I was drowning.
Bills stacked on my kitchen table like jagged teeth, the phone buzzing nonstop with creditors, landlords, debt collectors. My apartment reeked of despair and old takeout, and I hadn’t slept a proper night in weeks. The pandemic had killed my job, my savings, and apparently, my dignity.
I scoured the Internet, the usual job boards and forums, searching for something—anything—that would pay more than minimum wage. Then, half as a joke and half as desperation, I wandered into the corners of the Dark Web. I know the warnings, the tales of cursed downloads, disappearing people, and worse, but I had nothing to lose.
That’s when I found it: SoulMart.
Bright, almost cartoonish graphics covered the page—red devils winking, stacks of cash twirling in the background. A tagline blinked at me: “Sign today. Earn a fortune. Satisfaction guaranteed… for eternity.”
The instructions were simple. Click the red button. Fill out your info. Sell your soul. I laughed nervously, thinking maybe it was some viral marketing scam. But desperation is a clever demon; it whispered, what if it works?
I clicked. I typed. I hesitated.
My name. My birthday. My email.
And then the question: “Do you consent to relinquish your soul in exchange for unending wealth?”
I almost closed the browser. Almost. But hunger, fear, and the nagging presence of eviction notices made the click feel inevitable.
I hit Yes.
Almost immediately, my phone pinged. A notification from my bank: $1,000,000 DEPOSITED. My eyes watered. This had to be a glitch. But it kept coming—monthly deposits, like clockwork. My debts vanished. My rent was no longer a worry. I bought a car, a small mansion, and even a yacht, because why not?
I could finally breathe.
The first party I hosted was wild, extravagant, a blur of champagne, silk dresses, and laughter. I floated above it all, untouchable.
Until I saw him.
He didn’t need an introduction—he was the kind of figure nightmares use for inspiration. Cloaked in black, face a smooth, empty skull. He carried a scythe as casually as a waiter carries a tray. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as he walked through the throng of dancing guests.
Everyone else froze.
I froze.
“You sold your soul,” he said in a voice like steel scraping bone. “Time to collect.”
Before I could react, everything blurred. Pain exploded inside me as if my body had become a piñata of flesh and organs. When he was done, my chest felt hollow. I wasn’t dead, not yet. But a part of me—something vital, almost like my essence—was gone.
After that night, the colors of life dulled.
My mansion, my parties, my money—they all felt gray, heavy. I tried to indulge in pleasures again, but each sip of champagne, each luxury purchase, rang hollow. The man in the skull mask had taken more than my soul—he had taken joy.
I tried to quit.
Sold everything. Left the mansion. Gave away my car. I returned to a tiny apartment with a view of the fire escape. I drank cheap whiskey, smoked my old cigarettes, and sank into a miserable routine.
But it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Then, the notifications started.
Not from my bank. From my email. From the Dark Web.
“Congratulations! Your soul has been exceptionally popular this month. Renew for double rewards.”
And there he was again, in the corner of my apartment, leaning against the wall, skull mask tilted as if mocking me.
“They loved you,” he said, tilting his scythe lazily. “People subscribed to you. Your suffering is… lucrative. They want more.”
More? I thought. I don’t have anything left.
“You have a choice,” he said. “Or rather, you think you do.”
He snapped his fingers, and the room shimmered.
Suddenly, I was back in my apartment—but everything was… wrong.
My furniture was reversed, the pictures on the walls were of strangers I’d never met, and my reflection in the mirror smiled back at me with teeth I didn’t own.
The scythe tapped the floor.
“Every month, your soul is renewed, repackaged, and auctioned. People bid on fragments of you—your love, your hate, your joy, your despair. Don’t worry, you won’t feel much of it… except when we say you will.”
I tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
“Ah,” he said, crouching. “You see, it’s more profitable this way. Eternal subscription. And your subscribers? They’re… picky.”
I looked down at my hands.
They weren’t my hands.
They belonged to someone else… someone younger, tighter, full of energy. Every month, my body changed slightly for the next bidder, and my mind… fractured. Memories overlapped. I could hear faint whispers of all the people who had possessed me.
“You should be grateful,” he whispered. “Your soul funds entire empires. Enjoy your new life. Or at least, whatever part of it remains after your next payment.”
And then he vanished.
Months passed.
I counted them not in days, but in fragments of myself. Sometimes I woke up as a man I didn’t recognize, with hobbies I hated and desires I didn’t own. My subscribers cheered on, as if I were a toy they could throw away and rebuild.
One day, a notification pinged in the corner of my vision:
“New bidder incoming. Prepare yourself.”
I tried to hide. Tried to fight. But deep down, I knew it was pointless. The contract had never ended, and neither would my torment.
My soul was no longer mine.
It belonged to the world, sold piece by piece, and every month, the Dark Web reminded me of the one truth I could no longer escape:
I am a product.
And the market is always open.
