Dante sat stiffly across from the Broker, his spine rigid as if a single movement might shatter the fragile equilibrium of his already precarious existence. The contract still lay stretched across the desk before him, stark and damning, as inescapable as an execution order with his name etched in blood. The ink glistened like fresh venom, waiting for the final stroke that would seal his fate.

His gut churned, nausea curling through him like smoke, the aftershocks of what he had just witnessed still reverberating through his skull. A man—someone who had likely sat in this very chair, who had once bargained with the same predatory force now watching him—had been reduced to nothing. Not merely bankrupt. Not merely ruined. Erased. A void where a person used to be. The cost of failure, laid bare in the most visceral of terms.

Dante had no idea what price he himself had agreed to pay.

The Broker steepled his ink-stained fingers, his expression one of patient amusement, the kind reserved for men who already know the answer to the question they are about to ask. “You understand now, don’t you?” His voice was silk and steel, a scalpel cutting straight to the bone. “The real price of doing business here?”

Dante exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Yeah.” His voice felt rough, scraped raw by the weight of realization. “You don’t just take cash.”

Dante’s fingers curled against his knees, nails digging into fabric as if grounding himself could stop the slow, inevitable slide into realization. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the air thick with something heavier than smoke, something unseen but suffocating. He thought back to every whispered warning, every cautionary tale told in dimly lit backrooms by men who refused to name their sources. You don’t take a loan from the Broker. You survive one. But Dante had been too desperate, too arrogant, or maybe just too damn stupid to listen.

His mind scrambled for some kind of leverage, some loophole he could wedge himself through before the trap snapped shut completely. Contracts had fine print. Deals had outs. That was the rule, wasn’t it? But as he cast his gaze back to the parchment, the shifting ink twisted into new words, as if it could hear him—responding, adapting. No loopholes. No mercy. No escape. His stomach twisted. This wasn’t just a contract. It was a sentence, and he had signed it willingly, blind to the weight of his own damnation.

The Broker watched him with the patience of a predator, letting the silence stretch, letting Dante sink into the realization. He didn’t press, didn’t rush. There was no need. A drowning man figures out for himself that he has no air. Instead, he merely smiled, amusement flickering behind ink-dark eyes, and when he finally spoke, it was with the kind of certainty that only came from absolute, unshakable authority. “Oh, money?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s worthless here.”

The Broker chuckled—a sound far too pleased, far too knowing—and with a casual flick of his fingers, he tapped the edge of the contract. “Oh, money?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s worthless here.”

Several more parchments manifested in the air between them, glowing faintly, their words shifting like living things. The letters slithered, reconfiguring themselves with a sentience that made Dante’s skin crawl. The contracts were alive.

Stolen story; please report.

Dante’s eyes scanned the words, and his stomach tightened into a knot of ice.

LOAN AGREEMENT:

- Principal: 50,000 credits

- Payment: 7 years of life, collected in monthly increments.

- Default Penalty: Full soul liquidation.

SERVICE CONTRACT:

- Benefit: Temporary supernatural augmentation.

- Payment: A single, unrecoverable memory of the Contractor’s choosing.

- Failure to Select: A memory will be chosen at random.

EMPLOYMENT BOND:

- Benefit: Guaranteed wealth and power.

- Payment: Your firstborn child.

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT:

- Requirement: Absolute secrecy.

- Payment: Your voice. Permanently.

Dante’s blood ran cold.

This wasn’t a deal. This wasn’t a transaction. This was cannibalism, but instead of flesh and bone, they feasted on years, thoughts, futures—essence.

Years of your life, bleeding away second by second. Fragments of your own mind, torn from your skull like pages from a burning book. Your very ability to speak, ripped away and never returned.

And children. Not just a debt upon yourself, but a debt passed down—a cost borne by those who hadn’t even been born yet.

Dante swallowed hard. His throat felt dry as ash.

His mind clawed for answers, but the contracts before him were written in a language older than ink, older than words—a language of consequence, of cost. He could feel it in his bones, an instinctive understanding that had nothing to do with reading and everything to do with dread. Every deal had a price, and every price had a collector. The Broker wasn’t just a lender. He was a merchant of obligation, selling power, security, and salvation at rates few could comprehend—let alone survive.

A sickening thought coiled in his gut. What had seemed like salvation might have been a cage all along. He had signed his name without question, without hesitation, because the alternative had been ruin, and ruin wasn’t an option. Not then. But now, staring at the twisting, living ink, he wondered if he’d truly chosen this at all—or if he had simply been led to believe there had never been another path. The illusion of choice was a powerful thing, after all. And the Broker was a master at wielding it.

The silence in the room stretched, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shake. The Broker let it linger, watching, waiting, giving Dante the space to drown in his own realization. The answer wasn’t just sitting on parchment—it was written in the way his skin tingled, the way his pulse felt too loud in his ears, the way something else inside him now stirred. He had traded something away, something that could never be bought back, and the worst part? He still didn’t know what.

His gaze snapped back to the Broker, his voice barely above a whisper. “And what did I sign away?”

The Broker’s smile widened—not in reassurance, not in kindness, but in delight.

“Oh, Dante.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers tapping against the glowing contract with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You didn’t just sign a deal. You signed a Pact.”

The word slithered through the air like a blade unsheathed.

“That means you don’t just owe a debt,” the Broker continued, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You owe a role. A function.” His tap quickened against the parchment. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like the countdown of a clock winding down.

“You’re not just paying something off, Dante.”

The glowing words beneath his fingertips pulsed, burning brighter, reflecting in Dante’s wide, panic-stricken eyes.

“You’re working it off.”

A sharp, searing heat exploded through Dante’s right hand. He clenched his fist with a ragged gasp, but the agony only deepened—ashen veins writhing beneath his skin like something alive, crawling, embedding itself into him.

This wasn’t just debt.

This was ownership.