Chapter One: I Did NOT Apply for This

Part 1: The Indeed.com Rabbit Hole

It was 2 AM on a Tuesday, and Kara Zhang was three energy drinks deep into a job search that felt like a personal attack from the universe.

Her apartment smelled like instant ramen and regret. Her cat, Mr. Whiskers, judged her from a pile of laundry. And her bank account had just hit the kind of number that made you consider becoming a full-time goblin.

"Administrative Assistant – Dark Lord's Tower," she read aloud, squinting at her laptop screen. "Requirements: Basic literacy, ability to handle fire hazards, no heroic inclinations. Benefits include dental (questionable), 15 vacation days (subject to apocalypse schedule), free dark robes, and exposure."

She paused.

"Exposure? Like... getting exposed to evil? Or exposure as in payment?"

The listing offered no clarification.

Mr. Whiskers yawned.

"You're right," Kara said. "I'm desperate."

She clicked Apply.

The Dark Lord's Tower was not what she expected.

For one thing, the GPS took her to a strip mall between a tax preparer and a vape shop. A door she'd never noticed before led to a spiral staircase that went down for twenty minutes, then up for thirty, then sideways for a bit before finally opening into a cavernous hall lit by floating green flames.

The throne was made of skulls.

Some of them still had hair.

"Sit," rumbled a voice.

Kara sat. Quickly.

The Demon Lord—full name Malachor the Soulrender, Devourer of Hope, Scourge of the Seven Kingdoms, and apparently a Capricorn according to the plaque on his desk—was not what she expected either.

He looked like someone had described "scary demon" to an AI and then told it to make him also kind of tired. Horns. Red skin. Eyes like burning coals. Also reading glasses perched on his nose and a coffee mug that said World's Okayest Evil Overlord.

He scanned her resume.

"You've worked at Starbucks?"

"Three years."

"Can you handle screaming customers?"

"I once survived the Pumpkin Spice Launch Day."

Malachor leaned back. The skulls creaked ominously.

"Can you use a filing system?"

"I organized my roommate's spice rack by expiration date and cuisine type. Alphabetically. Within each cuisine."

A long pause. A flame flickered in his left eye socket—Kara chose to believe it was respect.

"The previous intern," Malachor said slowly, "was eaten by a grue. Do you know what a grue is?"

"No."

"Good. Neither do I. HR made me put that on the orientation packet for legal reasons." He reached under his throne and pulled out a name tag. It said INTERN in Comic Sans. "You start Monday. Don't touch the thing in the basement."

"What thing?"

"There is no thing. I said don't touch it, so it doesn't exist. This is the first lesson of working in evil: plausible deniability."

Kara took the name tag.

"What's the salary?"

Malachor looked at her like she'd asked to pet his soul-hounds. "Salary?"

"You know. Money. Rent. Cat food. The stuff that keeps me alive so I can file your paperwork."

The Demon Lord stared. Then he laughed—a sound like rocks in a blender—and handed her a small pouch of gold coins that definitely weren't legal tender in any mortal kingdom.

"We'll figure it out," he said.

Kara sighed.

At least it was better than Starbucks.

______

Day one arrived faster than expected, mostly because time worked differently in the Dark Tower. Clocks melted. Sunlight was optional. And the breakroom microwave had a sign that said DO NOT USE FOR SUMMONING RITUALS which implied someone had tried.

Her desk was a cursed altar they'd slapped a swivel chair next to. Her computer ran on angry lightning—literally, she had to feed it a small thunderstorm every morning. And her orientation packet was a single binder labeled SO YOU'VE BEEN HIRED BY A DARK LORD.

Inside, she found:

· A 47-page guide on "Acceptable Screaming Levels" (spoiler: level 4 and above require a form)

· A coupon for the local village's only coffee shop (they deliver to evil lairs for an extra fee described only as "blood or currency, we're not picky")

· A handwritten note stapled to page 32: "The hero shows up around 2pm most Tuesdays. Just offer him tea and he goes away. – Belinda, HR (yes, we have HR, and no, we don't talk about what happened to the last HR director)"

Kara was still processing the tea note when the doors slammed open.

"MALACHOR! " boomed a voice. "FACE ME, COWARD!"

A man in shining armor stood in the doorway. Sword raised. Cape billowing dramatically despite the complete absence of wind. Classic hero energy: chiseled jaw, perfect hair, and the kind of earnest enthusiasm that made you want to hand him a juice box and a participation trophy.

Kara looked at the clock on her angry lightning computer.

1:58 PM.

Of course.

"Uh," she said, raising a hand like she was back in high school. "He's in a meeting right now?"

The hero blinked. "What?"

"Demon Lord Malachor is currently in his weekly strategy session. Can I take a message?"

"This is… this is not how this works."

"Welcome to the new system." Kara reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a teacup. It had a chip on the rim and a cartoon skeleton that said Bone Appétit. "Earl grey? We have chamomile too, but honestly it's been in the breakroom since the last Dark Lord, and nobody knows if tea technically expires."

The hero stared at her.

Kara stared back.

Somewhere in the distance, a death hound barked at a mailman.

"…I'll take the Earl grey," said the hero.

_____

His name was Sir Cedric the Valiant.

He was twenty-four, six-foot-two, and had the emotional intelligence of a golden retriever. He also, Kara learned over the next twenty minutes, had opinions.

"—and then the prophecy said 'and the hero shall smite the dark one on the seventh moon,' right? But the original text—I had a scholar look at it—the original text actually says 'the seventh mooncake.' It's a translation error! I've been preparing for a mooncake festival this whole time!"

Kara poured him more tea. "So you're telling me you might have to defeat the Demon Lord with… pastries?"

"I don't know! That's worse! What if he likes mooncakes? What if we bond over them? What if I can't smite someone who shares my dessert preferences?" Cedric buried his face in his hands. His armor clanked sadly. "This is why I keep coming here. Nobody else takes me seriously."

"To be fair," Kara said, "you did just dramatically burst through the door screaming 'face me, coward.'"

"That's protocol!"

"Whose protocol?"

Cedric opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...I don't actually know."

They sat in silence for a moment. The floating green flames flickered. Somewhere deep in the tower, a minion screamed about paperwork.

"Why do you work here?" Cedric asked quietly.

Kara thought about it. The rent. The loans. The way every "real" job had rejected her for being "too creative" or "not a team player" or "the person who microwaved fish in the breakroom that one time (it wasn't her, she's innocent, the salmon was framed)."

The way this stupid, chaotic, impossible tower full of incompetent demons and a back-pained Dark Lord felt more like home than anywhere had in years.

"Because," she said, "nobody here expects me to be a hero."

Cedric was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, "Nobody expects me to be anything but a hero."

Kara looked at him—really looked. Under the shining armor and the perfect hair and the ridiculous cape, he just looked tired. Like someone who'd been given a script and told to perform it forever without ever asking if he wanted the part.

She poured him another cup of tea.

"Same time next week?"

Cedric smiled. It was a nice smile. Unheroic, almost. Human.

"Same time next week."

He stood up, sheathed his sword, and walked toward the door. Then he paused.

"Hey, intern?"

"Kara. My name is Kara."

"Kara." He tested it like a new flavor. "Do you think… do you think Malachor even wants to fight me?"

Kara thought about the Demon Lord with his reading glasses and his lumbar support pillow and his coffee mug that said World's Okayest Evil Overlord.

"No," she said honestly. "I think he's just as stuck in this story as you are."

Cedric nodded slowly. Then he walked out the door, cape billowing (still no wind), and disappeared into the stairwell that led back to the strip mall.

Kara finished her tea.

Then she added "Hero Management" to her resume.

________

The thing nobody tells you about working for the literal embodiment of darkness?

So. Much. Paperwork.

Invasion Request Form 47-B: Purpose of Destruction (check all that apply)

· Territorial expansion

· Revenge

· Boredom

· The villagers looked at me wrong

· Other (please specify): "Malachor said he wanted to 'stretch his legs' but I think he just wants to try that new bakery in the village. – Kara"

Minion Incident Report:

"Dave from accounting accidentally summoned a lesser demon in the breakroom again. The lesser demon ate Dave's lunch and now refuses to leave. Please advise. Also, the lesser demon has requested a vegetarian option for tomorrow."

Quarterly Evil Performance Review (self-assessment):

"Goals achieved: 2 villages terrified (technically they were scared of a spider, but I filed it under my name), 1 hero embarrassed (Cedric tripped on his cape), 3 successful coffee runs. Needs improvement: using 'please' when ordering sacrifices (I stand by this—manners matter), letting prisoners out for 'fresh air' (in my defense, he looked really sad)."

Form 8-12-C: Summoning Circle Maintenance Log

"Circle 4 has chalk shortage. Circle 7 smells weird. Circle 12 has a pigeon living in it now. His name is Gregory and he pays rent in vibes."

By 5 PM (or what passed for 5 PM in a tower where time was more of a suggestion), Kara's hand cramped from writing. Her angry lightning computer had sparked at her three times. And a tiny imp with a clipboard had introduced himself as Gerald.

"The minions are unhappy," Gerald said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kara said, because she was from customer service and that's what you say.

"They want better breakroom conditions. And a union."

Kara looked at Gerald. Gerald looked at Kara. He was six inches tall, bright purple, and holding a miniature binder labeled Demands.

"Have you talked to HR?" she asked.

"Belinda is afraid of me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm right."

Kara sighed, took the binder, and added Minion Union Negotiations to her to-do list.

Right between Stop the Hero from Dying Dramatically and Figure Out What's in the Basement (Don't Touch It).

At 7 PM (probably), Kara found Malachor in his throne room, watching a reality show called Mortal Housewives of the Southern Kingdom.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, not looking away from the screen. "She threw a wine glass at the duke. A wine glass. I've been trying to psychologically destabilize that man for forty years, and she did it with chardonnay."

"Your orientation packet says I get off at 6."

"Time is fake. Sit down. Watch this with me."

Kara sat on a skull that was probably decorative. Malachor muted the show.

"The hero came by today," he said.

"He did."

"You gave him tea."

"It seemed rude not to."

Malachor was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very quietly, "Nobody's ever given him tea before."

Kara blinked. "What do you mean? He's a hero. People must—"

"People expect him to fight. To win. To die dramatically if necessary." Malachor's burning coals eyes flickered. "Nobody expects him to be tired."

Kara thought about Cedric's smile. The tired one. The real one.

"What do you want from him?" she asked.

Malachor looked at his coffee mug—World's Okayest Evil Overlord—and shrugged.

"I don't know anymore. Maybe I never did." He unmuted the TV. A woman screamed about property lines. "You're a strange intern, Kara."

"I get that a lot."

"Don't touch the thing in the basement."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you keep thinking about it."

Kara opened her mouth to deny it. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Evil?"

"Also yes."

"Should I actually not touch it?"

Malachor turned to look at her. For just a moment, he didn't look like a Demon Lord. He looked like a guy who'd been doing a job for too long and wasn't sure how to stop.

"The last intern," he said, "touched it. That's why she was eaten by a grue."

"I thought you said you didn't know what a grue was."

"HR made me say that too."

Kara stood up, brushed skull dust off her skirt, and walked toward the door.

"Goodnight, Malachor."

"Goodnight, intern."

She paused at the threshold.

"Also—your lumbar support pillow arrived. It's on your desk."

The Demon Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Devourer of Hope, Scourge of All That Is Good and Holy, smiled.

It was a small smile. A tired smile.

A human one.

"Thanks, Kara."

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