The recorder, a strange device having been built by a failed musician back in the 80s who discovered the existence of the infernal melody and wanted to use it for his own gain.
It's not much different from how all stories end at least the ones that don't have a happy ending, But how did this strange device end up in hell? And how can the reflection of the madness of a note end everything? Well, I don't know, do you know?
8. The tarot that counts is a Heavy Metal band.
After the conflict a few hours ago, Kain arrived at his home-a modest residence in the Solis district that was considered 'luxurious' by the city's standards. Located in a more upscale part of the district, the area exuded an unusual quietness, broken only by the occasional drunken demon stumbling down the street and the distant sound of water. It was late at night, and the residential district was practically asleep, its inhabitants either resting for another monotonous day of work at the Sea of Pride or indulging in the last of their wine reserves at bars in other districts.
The property was well-maintained with a pile of letters piled near the door, its façade reflecting the hellish opulence of the red-lit sky above.
The surrounding neighborhood resembled a typical suburb-or at least as typical as a suburb in Hell could be, under its perpetually crimson sky. But still divided by the city's canals, which to Kain seemed to flow into an uncertain future.
The blind demon stood before his residence, a small stone path leading to the entrance, flanked by a neatly trimmed lawn.
"Are we here?" Kain asked.
"We arrived, Kain. Just go straight," Greasy replied, flapping his wings.
"OK," Kain said.
Kain began walking forward, guiding himself along the stone path. After a few steps, he arrived at the façade of his residence. The walls were painted a dark blue, and the brown wooden door bore intricate designs of infernal roses, crafted in stained, blurred glass. Hanging from a canopy above the door, a lamp emitted reddish flames, casting a warm glow over the entrance. However, the sight that immediately caught Kain's attention was the mountain of posters, letters, and packages piled near the door, blocking his way.
"Dammit, who's the bastard that leaked my address? I'll probably have to move again. Soon enough, degenerates will start showing up, trying to sell my junk on the infernet," Kain muttered, moving his cane to shove some of the pile aside.
"Caw! But Kain, fans are like that. Besides, you should read these letters. They're written by demons who genuinely admire your work," Greasy said, flapping his wings as he perched on Kain's shoulder.
"That's the problem, Greasy. I'm blind. I couldn't read these letters even if I wanted to, and I'm not about to fall into another glue trap," Kain retorted, continuing to push the pile aside with frustration.
"I can read them for you, Kain. That's what I'm here for," Greasy offered, hopping down to inspect the pile more closely. He picked up a green envelope with a partially melted seal. "This one looks promising."
Greasy tore open the envelope with his beak but quickly noticed that the contents were stuck. Using his claws, he managed to drag out the letter. However, the paper seemed glued shut. After a brief struggle, he finally pried it open, only to reveal a single line: 'My love to Kain Longheart.'
"Wow, that was way harder to open than it should've been. It's almost like whoever wrote this smeared glue all over it," Greasy remarked, tilting his head in curiosity.
"Greasy, that's not glue," Kain replied dryly as he fished his house key from his pocket and inserted it into the door lock.
"What do you mean it's not glue...?" Greasy stared at the letter, the realization dawning on him. His eyes widened in horror. "Caw! Caw! Caw! That's disgusting!" he squawked, frantically rubbing his beak against the floor to clean it.
"Uh-huh. Glue trap," Kain muttered, turning the key and pushing the door open. "Look, at some point I'll ask you to read this, okay? But not today, someday maybe."
Kain and his crow entered the residence, the blind demon locking the door behind them. He placed the key on the small mezzanine by the door, along with his glasses and cane.
"And... that’s it. Another day done. It wasn’t as busy as I thought it’d be," Kain remarked, walking through the living room.
The room was spacious, its beige walls giving it a warm tone. Despite its size, the space was far from tidy. Sheets of music were scattered across the red carpet in front of a black sofa. On a nearby shelf, a tube television sat surrounded by framed photos and decorative trinkets, including a life-sized Greasy plushie Kain had made for the crow’s last birthday. Hanging from the ceiling, a modest chandelier cast a soft white light over the room as Greasy flipped the switch with his beak.
"This happened because you were late today, caw!" Greasy retorted, flying over to perch on the couch.
"True," Kain admitted with a faint smile.
"Are you playing tonight? I like when you sing."
"Everyone likes it; that's why I'm a famous musician. Though, technically, you don’t need to sing to be a famous musician. However, no, I will not be playing tonight."
"Caw..." Greasy muttered, turning his beak down in disappointment.
"Look, Greasy, I'm tired. Especially after that fight. Tomorrow, I'll play whatever song you want, okay?"
"Caw!"
"Great," Kain said, heading toward his bedroom as Greasy flew right behind him.
"You know, I still notice that you're not very excited about your career," the crow remarked.
"Seriously? How did you figure that out, crow?" Kain replied, feeling his way along the wall toward the room.
"You no longer perform concerts or presentations frequently, you haven’t visited your fan club in ages, and you haven’t appeared on television in months. And it’s not just a recent thing—it’s been going on for a while."
"I... I know, Greasy. It’s just that, after so long, anything gets boring. Fame is no different. There came a point in my career where I stopped composing for art and started doing it for financial agendas—just giving fans what they wanted. Vox forced me into it. You know those recent albums of mine sound like they were made by other people," Kain said, stopping as he entered the room. He undid his tie and placed the top of his suit on a hat stand by the door. As Greasy landed on the bed "That’s why I started my record label. I don’t want other artists to follow the path of easy money and forget about art, I know we are in hell but that is no reason not to have culture. The truth, Greasy, is..."
He trailed off, as if carefully choosing his words.
"Caw?" Greasy cawed, tilting his head in confusion.
"Nothing, nothing. I'll tell you later. For now I just want to sleep."
"You won't even take a shower?" Greasy asked.
"Tomorrow I'll wash you," Kain replied.
He then took small steps until he reached the bed. Although the room wasn't large, its compact size helped Kain navigate it with ease. The walls were painted the same beige as the rest of the house, decorated with stickers of guitar brands and other musical instruments. Several framed pictures adorned the walls, including one of the entire Veildark Records team taken a few days after the label's opening.
The floor was covered by a red rug with black squares, and the bed was draped with a blanket featuring an image of Kain—a gift from a fan a few months ago. However, what stood out most in the room, aside from the window on the left wall (closed and covered by pink curtains), was a compact piano by MTFD (*Musicians of the Damned*). It had been custom-made for Kain, signed by the Rhythm Demon himself. The piano was sleek black, with golden keys that shimmered faintly in the dim light slipping through the curtains.
Kain let out a deep sigh and collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep almost instantly, his snores breaking the silence. Greasy sighed as well and perched himself near Kain's neck, resting his head on the pillow.
They both drifted into sleep.
"Good evening, Pentagram City! It's a pleasure to be here once again," Kain Longheart declared, his tone equal parts charm and mockery. He stood confidently on the small, dimly lit stage, addressing a crowd of demons scattered across the pub, most nursing drinks and barely paying attention. "My name is Kain Longheart—no relation to Cain and Abel, since I’ve never read the Bible."
The comment drew scattered laughter, with a few demons actually looking up from their drinks. Behind Kain, a small band of imps prepared their instruments: saxophones, a piano, a guitar, and a trombone. They were dressed in mismatched outfits, giving the impression of last-minute hires rather than seasoned professionals.
"After all, I am a demon," Kain continued, smirking. This time, the laughter was louder, though tinged with sarcasm. Most of the crowd still didn’t seem to care who was on stage, their focus divided between conversations, drinks, and occasional fights.
"But tonight," Kain said, gesturing dramatically, "I have for you an original composition—something I’ve worked tirelessly on for… about 10 minutes counting down lunch time ."
The room erupted in another wave of laughter. Kain’s cheap, ill-fitting suit—a clear attempt to look more polished than he was—added to the comedic charm. It was the kind of suit you’d find at a street vendor, paired with an attitude that made it seem intentional.
Still, despite the lack of attention from most of the audience, there was a spark in Kain’s stance—a subtle defiance, as though he was playing for himself as much as for anyone willing to listen.
"Alright then, without further ado, let’s get started," Kain said, his voice calm but laced with confidence. He closed his eyes briefly, cleared his throat, and the Imps behind him began to play the pre-chorus melody—a smooth, jazzy rhythm that filled the room with an effortless cool. They kept the tempo relaxed, just as jazz should be, and Kain tapped his foot lightly to the beat.
"First of all, let me hear those strings of hate that keep up in my dreams, but what can I do? If it's with the hell I have to keep up too," Kain sang, his voice far from perfect, but full of character. It wasn’t the best anyone had ever heard, but it carried an intensity that seemed to resonate with the audience. He didn’t miss a single note, even as the crowd continued to murmur and laugh, some with genuine appreciation for his unique presence. "I'm not crazy, insane or any other kind of guy, I just had another type of weird life, because that girl didn't know what she did, she showed the sinful sides of me,"
"The sinful sides of me," the Imps harmonized behind him, their voices blending seamlessly like a chorus.
And so, the performance continued. Kain sang on stage, and as the words left his lips, more and more demons turned their attention toward him. He felt a surge of excitement at the gazes fixed on him, the spark of interest in their eyes unmistakable. Bit by bit, they gave themselves over to the rhythm, the demon captivating them with his half-closed eyes, exuding a seductive and malicious aura. It was as if nothing else mattered—a true demonic charm or perhaps the natural allure of a gentleman in his element.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
After a few more minutes, Kain concluded his performance. The room erupted into applause, and he bowed slowly, almost knocking his worn tie askew in the process.
"Thank you, thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here," he said warmly, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
Kain began to exit the stage, stepping down from the front. But as his foot touched the ground, the world around him went silent—the music, the applause, everything faded. Instead, the same chaotic melody that had haunted him for decades returned, swirling and consuming him. His vision was drawn uncontrollably to the blackened floor as the melody pulled him into its abyss, devouring him in sinful notes. Kain screamed in terror.
"Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!"
The haunting melody was abruptly replaced by the frantic caws of a crow. Kain jolted upright in bed, screaming and sweating cold.
"Caw! Caw! Caw!" Greasy flapped his wings, cawing like an alarm.
Kain placed his left hand on his face, trying to steady his breathing. With his right hand, he reached out and pressed down lightly on Greasy's head, silencing the crow like a button.
"Good morning, Kain," Greasy said, tilting his head. "You woke up screaming out of nowhere. Did you sleep well?"
"Go fuck yourself Greasy! What a fright!" Kain snapped, still shaken. But he quickly calmed down and sank back into the bed. "Sorry, Greasy. I didn't mean that."
"I've heard worse from you, Kain," Greasy replied, ruffling his feathers. "Are you ready to start another day?"
Kain let out a small, tired smile. "Sure." He yawned and slowly stood up, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink.
Taking a deep breath, he muttered, “Where are my glasses?”
Greasy flew down to the floor, picked up Kain’s glasses by one of the arms with his beak, and returned, carefully placing them on Kain’s face.
“You dropped them while you were sleeping,” Greasy said.
“Okay,” Kain replied, walking towards the door.
He entered the bathroom and began his routine. He shaved his beard, took a long shower, and emerged wearing a towel around his waist, his slightly pale, whitish torso exposed.
“Greasy,” Kain called out.
The crow flew into the bathroom, hovering near Kain. “Yes?”
Following the sound of Greasy's voice, Kain grabbed him by the neck and carried him into the bathroom, turning on the sink as the crow squawked and flapped frantically.
“Caw! Caw! Let me go!” Greasy protested, struggling to escape.
“I said I was going to give you a bath. Are you really surprised by this?” Kain replied, holding the crow firmly to keep him from fleeing.
He placed Greasy under the running water, ignoring the splashes that soaked both of them.
“STOP IT, GREASY! I’M NOT GOING TO HURT YOU!” Kain shouted, reaching for a bottle of neutral soap with his left hand while keeping a firm grip on the bird with his right.
“Caw! This is abuse! I’m going to call the bird union!”
“There is no bird union, Greasy, and even if there was, you wouldn’t b—” Kain paused, stifling a laugh. “Be a member of it.”
He grabbed the bottle, its label reading *Neutral Liquid Soap: Purple Lavender*. With one hand, he squeezed a generous amount of soap onto Greasy’s wet feathers, spreading it across the crow’s back, wings, and neck as the bird continued to squawk in indignation.
Kain dropped the soap bottle, freeing his other hand to wash Greasy more thoroughly. Using both hands, he began massaging the crow’s feathers, working the soap into a lather. Slowly, Greasy stopped struggling, his wings relaxing as he closed his eyes, clearly enjoying the sensation.
"Hmm... I'm not going to lie, this actually feels good," Greasy admitted, his voice softer now.
Kain smirked slightly. "See? I’m not doing you any harm, Greasy. I just want the best for you."
Greasy let out a contented caw, his earlier protests replaced with quiet enjoyment as Kain continued washing him.
After finishing washing the bird, Kain grabbed a clean towel and gently wrapped Greasy in it, bundling him up like a baby.
"Perfect. Soon enough, you’ll be attracting another crow to date," Kain teased, cradling the bundled bird in his arms.
"This is ridiculous... I’m a powerful demon, and you treat me like a baby!" Greasy protested, his muffled voice coming from within the towel.
"You could just fly away and avoid this," Kain replied with a small smirk. "But you’re right—I guess I’m a little overprotective of you."
Kain started walking toward his room, still holding the towel-wrapped Greasy. When he reached the door, he set the crow gently on the floor before stepping inside. Moments later, the door reopened, and Kain emerged wearing the same suit from the day before—the same one he’d worn during his first-ever performance.
Greasy, now free of the towel, stared up at Kain and rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Do you always wear that same crappy suit? Don’t you have any variety, Kain? Caw!"
"For starters, it’s not the same suit," Kain countered with a knowing smile. "Haven’t you heard of the Ship of Theseus theorem? And second, this suit fits me perfectly. It’s presentable anywhere." He adjusted the jacket. "Besides, why would I care about fashion? I’m blind."
"Sometimes it feels like you're stuck in the past," said Greasy, flying over to perch on Kain's left shoulder.
"If I were really in the past, I'd be seeing. Anyway, breakfast."
Kain headed toward the kitchen, which was part of the living room. On the left side, a half-wall with a rectangular marble counter separated the two spaces. Once there, he approached the coffee machine and poured himself an espresso, already brewed and ready.
"This machine is the best thing I’ve ever bought," he remarked, savoring the first sip.
"You’ve bought a mansion with cash, and this coffee machine is the best thing you’ve ever bought?" Greasy asked incredulously.
"Of course. Waking up every day to ready-made coffee? That’s priceless."
"You are strange, Kain."
"I guess I’m just getting used to the simpler things. As for the mansion? I never even set foot in it. It was just an investment in real estate titles. Anyway, turn on the TV. I’m going to make breakfast."
"Caw!"
With that, Greasy flew over to the remote control lying on the couch. Using his beak, he turned on the TV.
The screen displayed a makeup commercial, but since Greasy didn’t wear makeup, he changed the channel.
"New score in the Infinite Greed Lottery, with 600 thousand souls accumulated for the priz—"
"Is the Archangel of Love gay or not? Find out in today’s episode of Hellconspiracy LTDA."
Finally, he stopped at HellCorp Television, where the news was reporting on a peculiar incident. On the screen, a tall, two-headed demon delivered the news. Both heads wore fine black suits, with dark faces and massive horns.
"Breaking news: yesterday at the Sea Of Pride, a cargo barge failed to respond to radio communication from gate operators," the first head reported.
"According to information received by our editorial team, a team was sent to the barge’s location and discovered the crew members dead. The existence of survivors remains unconfirmed, as does the cause of the accident, which is still under investigation," the second head added.
"The vessel was in a precarious state and carrying spare parts for vehiclesb that were to be sent to a Hell's Motore assembly plant in Pentagram City, and it was confirmed that a good portion of the parts would go toward repairing a fleet of Twisted Lucky Enterprise delivery trucks whose CEO Andrey Fortuna has not yet commented on whether he has any relation to the event. As previously mentioned, the causes of this accident remain unknown. However, an audio recording from the vessel has been recovered after the failed radio communication attempt."
The screen shifted to display an audio visualizer that moved erratically, yet no sound came through the TV. However, Kain could hear it—clearly and horrifyingly. He froze in fear, the cup slipping from his hand and shattering into pieces on the floor.
Greasy, alarmed by the sound, flew over to Kain, noticing how the visualizers in the musician's eyes pulsed erratically, almost in sync with the madness of the unheard sound.
"Kain!"
But Kain didn’t respond. He was consumed by what he heard: distorted screams and fragments of a melody that defied coherence, an infernal cacophony carrying every sin ever committed within its notes. It was the essence of pure evil, refusing to leave his mind in peace.
The image on the TV changed again, and Kain placed a trembling hand on his head. Greasy fluttered anxiously, his voice filled with panic.
"Kain, are you okay?"
Kain’s lips twitched into a faint, unsettling smile as he muttered, "So this is how you made yourself known. How long until you get to me? Ronnie will be happy to hear this."
"Caw?" Greasy tilted his head in confusion and fear.
Kain takes a deep breath.
"Relax Greasy, it was just a mild panic attack, I'll clean up this mess."
Meanwhile, at Pentagram Bank, Dazzle—the self-proclaimed best secretary in Hell—was busy scrutinizing promotional posters for the bank. One featured a massive image of Sir Clockhauser pointing forward, accompanied by a slogan about a an investment consultancy. The other displayed the bank’s logo with the tagline "The Financial Devil" underneath.
"Hmm... I think both work," Dazzle mused, holding the posters up. His eyes lingered on the Clockhauser poster. "But I think it needs more color to highlight our leader!"
The intercom on his desk suddenly buzzed, interrupting his thoughts.
Dazzle sighed, set the posters down, and pressed the intercom button. "Dazzle, Secretary of Pentagram Bank speaking. Order? For Sir Clockhauser? Sure, send someone to drop it here."
A few minutes later, Arch stepped out of the elevator, carrying a box with his signature wide smile beneath his blue hair.
"Good morning, Mr. Rider," Dazzle greeted casually. "Have you eliminated the creditor who’s been five years late paying their loan?"
Arch placed the box on the desk and responded with a series of hand gestures, his usual sign language.
"Excellent! These modern-day demons just don’t grasp the concept of bank interest."
Dazzle glanced at the box. It was red, adorned with a bow, and had a note attached that read, "For Sir Clockhauser."
"I’ll take this to the boss. You can go chat with your wife, or whatever."
Arch smiled politely and returned to the elevator. Box in hand, Dazzle walked to the door of Sir Clockhauser’s office, knocking three times.
"Come in, Dazzle," Clockhauser’s voice called from inside.
Dazzle opened the door, stepping into the Overlord’s office. As always, Clockhauser was hard at work, even during the early hours.
"I have a package for you, boss," Dazzle announced, holding out the box.
Clockhauser raised his clock face slowly, the reflective surface catching the room’s light.
"Okay. What’s inside the box?"
"Uh... I don’t know. The note just says to give it to you."
Clockhauser’s ticking intensified slightly. "Dazzle, do you know how many enemies I have?"
"A lot?"
"A lot," Clockhauser confirmed. "And you just brought an unchecked box into my office? What if it’s a bomb? Or poison gas?"
"I… hadn’t thought of that," Dazzle admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Clockhauser sighed heavily and motioned for Dazzle to step closer. Reluctantly, Dazzle obeyed.
Taking the box, Clockhauser paused before opening it. He grabbed Dazzle’s wrist tightly. "If this is a bomb, and I die because of your incompetence, we both die."
Dazzle gulped audibly, his eyes wide as Clockhauser slowly opened the box.
Inside, however, there was no bomb, no poison gas. Instead, there lay a pristine white mask with spinning wheels typical of a slot machine.
"N—" Clockhauser began, but he was abruptly interrupted as the mask floated into the air. From within, a green smoke started to billow out—not a lethal vapor, but something distinctly magical. The smoke swirled and began to form the shape of a body.
With a soft thud, a pair of feet landed on Clockhauser's desk. Standing there was a tall demon dressed in ostentatious attire: a richly embroidered coat, loose yellow pants symbolizing wealth with accents of blue, ornate and expensive shoes, numerous rings adorning his fingers, and a wide-brimmed hat with a gold band. His entire ensemble was a loud declaration of extravagance, the unmistakable style of...
"A gypsy," Clockhauser muttered, letting out a long, exasperated sigh as he rubbed his face. "I’d rather it had been a bomb."
Dazzle stared at the figure in confusion as the mysterious gypsy adjusted a mechanical cane in his hands, its design a complex amalgamation of gears and mechanisms.
The gypsy turned his head slowly toward the Overlord. The mask that had obscured his face shot upward, revealing sharp teeth and mismatched eyes—one glowing bright green, the other more ordinary, save for its vivid green pupil.
"Apparently, the wheel of fortune has turned, delivering yet another inopportune event for us both. Good morning, Clockhauser," the gypsy greeted, his voice smooth and teasing.
Clockhauser crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Did you come here just to give me your Tarot reading, Andrey?"
Andrey smirked, placing one hand on his chest while the other rested on his cane. "Perhaps, if you're interested. But no, this is about the incident yesterday. It directly affects my company."
Clockhauser’s tone remained cold as he gestured toward his desk. "Yes, I’m aware. But before we discuss business, get off my desk."
"What if I don't want to leave? What will you do?" Andrey asked with a mischievous smile, his tone laced with mockery.
"I will break every bone in your body," Clockhauser replied coldly, his voice steady and filled with menace.
Andrey placed a hand casually on his face, feigning disinterest. "I didn't hear much conviction in that threat," he said, his grin widening even further.
A loud ticking sound echoed from Clockhauser's face, the hands on the clock moving sharply to 2:15 AM. In a sudden burst of fury, Clockhauser sprang to his feet, his voice booming. "GET OFF MY TABLE, YOU GYPSY SON OF A BIT—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Clockhauser staggered, clutching his chest as he collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain.
"AAAAH!" he screamed, his agony reverberating through the room.
For Clockhauser it was as if the internal mechanisms of the clock that was his head were stressed to the maximum, causing excessive pain as if the hands were being forcefully pulled out. Following the sound of gears locking.
Dazzle rushed to his side, panicked, while Andrey stepped off the table, still laughing, his cane tapping lightly against the floor.
"A demon as powerful as you, yet brought down by your own emotions. That archangel really did a number on you," Andrey mocked, his tone dripping with amusement. "I thought with all your expertise in clockwork, you'd have found a way to fix yourself by now."
"Boss, are you okay?" Dazzle asked, visibly distressed as he tried to help the Overlord.
Clockhauser took a deep breath, recovering from the pain, and slowly stood up, brushing off Dazzle’s concern without a word.
Turning his attention to Andrey, he said, "From the report I read about the incident, much of the spare parts were going to repair their fleet of delivery trucks in another city,"
"Correct as always, my lord," Andrey replied with a bow, his tone oozing deference.
"And that's why you're here?"
"Precisely," Andrey confirmed, his smirk returning.
"So… who are you?" Dazzle asked, his tail wagging from side to side with curiosity.
"Oh, little Imp, I didn't notice you there," Andrey said, turning his attention to him. "You must be Sir Clockhauser's assistant. My name is Andrey Fortuna, owner of the casino supplies company *Twisted Lucky Enterprise*, or TLE for short."
"My name is Dazzle, and I'm the Secretary of the Pentagram Bank," Dazzle replied, raising a finger with a touch of pride in his voice.
"Yes, yes, of course," Andrey said dismissively as he stepped closer to Dazzle. He sniffed the air subtly, catching the mineral scent from the Imp's skin. "Your skin is so yellow. Let me guess—you used to work as a miner?"
"I worked for 20 years in the Hellitia refineries," Dazzle answered, crossing his arms. "I was a transporter, had a lot of contact with the material, and didn’t have money for Hellimia."
"You seem pretty lucky to have landed such a high-level job," Andrey remarked with a grin. "Hehehe, makes me curious. Dazzle, would you like to test your luck?"
"What do you mean, 'test my luck'?" Dazzle asked, raising an eyebrow.
Before Andrey could reply, Clockhauser intervened, placing a firm hand on Dazzle's shoulder. "I know exactly where this is going. Don’t mess with my employees."
"Pfft, you’re so boring," Andrey retorted, rolling his eyes.
Clockhauser made a motion with his other hand, and Andrey begrudgingly sat in the chair across from the desk while Clockhauser settled back into his velvety chair.
"I know the standard procedure, and transportation is not the issue," Andrey began, his voice sharp and measured. "The issue is safety assurance. We trust you to keep the Sea of Pride logistics operational. What guarantees do you offer that this type of event won’t happen again? And don’t think I haven’t read the regulations—I’m going to lose three days due to cargo relocation. Demons are not patient, Clockhauser. My customers are waiting for their merchandise, and if I suffer losses because of an event in a place where you’re supposed to maintain security, I can—and will—demand financial compensation. It’s my right as a businessman associated with Pentagram Bank.
And let’s not forget the HORRIBLE press this gives me! My name is now tied to this disaster! How did this even happen? A ship appears out of nowhere with all the crew dead—that’s not exactly reassuring!"
Clockhauser listened calmly, his face was just a clock without a mouth, eyes, or in other words, without expression. "I understand your concerns. Regarding the accident, we are still investigating. But, if it helps, not all crew members were killed."
He turned to his computer, fingers deftly navigating through several windows until he pulled up a video feed from the bank’s security cameras. Once he located the footage, he turned the monitor toward Andrey, showing a demon sleeping in what appeared to be a holding cell.
"What do you mean? I saw the news—no survivors."
"No confirmed survivors," Clockhauser corrected. "But one demon survived, and he’s in our custody."
Andrey squinted at the screen, his curiosity piqued. "Can I talk to him? Wait... Do you have a cell in a bank?"
Clockhauser leaned back in his chair, a faint air of amusement in his tone. "This building is more than a bank; it’s practically the city hall. You shouldn’t be so surprised. Besides, I’m also seeking answers to this mystery. As for your association with the incident, I wouldn’t worry too much. This is Hell—no business is built without bloodshed, and nobody here is innocent."
Andrey frowned, but eventually shook his head, his expression growing serious.
"Anything else to add?" Clockhauser pressed.
"No," Andrey replied, bowing slightly before standing.
"Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Fortuna. I’ll allow you to speak with the survivor, but for now, I need to take precautionary measures to prevent future incidents."
Andrey gave a curt nod, adjusting his hat before leaving the office.
Dazzle, who had been quietly observing, turned to Clockhauser. "So… what are you going to do?"
Clockhauser’s clock face ticked slightly as he turned back to his computer. "For now, the usual—work," he replied, his gaze l
ingering on the monitor where the demon survivor remained asleep. He turned his head to the side. "Interesting. This might just make my week a bit more… fun."