The Broker leaned back, watching Dante with the smug patience of a man who had seen this exact scene play out a hundred times before. A man who already knew the script, the actors, the final act—the whole tragic, inevitable mess. And why wouldn’t he? This was his stage. His show. Dante was just the latest fool to stumble into the spotlight, thinking he could change the ending.

"So, Dante." He laced his fingers together, ink stains blooming across his knuckles like bruises. "Shall we discuss your options?"

The question was rhetorical. Of course they were going to discuss his options. The Broker wasn’t asking—he was leading. This was the part where Dante was supposed to nod, pretend he had a choice, pretend this conversation wasn’t already tilting in the Broker’s favor like a rigged scale. The whole setup was designed to make him feel like a participant rather than a mark, like he had some control over the terms instead of standing at the edge of a cliff with only one real direction left to go.

The office was too quiet, the kind of hush that felt intentional. Outside these walls, the market still hummed with the low murmur of other deals being struck, other debts being sealed in ink and blood. But here, in this moment, it was just the two of them—the predator and the desperate man trying not to look like prey. The faint scratch of the Broker’s ink-stained fingers tapping against the desk was the only sound breaking the silence, rhythmic, patient, like a ticking clock. A reminder that time, too, was something Dante didn’t have.

His stomach churned. He could still hear the veteran Pactmaker’s voice in his head, quiet and final. You’re not special. You’re just next. But Dante didn’t have the luxury of walking away. Not yet. Not until he found a way to make sure that when the Enforcer came knocking again, Dante would still be the one answering, still be breathing. Because there was no outrunning a contract. There was only surviving it.

Dante exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. His skin still crawled from the veteran Pactmaker’s warning. Get what you need. Then get out.

Right. Just one problem.

He wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Not without a solution. Not without a way to keep breathing when that hollow-eyed thing came back for him.

The Broker must’ve read his expression, because his grin widened—not in sympathy, but in something far worse. Anticipation. Like a man watching a gambler put his last coin on the table, knowing the house always wins. With a flick of his wrist, a new contract materialized on the desk.

"Option one: You do nothing," the Broker said pleasantly, like he was offering Dante a cup of tea instead of a death sentence. "The Enforcer returns. You die. Painless, probably. A quick liquidation, just like our unfortunate friend from earlier."

Dante’s stomach twisted. Hard pass.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Option two," the Broker continued, tapping the fresh parchment with one idle finger. "You sign this. You take power. You fight back."

Dante frowned, pulse thrumming in his ears. "And what’s the cost?"

The Broker’s smile never wavered. If anything, it sharpened. "That depends on what you want."

Dante’s breath came faster as he glanced at the contract. The letters shifted, twisting, waiting—like they were watching him.

The parchment wasn’t still. It breathed. The ink swam across the surface in slow, deliberate strokes, the words forming and reforming as if aware they were being read. Each letter settled only when Dante’s eyes landed on it, locking into place like something alive had decided: Yes, this is what he needs to see. The contract was waiting for him, patient, expectant—because it already knew what he would choose. It had seen it before. It had seen them all before.

A dull pressure coiled in the back of his skull, a whisper of something he couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite name. Was it the contract? Or was it the thing that had already started digging into his veins, the same corruption that had twisted the veteran Pactmaker’s arm into a road map of ruin? The weight of it pressed against his ribs, an unspoken warning: Pick your poison carefully. Some doors don’t close once they’re open.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. There had to be a loophole, a way to tip the scales back in his favor—but deep down, Dante already knew the truth. This wasn’t about winning. This was about buying time. Because the Enforcer wasn’t a distant threat. It was coming. And when it arrived, Dante would either be standing—or he’d be ash in the wind.

Beneath the heading "Pact Amendment," three different offers materialized, written in curling, ink-dark script.

1. Strength Beyond Flesh – The power to move faster, hit harder, endure more. Cost: Five years of your life for every kill.

2. Shadowed Mind – The ability to slip through unseen places, to vanish like a whisper. Cost: A piece of your memory with each use.

3. Ashen Reaper – Mastery over the corruption already spreading in your veins. Cost: The more you use it, the more it takes.

Dante stared.

Each option was a knife hidden in a handshake. Power, yes—but at a price.

And the worst part? He didn’t have the luxury of walking away.

For a brief, reckless second, he considered it—walking away. Leaving the contract unsigned, pushing back from the desk, and stepping out into the neon-drenched streets with nothing but his own two hands and the ticking clock of his impending demise. It was a fantasy, of course. A comforting lie. Because the truth was, the moment he had set foot in this room, the moment he had sat across from the Broker with a debt he couldn’t name, he had already crossed the threshold. There was no walking away. There was only delaying the inevitable.

The Enforcer wasn’t a problem he could outrun. It wasn’t a hired thug, some low-level collector he could talk his way past or fight off in a dark alley. It was a force—something precise, methodical, a hammer that always found its nail. And Dante had been marked the second he failed to pay what was owed. The only reason he was still breathing was because the system liked to give its victims just enough rope to hang themselves first.

His fingers hovered over the contract, the glow of the shifting ink reflecting in his eyes. He could feel it again—that slow, insidious pull, the weight of something watching, waiting. No choice here. Not really. Just the illusion of one, wrapped in the thin veneer of control. The only real question was how much he was willing to lose before the game was over.

The Enforcer was coming.

The Broker folded his hands, eyes glinting in the dim light. "So, Dante." His voice was almost amused.

“Do you want to live badly enough to pay the price?”