Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.

rehearsed steps on an empty stage
by. Poisoned Scarlett

It's just a notebook, she thinks, gnawing on her nails. It sits innocently-enough on her desk; like any other notebook. But there is a weight to this book that has her uneasy. She dares to flip through it, going through page after page after page of nothing but lines. Some pages are completely black, as if someone had filled in the page with ink. But it does not feel like ink when she runs her fingers down it. Aside from those pages, the notebook is blank. The cover, however, is what unnerves her the most.

Leather-bound, it reads Soul Eater.

She doesn't know if this is some sort of sick prank—or perhaps it is nothing at all, just a notebook someone had never finished decorating. Perhaps the notebook was fan merchandise from some series she had no idea about. Her unease over the book could be her own paranoia—that works, she told herself, there was nothing to fear from a simple notebook. It's just a notebook, after all.

Downstairs, the door slams shut, and she can hear her father stumble up the stairs. Maka Albarn's eyes darken when she hears another door slam, silence following. Her eyes shift to her alarm clock and her jaw sets: midnight. He had been steadily coming home later and later—she wonders when he'll stop coming at all, when his lust for women will finally devour him. He's disgusting, he repulses her to a degree she can't put into words, but it should come to no surprise: all men were like that, weren't they? They were atrocious, absolutely shameless. They had no shred of self-respect; she can't stand them, can't stand what that man has done to her mother, reduced her to. What did she expect, really? He might be her father, but he was the same as all of them.

Maka's head shoots up when she hears the sharp whip of a page being turned.

She stares at the notebook.

It was open.

Maka hesitates to stand, but when she does it's fast and unsteady.

She scrambles over to her desk, stares at the once black page that now had words on it.

"Rules of using a Soul Eater," Maka murmurs to herself, her eyes scanning the page, "The human whose name is written in this book shall die." She swallows, reading the second rule, "This book will not take effect unless the writer has the persons face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected," she ponders this. It made sense; it was quite clever, really. "Rule three, a cause of death must be written within forty seconds of writing in a humans name. If it is not specified, the Soul Eater will…devour their soul, resulting in a heart attack."

Maka swallows, reaching behind her for her chair. She sits down, her knees weak, and lets her eyes drift to the lower end of the page.

"The human who uses this notebook can neither go to Heaver or Hell."

She did not know how to feel about that, but she flips the page anyway, her eyes landing on the single thing written on the page.

"The human in possession of this Soul Eater is possessed by the Soul Eater until they die," her brows furrows, her hand reaching up to clutch her heart. "What does that even mean? A Soul Eater?" She shuts the book and pushes it away from her, shaking her head. It gives her a bad vibe, makes her hands want to hold it longer. "This is silly—a book that can kill people. Such things don't exist…" her eyes shift over to it then away. She grabs the remote and turns on the television to avoid temptation, figuring some entertainment would clear her mind of dangerous thoughts.

It doesn't.

In fact, it only makes her fingers twitch for a pen.

The human whose name is written in this book shall die, Maka thinks, twirling her pen between her fingers. She stares at the television, the man who is harassing the spokeswoman as they try to enter court. He's making awful comments, letting his lewd stare run down her chest, her body,degrading her. Maka's eyes darken; had he no shame? Was this all a show because he knew the camera was rolling?

This book will not take effect unless the write has the persons face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.

"It's worth a shot," Maka says with a sharp blow of breath. She turns to the notebook, flipping it to the first page. Her pen hovers over the lines, hesitant. Her eyes switch back to the television. Jean Hakuboshi. He was a serial rapist who pleaded not-guilty to the rape of three young high school girls a few months ago.

"But what if he does die?" Maka gnaws on her bottom lip, her heart twisting. "It'll…it'll be because of me."

But those girls, her mind whispers, earnestly. Just think about the pain those girls are going through. Everyone knows he did it—look at the way he's acting, that pig. He raped those girls, did god knows what to them. They'll never be the same, Maka stares at the book. Her eyes darken. And it's all because of one man.

The world doesn't need more filth than it already has.

"Jean," Maka murmurs as she writes down his name, "Hak-u-bo-shi," she finishes. It's been done and she feels no different than usual. She looks around her, finding everything as she had last seen it. She holds her breath when she looks back at the name she wrote, her heart beat rising to her throat. She turns back to the television, counting down to forty. "…Thirty seven, thirty eight, thirty nine," Maka sharply inhales. "Forty!"

Nothing happens.

He's still on trail, looking no more disturbed than how he entered.

Maka lets go of the breath she was holding, her shoulders sagging. "Well, I guess it really was a prank."

"Prank?" another voice interrupts. It feels like a bucket of cold water has washed over her. "I wouldn't say that. Man, his soul was really good—that guy really was a demon," he laughs and Maka swivels to face a man with bright red eyes with a grin stretching across half his face, jagged teeth that make her face pale because they resemble the sharp edges of knives. He's demonic; he's not human, she feels it instantly. It's a weight, a swift in pressure, that nearly buckle her knees.

She shrieks, jerking away from him, falling on her back in her panic to get away from him. She bumps into her overturned chair and her eyes flash to the television, the man who is bent over the table, immobile.

"No way," Maka chokes, staring. There are people surrounding him, shaking him. He still doesn't move. "Is he really…?"

"Dead?" the demon offers, hopping off the corner of her desk. He walks in the light, revealing a well-dressed man in slacks and pinstriped blazer. His tie is immaculate, set to the middle, black, and his hair a spiky mess of white. It's his eyes that really do it for her; that make her realize what she has done, that make her realize just how fleeting the turmoil is inside of her. The demons bloodlusting red eyes make her stomach drop to her ankles. He grins and says, "He's been dead since you wrote the name in the book."

"The book," Maka repeats, dumbly. "No. That can't be right. That's impossible—it's only a book."

"To a Soul Eater," he adds.

"Soul Eater—what does that even mean?"

"Are you stupid, or just in shock?" he complains, no longer in good spirits. He leans back on the desk and watches as she picks herself up. He's impassive to her shock, the terror he can read in her eyes. What did she expect, is she going to break apart in guilt? She looks like the type. Scrawny, with a face like an angel. She's not the type to write in his book, to own him. She's a mistake, he thinks with a sharp exhale. But he'll have to put up with the mistake until it dies.

"I'm a Soul Eater. I eat souls," he drawls, showcasing his sharp teeth with a sick sense of pride. Maka remains quiet. "The instant you wrote in my book, your soul became mine. It'll be mine until you die. In return, I offer my services to you for a lifetime."

"What kind of services?"

"I'll eat the soul of whoever you want," he smirks. "Just name 'em and they're gone. No evidence to trace back to you, and you get what you want. I think it's a fair deal."

"It's a deal with the devil."

"I don't see you complaining," he points out, reaching over for his book. Her hand twitches away; he ignores it. "After all, you wrote in my book. A part of you was willing to go through with it, even if another part told you it was wrong. But that part of you that wanted him dead won out," he meets her gaze, his grin widening at the darkness he sees inside them. "And I delivered." Perhaps he was wrong—perhaps she wasn't a mistake, perhaps she was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. That darkness that lurks behind her solid gaze, it gives him hope.

"Soul Eater," Maka repeats, testing it out. She straightens and he watches her near him with curiosity. She's not the terrified girl she was a few seconds ago; this one has a sense of dignity, pride. Pride was always a good trait to exacerbate. It was a good trait to corrupt. "So that man, he's dead?"

"On his way to the morgue as we speak," he drawls. "Anyone else you want gone? I'm still hungry."

"His soul, did you really eat it?"

"I'd show you except I don't think you want me puking it out right here," he snickers at her wrinkled nose.

"Did you?" she repeats, sharply.

"Yes, I ate his soul, what else do ya' want from me?"

"What else can you do?"

"Eh?"

"Aside from eating souls, what else can you do?" Maka crosses her arms over her chest. "Actually, before you answer that, can anyone else see you? You're not human, obviously."

No one can be, with such a frightening visage.

Soul stares at her and then laughs, the sound rich and dark. It makes shivers run up her arms. "You bounce back pretty fast. To answer your question, no one else can see me, only those who have touched my book can interact with me." He waggles it in her face and blinks when she snatches it out of his hand, tucking it under her arm. Already possessive of his book, he smirks. He likes it. "As long as you don't let anyone mess around with it, you're good. Although, I wouldn't recommend talking to me outside of your room. It'll make you look insane," he says the last word slyly, with a dark pleasure in his eyes that doesn't sit well with her.

But nothing about him sits well with her.

"If I want to, say, write the name of someone in this book," Maka asks, curiosity getting the better of her. "I know how he looks like, but not his name. Can you give me his name?"

Soul gives her a lengthy look. "I can," he says, carefully. "At a price."

"What price?"

"Half your life-span."

Maka's eyes widen in incredulity. "You're kidding."

"Nope," he smirks. "Half your life and you got his name—and more. Half your life and I give you half of my sight, which enables you to read both the name and time of death of anyone you like."

"Anyone?"

Soul leans in, eager. "Anyone. So, what do you say, short stack? You wanna' bargain—OUCH!"

"My name is Maka, Maka Albarn," she snaps, giving him another smack with his book when he curses at her. "Are you stupid?" She throws back, viciously. Soul thinks perhaps he really misjudged her after all. "Half my life? I have no idea how long I have. For all I know, I could live a fairly long life, which would be a waste if I were to give half of it away. No, it's a stupid bargain. It's not worth it."

Soul grins, rubbing his head. "Smart, too, huh? If you had a bigger rack, I'd call you a packaged deal—URGH!"

Maka looks at the book, thoughtful, ignoring his groans because she had hit him harder than before. He takes a note not to poke at her rack too much. "I wonder what would happen if I were to write your own name in the book…."

"Nothing, because you don't know my name," Soul scowls, his eyes flicking to her savagely. "My real name is none of your damn business."

"Oh. Did I hit a nerve?" Maka looks at him. Soul opens his mouth to retaliate but the look in her eyes, the darkness he finds there, makes him stop and think. The last thing he needs is to have his master think ill of him. She could literally make his life a living hell—after all, his life was the book. If she wanted, she could send him back to that wretched purgatory for beings like him for another hundred years.

He had been watching her, however, watching her since she picked up his book. He followed her, keeping himself hidden, observing her habits and speech and everything about her. He noticed something, something interesting, and it has to do with the way she stared at her bedroom door when her father stumbled in through the front.

The hatred in her pretty green eyes makes drool collect in his mouth.

She is not a mistake—far from it.

"…You really hate men, huh?"

Maka looks back down to the book instead of answering him, but her tightening grip on it answers his question. He will have to be more obedient to this master of his, he decides. "Neither hell or heaven," she turns to her bookcase and decides on the level that shelves all her textbooks. She squeezes his book between two math textbooks and steps back, deciding no one would find it at first glance. She'll find a better hiding place later.

"Could be worse," Soul speaks up. "You could be condemned to Hell."

"For playing God?" Maka sharply says and he merely shrugs, deflecting the accusation with a crooked smirk. Maka gives him a lengthy look before glancing at the book, adding, "This book was created by some higher being. Can you tell me who?"

"All in due time, Ma-ka," he mocks, reclining on her bed comfortably.

She wonders if he's god-sent, in a twisted sort of way.

She wonders if this is even fair at all, then dismisses the thought. It's happened and now there is no going back, only forward.

"If I belong in neither heaven nor hell, where do I go?"

Soul doesn't speak, only smiles.

She already knows the answer to that question.

A/N: This was originally a one-shot I posted on Tumblr. I will not be continuing this, but I hope you enjoyed what little there was of it!

Scar.