerless here. What degradation."

But despite all her complaints and sarcastic remarks, Melissa kept working. A contract was a contract, and the Blaze family had become her gods.

After polishing Barton's motorcycle to a dazzling shine, Melissa finally allowed herself a sigh. Today's nightmare with oil and rags was over. But the rest was short-lived—she still had to groom the family pet, a black cat named Coal.

"Cat," Melissa muttered as she climbed the stairs to the living room. "The only creature in this house that doesn't look at me like free labor. Though, who knows, maybe he's still a familiar."

Melissa found Coal, comfortably settled on the windowsill, basking in the sunlight. Taking a brush, she carefully sat the cat on her lap and began grooming his thick, shiny fur. Coal purred so loudly it was as if an old engine had started in the house.

"You're the only one who understands me," Melissa whispered, feeling her lips stretch into an involuntary smile. "You don't judge, you don't complain, you just purr. If only everyone were like that..."

Coal looked at her with his large blue eyes, and for a moment, the former demoness' heart fluttered.

But the idyll didn't last long: Naomi entered the room, and Melissa immediately returned to her usual sarcastic demeanor.

"Ah, my mistress," she said, nodding slightly, but then irritably pushed the brush away. "As always, you find the most inconvenient moment to appear."

"Enjoy the moment, Melissa," Naomi smirked before disappearing into the hallway.

But Melissa didn't get much time to ponder. The doorbell rang, and Naomi, winking, told her to open it.

At the door stood the very same sympathetic neighbors who had seen Melissa in the garden that morning. Grandmothers, armed with warm smiles and containers of homemade cookies, entered the house with admiring exclamations.

"What a wonderful girl," one of them exclaimed as she sat at the table. "So hardworking, so caring for the home!"

Melissa could already feel her cheeks turning red. The grandmothers praised her garden, her work, her "modesty," and it all sounded to the demoness like the most exquisite form of torture.

"Ah, thank you for your kind words," she said with stiff politeness, bowing slightly. "Although, of course, I'm just doing my job."

But the grandmothers weren't satisfied, and one of them added:

"Not just a job! It's clear you put your soul into it. So polite, so responsible!"

Melissa felt her inner fire starting to burn.

"Soul?!," she snorted mentally. "Another phrase like that, and I'll show them what a real soul looks like on a platter."

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