Demonic possession?
Yeah. That's just… part of the job.
Like an STD. You stay in the trade long enough, you will catch it. Sooner or later. Maybe just a whisper in your dreams. Maybe something worse.
No one talks about it during intake. No little pamphlet that says, "Hey sweetheart, welcome to Madam Crissa's—if your eyes roll back for longer than five minutes and your tongue starts speaking dead dialects, notify management." Nope. You just learn on the job.
Demons don't pay the usual way. No gold. No coin. No good manners. But gods, do they barter. You wouldn't believe the crap they offer.
Hellspawn trinkets. Obsidian rings that pulse when you lie. Charms that let you scream without sound. A vial of someone else's memories. Once got offered a coin that made everyone around you forget your name for a day. Useful? Maybe. Cursed? Absolutely.
They walk in looking normal—maybe a little off, like they're wearing their skin wrong—but you only really know once they touch you. That's when it seeps in. Like oil down your spine. Like something watching you from behind your own eyes.
Some girls take deals. They do. Desperate girls, or greedy ones. A night of passion for three years of good luck. A kiss in exchange for beauty that doesn't fade until the next blood moon. It always sounds worth it at the time.
Until you wake up and you're floating two inches off the bed and speaking in rhymes.
Me? I got brushed once. Just once. Felt it crawl across my back like fingers made of shadow. I bit my tongue till it bled and shoved the bastard out with a scream and a candle stub.
Madam said I was lucky. Said I should've charged extra. Said next time, write a receipt.
I said next time, she could fuck the demon herself.
So yeah.
Possession?
Just another occupational hazard.
Right between "crabs" and "falling in love with a client."