The Territorial

Eddie wasn’t the kind of guy to make history. He was the kind of guy who made coffee nervous. Third-year math major, shirt untucked, hair fighting a losing battle with gravity, one of those bright students who understood everything except how to stop talking to himself out loud.

It was a late afternoon in the old lecture hall, the kind that could double as an echo chamber. The chalkboard was full of equations that looked like ancient runes, and Eddie, still there hours after everyone else had gone home, was pacing back and forth like a man trying to outwalk his own confusion.

“The integral of D of X over cosine to the N of X is…” he muttered, waving his chalk like a wand. “Sin X over N minus one times the cosine to the, no, no, that can’t be right, damn it!”

He slammed the chalk down, sending a puff of white dust into the air.

“I’d sell my soul to get this thing right.”

Now, most people say things like that, and all they lose is a few minutes of peace. But this was an old university built back when “foundation stone” meant “may contain traces of curse.”

The fluorescent lights flickered, the air went cold, and from the back row came the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat. Eddie froze.

“Two words, babe,” said a voice smooth as silk and twice as smug. “Eternal damnation. We in business?”

Out from the shadows stepped a man in a charcoal suit so sharp it could’ve cut glass. He had the smile of someone who’d been in sales a long, long time.

Eddie blinked. “Did I say soul? I meant, uh, solution. Slip of the tongue.”

Sam, because of course his name was Sam, gave a slow grin. “Happens more than you’d think. Poets, songwriters, grad students. You people are gold mines.”

“I didn’t mean it!” Eddie protested. “You can’t just…”

“Oh, I can,” said Sam, snapping his fingers. The chalkboard erased itself with a squeal. “See? Perks of the job. Now, let’s make this official. You summoned me, I’m here, and the paperwork’s already in motion.”

Eddie rubbed his temples. “There’s paperwork?”

“Of course. Eternal contracts don’t just sign themselves. Now, because I’m a professional, you get three questions about my powers before the main event.”

Eddie sighed, resigned. “Fine. Question one. Can you really do anything?”

Sam puffed his chest. “Anything. Past, future, sideways in time, you name it.”

“Question two. Are there any limits? Like, physics, laws of nature, that sort of thing?”

“None,” Sam said, admiring his cufflinks. “I can break every law there is and still show up for brunch.”

Eddie leaned on the desk, eyes narrowing. “And question three. Is there any place in the universe you could go and not find your way back here?”

Sam smirked. “Nice try. No. I could hop to the Andromeda galaxy and back before you finish a yawn. You humans always think you’ve found a loophole.”

“Good,” Eddie said quietly. “Then I’ve got my command.”

Sam spread his arms. “Hit me, babe. Make it count.”

Eddie pointed at the door. “Get lost.”

There was a pause, long, cold, echoing. Sam blinked. “Cute,” he said. “But that’s not…”

The lights flickered again. The air shimmered, and then, with the faint smell of ozone and paperwork burning in triplicate, Sam was gone.

Eddie stood alone in the lecture hall, chalk still trembling in his hand. He looked at the board, sighed, and muttered, “Still doesn’t help with cosine.”

Then he packed up his notes, turned off the lights, and went home, the first math student in history to win an argument with the devil using nothing but technical grammar.

Moral of the story? Never underestimate a man who’s been talking to himself long enough to win the debate.