The Fine Print

Sprint. Don't think. Sprint.

My Allbirds slapped against polished concrete as I careened through the WeWork's glass maze, weaving between standing desks and kombucha dispensers. Behind me, the soft click-clack of sensible office shoes maintained a steady rhythm—unhurried, inevitable, terrifying.

"Mr. Goldblatt," called a voice smooth as customer service training videos, "pursuant to clause 7.4 of your Infernal User Agreement, please cease evasion. This behavior constitutes a breach of cooperative conduct standards."

I vaulted over a meditation pod, scattering someone's chakra crystals. Cooperative conduct standards. Who talked that way? Besides my mother's divorce lawyer.

"I regret everything post-click!" I wheezed, diving behind a row of succulents. "Including but not limited to the 'I agree' checkbox!"

The footsteps paused. I pressed my back against the planters, hyperventilating into my hoodie sleeve. Through the frosted glass partition, I could see the silhouette—clipboard in hand, posture perfect, waiting with the patience of someone who had literally all eternity.

It was only supposed to be three months of Spotify Premium. Nobody reads the terms!

My phone buzzed. A notification: "Soul extraction scheduled for 2:47 PM. Please ensure all personal belongings are secured."

Oh, come on.

The footsteps resumed. I bolted for the emergency exit, my inner monologue cycling through the five stages of grief at broadband speeds. Denial had lasted about thirty seconds. Anger was ongoing. Bargaining involved a lot of frantic Googling. Depression would have to wait—I was currently stuck in the running-for-my-life phase.

The stairwell door slammed behind me as I tumbled down concrete steps three at a time. From somewhere above, that unnaturally calm voice drifted down: "Mr. Goldblatt, Article 12.3 clearly states that physical relocation does not void contractual obligations. I do hope you'll reconsider this course of action."

Reconsider? I had reconsidered everything since Tuesday. Including my life choices, my caffeine intake, and my decision to move to a city where apparently demons worked in customer service.

Forty-eight hours earlier...

Tuesday morning had started normal enough—if you considered eating cereal over the kitchen sink while troubleshooting a client's server meltdown normal. My laptop screen reflected my hollow-eyed face back at me, surrounded by seventeen browser tabs and the digital detritus of a man who'd given up on work-life balance sometime during the Obama administration.

"URGENT: Invoice payment overdue," my email announced cheerfully. "FINAL NOTICE: Rent due in 3 days." "Hot singles in your area want to discuss your extended warranty."

Then, nestled between the spam: "UNLIMITED DATA. NO STRINGS. NO ROAMING. 3 MONTHS SPOTIFY PREMIUM. JUST SIGN HERE."

The banner ad pulsed hypnotically—red and gold, with tiny flames licking around the edges. Subtle.

What kind of monster puts flames on a data plan ad?

I clicked anyway. Because I'm an idiot, and idiots click on things.

The website loaded with the speed of dial-up internet, which should have been my first warning. The design screamed "Hell's version of Squarespace"—all Gothic fonts and sulfur-scented CSS. The user agreement stretched down the page in 8-point font.

"Terms and Conditions: By clicking 'I Agree,' the User hereby consents to the transfer of their immortal soul, consciousness, and spiritual essence to Infernal Enterprises LLC, a subsidiary of Pandemonium Holdings..."

"Sure, take my soul," I muttered, scrolling past the wall of text. "Just don't throttle my bandwidth."

What kind of monster puts the checkbox before the agreement?

"You're the kind of monster who clicks it anyway," my roommate Derek called from the living room, apparently possessing supernatural hearing.

I hovered over the checkbox. The cursor turned into a tiny pitchfork. Cute touch.

Click.

The screen flashed red. My browser crashed. The apartment's lights flickered once, twice, then settled back to their usual dim glow.

"Probably malware," I said to nobody, restarting Chrome. "Or Bitcoin miners. Or both."

If only it had been both.

*******

Wednesday afternoon found me elbow-deep in someone else's technological nightmare—a dental practice whose server had apparently achieved sentience and decided to hold patient records hostage. I was three energy drinks into debugging when the lights began their epileptic dance.

Flicker. Flicker. Steady.

The knock came precisely at 2:47 PM. Three measured raps, polite but insistent.

"That's weird," I said to the empty office. "Nobody knocks anymore. They text, then arrive."

I opened the door to find a person of wearing a crisp blue oxford shirt, horn-rimmed glasses, and an expression of professional courtesy that radiated menace. He held a clipboard made of what appeared to be pressed bones.

Okay. That's new.

"Are you Ezra Goldblatt, birth date April 9th, 1991, resident of apartment 23B on Folsom Street?"

"Depends who's asking," I said, though something in my stomach had already started doing gymnastics routines.

"I'm Clemency-512B, Tier 3 Escalations Representative for Infernal Enterprises LLC. I'm here to confirm soul acquisition pursuant to your voluntary contractual agreement executed yesterday at 9:47 AM."

Voluntary contractual agreement. The gymnastics in my stomach upgraded to full Cirque du Soleil.

"I'm sorry, what now?"

Clemency-512B—Clem, I decided, because life was too short for demonic corporate titles—smiled with the warmth of a customer service training manual. "You signed our user agreement, Mr. Goldblatt. We're here to collect."

This is a prank. Has to be. Derek probably hired someone.

"Look, I appreciate the commitment to the bit," I said, "but I'm working, so—"

Clem produced a document from his clipboard. The paper looked expensive—thick, cream-colored, with my signature at the bottom in what appeared to be actual blood.

My blood.

"This is your copy, embossed on authentic dragon hide. Please review section 4.2 regarding immediate soul forfeiture upon breach of evasion protocols."

I grabbed the document. The signature was definitely mine—my terrible, illegible scrawl that looked like a seismograph during an earthquake. The date was yesterday. The terms were... comprehensive.

"Upon execution of this agreement, the User's immortal soul shall be transferred to Infernal Enterprises LLC within 24-48 hours, depending on processing volume and customer service availability."

"I don't remember signing this," I said weakly.

"Checkbox, 9:47 AM, Tuesday morning. You also verbally consented with the phrase 'Sure, take my soul, just don't throttle my bandwidth.'"

Oh.

Oh, no.

I looked at Clem—really looked. His eyes were completely black, reflecting the office fluorescents like polished obsidian. When he smiled, his teeth were just slightly too sharp, too white, too many.

"If you'll come with me, we can begin the eternal processing procedure. I have a lovely selection of torment options, though I recommend the 'Infinite Customer Service Hold' package for first-time clients."

Nope. Nope nope nope.

I ran.

Clem sighed—a sound like wind through a cemetery—and began his pursuit.

The chase through the office building defied several laws of physics and at least one law of common sense. Doors locked themselves as I approached. The elevator spoke to me in what sounded like Latin backwards. Security cameras swiveled to track my movement with predatory focus.

Clem never hurried. He walked with the measured pace of someone who had processed thousands of souls and knew that panic was just another step in the customer journey.

I made it to the parking garage by hotwiring a rental scooter—a skill I'd learned during a particularly dark period involving a startup that shall remain nameless. The last thing I saw in the rearview mirror was Clem standing calmly by the elevator, making notes on his bone clipboard.

This is fine, I told myself as I careened into traffic. This is totally fine. I'm having a psychotic break. That's normal. People have those.

I caught my reflection in a storefront window as I zipped past. My eyes were gone. Just empty sockets staring back at me, hollow and dark.

Maybe not so fine.

*******

In my research phase. Every problem has a solution. Every system has a hack.

I barricaded myself in my apartment with three laptops, two monitors, and enough caffeine to power a small city. Derek had vanished—probably to his girlfriend's place, leaving me alone with my existential crisis and a refrigerator full of expired oat milk.

"How to undo soul pact," I typed into Google. "Demonic SaaS loopholes." "Customer service rep from hell literal."

The results were... mixed. A lot of theological debate forums. Some very creative fiction. One Reddit thread titled "I Sold My Soul for a Free Trial—AITA?" with 847 comments and counting.

u/SoullessInSeattle: NTA. Everyone's done it at least once. Check the fine print for redemption clauses.

u/BeelzeBob_666: YTA for not reading the terms. Also, try the 'Existentially Compromised UX' appeal. Works 60% of the time, every time.

Existentially Compromised UX?

I dove deeper into the legal labyrinth of my own damnation. Buried in subsection 47.C.12 of the user agreement—written in font so small it practically required a microscope—I found it:

"In cases where the User can demonstrate that contractual consent was obtained through deliberately obscured or existentially compromising user experience design, a single renegotiation opportunity may be granted upon formal request and demonstration of genuine personal growth."

Genuine personal growth. There it was—the loophole. The catch-22. The thing that made demons better at customer service than most humans.

I spent the next six hours documenting every predatory design pattern in the soul-stealing website. Dark patterns, buried checkboxes, font manipulation, the whole UX hall of shame. By 3 AM, I had a presentation that would make any design ethics professor weep.

This could work. This could actually work.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Renegotiation request received. Meeting scheduled for 10 AM tomorrow. Peet's Coffee, 4th and Mission. Come alone. -C"

How did he get my number?

I checked my phone plan. Unlimited data, no roaming charges, three months of Spotify Premium.

Of course. Duh!

*******

Peet's Coffee at 10 AM buzzed with the typical San Francisco morning crowd—tech workers nursing hangovers, freelancers camping at tables, and one demon in business casual reviewing what appeared to be a performance evaluation.

I'd brought backup: my friend Maya, a second-year law student who owed me several favors involving Python debugging and questionable dating app algorithms.

"This is insane," Maya whispered as we approached Clem's table. "You can't actually believe—"

She stopped mid-sentence when she saw Clem's eyes. The obsidian black. The way he reflected the coffee shop's Edison bulbs like dark stars.

"Nope," Maya said, backing toward the door. "Nope nope nope. Good luck, Ezra. I'll light a candle for you."

She fled, leaving me alone with my infernal customer service representative and a venti dark roast that suddenly tasted like regret.

"Mr. Goldblatt," Clem said, gesturing to the empty chair. "Please, sit. I've reviewed your appeal documentation. Quite thorough."

He's being nice. That's somehow worse than terrifying.

"So you'll void the contract?"

"I'm afraid not. However, your UX complaint has merit. The website design was intentionally predatory, crafted to exploit human psychological vulnerabilities." Clem's expression softened slightly. "That's... rather the point."

"So this is just business to you?"

"It's always business, Mr. Goldblatt. But that doesn't mean it's impersonal." Clem leaned forward, his voice dropping to something almost human. "Do you know what I was before this?"

Before?

"I was a UI designer. Portland, 2019. I sold my soul for a promotion at a startup that promised to 'revolutionize human connection.' The app failed. The promotion never came. But the contract..." Clem gestured to his immaculate appearance. "Customer service seemed like a natural transition."

The weight of that revelation settled between us like a lead blanket.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you have one option remaining: the Redemption Through Sincere Self-Reclamation clause. It requires genuine personal growth, demonstrated through an act of courage or integrity that puts others before yourself."

Others before yourself. I had a track record there. It mostly involved choosing Netflix over human interaction.

"What kind of act?"

"That's not for me to define. But it must be real, Mr. Goldblatt. It must cost you something. And it must matter to someone other than yourself."

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Ezra? This is Sarah. I know we haven't talked since... look, I'm in trouble. That data plan app you sent me? Something's wrong. Please call me."

Sarah. My ex-girlfriend. The one who'd told me I was 'emotionally unavailable' and 'committed to nothing but your screen time.'

She wasn't wrong.

"I have to go," I said, standing.

Clem nodded. "The offer stands until midnight, Mr. Goldblatt. Choose wisely.”

*******

Sarah's voice cracked through the phone static: "I looked in the mirror and my eyes were gone, Ezra. Just these black holes, like something was staring back through me. And there's this person following me. She has a clipboard made of bones."

The building had changed since yesterday. The WeWork's glass and chrome facade flickered like a broken hologram, revealing glimpses of something underneath—stone gargoyles, wrought iron, architecture that belonged in a different century. The lobby directory listed companies that definitely hadn't existed on Tuesday: "Pandemonium Holdings, Floor 13." "Infernal Enterprises LLC, Sub-basement 7." "Starbucks, Floor 2."

At least some things never change.

I took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, which definitely hadn't existed yesterday. The doors opened onto a server room that stretched beyond the laws of architectural possibility. Banks of computers hummed with otherworldly energy, their screens displaying scrolling code that hurt to look at directly.

And there, in the center of it all, a massive server rack labeled "SOUL STORAGE - BATCH PROCESSING."

Hundreds of souls. All uploaded, catalogued, ready for eternal customer service.

The terminal required a password. I tried "password123." Nothing. "admin." Nothing. "soulcollector."

Access denied.

"Mr. Goldblatt."

I turned to find Clem standing in the doorway, his bone clipboard smoldering slightly.

"I must advise against this course of action. Tampering with infernal infrastructure violates several federal regulations, not to mention your existing contractual obligations."

"Those people didn't know what they were signing," I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard. "They thought it was a joke. They thought they were just getting free data."

"Yes," Clem said quietly. "They did."

Wait. Was that... regret?

I looked at Clem—really looked. His perfect customer service mask had slipped slightly, revealing something raw underneath. Something that remembered being human.

"You don't want to do this either," I said.

"My performance review is next week," Clem replied. "I need this bonus. But part of me… part of me hoped you’d find the clause.”

"What bonus?"

"One and a half vacation hours upon successful soul acquisition."

One and a half hours. The absurdity of it hit me like a cosmic punchline. Eternal damnation, processed by beings who measured their rewards in minutes of break time.

I turned back to the terminal. The password field blinked expectantly.

Think. What would a demon use for a password?

I typed: "Terms&Conditions1."

Access granted.

The server room erupted in sparks and Latin chanting. Code streamed across the screens—not the elegant Python or JavaScript I was used to, but something older, more primal. The language of binding and unbinding, of contracts written in blood and pixels.

Delete user records. Cancel all pending transactions. Void all contracts executed in the last 72 hours.

The servers screamed—an actual sound, like metal tearing and souls singing. The air filled with the scent of ozone and burnt offerings.

"System restore initiated," I shouted over the chaos. "All souls returned to original owners!"

Clem stepped forward, his clipboard dissolving into ash. "Mr. Goldblatt, you realize this voids your own contract as well?"

"I realize."

"You also realize this terminates my employment. Effective immediately."

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.

Clem smiled—the first genuine expression I'd seen from him. "Don't be. I've been meaning to update my LinkedIn anyway."

The server room collapsed into itself, reality reasserting its grip on the building's architecture. The humming stopped. The screens went dark.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sarah: "I can see my eyes again. Thank you.”

*******

I found Clem in the lobby, sitting on a bench that definitely hadn't been there before. His business attire had been replaced by jeans and a t-shirt that read "I SURVIVED CUSTOMER SERVICE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY TERMINATION."

"So," I said, settling beside him. "Clause satisfied?"

"Clause satisfied. Soul reinstated. Congratulations, Mr. Goldblatt."

"What happens now?"

"Now? I suppose I look for work. The gig economy is surprisingly robust for former infernal employees."

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts. "I know some people. Startups that need UX designers who really understand dark patterns."

"I'd appreciate that."

"So... I get to keep my data plan?"

Clem's laugh was warm, human, free of customer service training. "No. But you have a soul. You might actually use it now."

Fair point.

*******

Three weeks later, I was back to my normal routine: overpriced coffee, existential dread, and the gentle panic of freelance life. Clem had landed a job at a design agency that specialized in ethical technology. He sent me updates occasionally, usually screenshots of user agreements he'd rewritten to be actually readable.

My phone chimed with a new email.

Subject: "LIMITED OFFER: Immortality, Ad-Free YouTube, AND A FREE AIR FRYER!"

The banner ad pulsed with familiar red and gold flames. The checkbox sat prominently above an endless scroll of legal text.

I hovered over it. The cursor remained a normal arrow.

Click "Decline."

The email vanished with a demonic shriek that made my neighbors' dog howl.

Some lessons, you only need to learn once.

I closed my laptop, grabbed my keys, and headed out into the city. Sarah had texted about meeting for coffee—not to get back together, but to talk. To be actual human beings with each other.

I didn’t check my phone for the next hour. I just listened.

My soul felt lighter already.