Chapter 1: The Ninety-Ninth Second

Chapter 1: The Ninety-Ninth Second

The rain in Veridia wasn't just water; it was an accomplice. It slicked the asphalt into a fractured mirror, reflecting the city’s neon ambitions and its shadowed despairs. It washed the grime from the gargoyles perched atop century-old buildings, channeling it into the gutters where forgotten dreams went to die. For Kaelen Thorne, the rain was simply background noise for the end of a life.

He stood across the street from a tenement building, a crumbling brick monolith that had surrendered to gravity and neglect. The collar of his long, dark coat was turned up against the drizzle, a futile gesture. The chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather. It was the familiar, soul-deep cold of an appointment he was bound to keep. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of brimstone and old parchment clung to him, a perfume only the damned and the desperate could detect.

His client was inside. Johnny “Silvertone” Miles. A name that had meant something for exactly eleven months, seven years ago. A one-hit wonder who burned brighter than a magnesium flare and then vanished into smoke. Infernal Holdings Inc. had financed that flare. Now, it was time to collect on the investment.

The lobby smelled of damp plaster and boiled cabbage. Kaelen bypassed the wheezing elevator and took the stairs, his footsteps silent on the worn linoleum. Fourth floor, apartment 4B. The contract stipulated the final moment of collection was midnight. His watch read 11:58. He was, as always, meticulously punctual.

He didn’t knock. The lock clicked open with a whisper of will, and he stepped inside.

The apartment was a museum of a single, glorious year. Gold records, tarnished and dusty, hung crookedly on the walls next to framed magazine covers. A beautiful, forgotten Gibson guitar leaned in a corner, its strings slack. But interspersed with these relics of fame were the artifacts of a different life: a child’s crayon drawing of a lopsided sun taped to the fridge, a worn pink backpack slumped by the door, a row of orange prescription bottles on the kitchen counter.

Johnny Miles sat in a threadbare armchair, a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t the charismatic rocker from the magazine covers. He was a man hollowed out by time, his eyes empty save for a flicker of weary resignation. He looked at Kaelen, his gaze lingering on the tailored coat that seemed so out of place in the squalor.

“Right on time,” Johnny said, his voice a gravelly ruin of the smooth tenor that had sold millions. “The Acquisitions Agent. Figures you’d dress like an undertaker.”

Kaelen remained by the door, his sharp, intelligent eyes scanning the room, absorbing the story it told. The desire for a quick, clean transaction warred with the details that didn’t fit the typical profile of greed. “The contract is clear, Mr. Miles. The term expires in one hundred and twenty seconds.”

Johnny laughed, a bitter, rattling sound. “Term. You make it sound like a lease. It was my talent, my soul. All for a hit song and a sold-out tour.” He gestured vaguely at the gold records. “Hardly seems worth it now, does it?”

“That is the nature of the bargain,” Kaelen replied, his tone flat. He wanted this to be simple. Another greedy fool paying the price. It was easier that way. But his gaze fell on a framed photo on the mantelpiece: Johnny, looking happier and healthier, with his arm around a small girl with a bright, gappy-toothed smile. She was holding a stuffed bear. The same bear sat on the arm of the sofa, one of its button eyes missing.

“You have a daughter,” Kaelen stated, the words leaving his lips before he could stop them.

The resignation in Johnny’s eyes cracked, revealing a chasm of raw pain. “Lily. She’s with her aunt tonight.” He took a shaky sip of whiskey. “She was seven when I signed. Born with a hole in her heart the size of a fist. Doctors gave her a year. The surgeries… the cost was astronomical. I was playing in dive bars for pocket change. I had nothing.”

The obstacle. There it was. Not greed. Not ambition. Desperation. The purest, most potent fuel for a demonic pact. Kaelen felt a familiar, sickening twist in his gut, a phantom echo of a choice he himself had made an eternity ago. He had tried to save his sister. And failed.

“The money from the contract,” Kaelen said, his voice softer now. “It was for her.”

“Every last damn penny,” Johnny whispered, his face crumbling. “The song they gave me… it paid for everything. It bought her seven more years. Seven birthdays. Seven Christmases.” He looked Kaelen dead in the eye, a father’s love burning away the last of his fear. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Kaelen’s carefully constructed apathy shattered. In that moment, the air around his wrists shimmered, and for a split second, faint, ethereal chains of shadow became visible, writhing as if in protest of the emotion welling within him. He clenched his fists, forcing them back into the unseen.

Duty was a simple, brutal equation. But this… this felt like punishing a man for an act of love. It was an inefficiency in the system he couldn’t stomach.

The countdown in his head reached ninety-nine seconds.

“The pact,” Kaelen demanded, his voice now sharp with a new, urgent purpose. “Show it to me. Now.”

Johnny frowned, confused. “What? Why?”

“There are rules. Cosmic laws that even Infernal Holdings must obey. Every contract has terms, clauses, conditions. Let me see it.”

Johnny hesitated, then nodded slowly. He closed his eyes, and with a surge of foul-smelling smoke from the floorboards, a scroll of scorched, leathery parchment materialized on the coffee table. It was bound in sinew, the text written in a flickering, fiery script that hurt the eyes to read.

Kaelen snatched it. His eyes, honed by centuries of poring over infernal legalese, flew across the jagged text. He wasn’t just reading; he was dissecting, searching for a flaw, a misplaced comma, an ambiguous phrase. The language of Hell was built on precision, but its architects were arrogant. They never accounted for an insider trying to break the system.

...granting one (1) unit of Marketable Musical Talent... ...in exchange for one (1) immortal soul, Class B, Non-Redeemable... ...term of ten (10) solar years, commencing upon first commercial broadcast...

Standard. Ironclad. He could feel the seconds bleeding away. Sixty… fifty-nine…

His fingers traced the lines of fire. It was a boilerplate contract, a template used for thousands of desperate artists. But his unique perception, the ‘cheat code’ that made him so valuable and so dangerous to his employers, allowed him to see not just the words, but the intent woven behind them. He saw the cold, corporate glee of the demon who had drafted it.

Thirty seconds.

His eyes snagged on a sub-clause deep in the addenda, a section detailing Force Majeure, Acts of God, and other cosmic externalities. It was boilerplate, meant to protect the company, not the client.

Clause 7, Paragraph C: All benefits derived from the execution of this contract are assigned solely to the signatory. The transference of said benefits to a third party, without prior written consent from an authorized agent of Infernal Holdings Inc., constitutes a material breach...

His breath hitched. Transference of benefits. Johnny hadn’t used the money for fast cars or mansions. He had transferred the entire benefit of the contract—the money, the fame that generated it—to a third party. His daughter.

It was a gamble. A desperate, razor-thin loophole. The breach was on Johnny’s part, which would normally accelerate collection. But the contract didn’t specify the penalty. It was a legal ambiguity. An oversight. And in the courts of cosmic law, an ambiguity was a weapon.

Ten seconds.

“Johnny,” Kaelen said, his voice a low command. “The money you earned. Did you ever spend a dime of it on yourself?”

Johnny looked up, bewildered. “No. It all went into a trust for Lily’s medical care. Every cent.”

Action.

“Then the contract is in breach,” Kaelen declared, his gaze locked on the fiery script. “But not by you. By them. They failed to file for remedy.”

Three…

He placed his hand over the parchment. He wasn’t a creature of fire and brimstone; he was a master of rules and ink. He poured his will not into breaking the contract, but into enforcing its own flawed language. He would file an injunction, a procedural stay based on the unaddressed breach. It wouldn’t save Johnny’s soul forever, but it would buy him time. It would bury the case in so much celestial red tape it might not see a ruling for another fifty years.

Two…

He channeled his power, twisting the meaning of the clause, turning Hell’s own corporate shield into a sword. The fiery letters on the scroll flared violently.

One…

The final second hung in the air, stretching into an eternity. The clock on the wall froze, its hand trembling on the twelve.

Zero.

The contract dissolved into a shower of dying embers. The oppressive weight in the room lifted. Johnny stared, his mouth agape, as the scent of ozone filled the air. He was still here. He was free. For now.

But as the last ember winked out, a new, far more terrifying presence flooded the room. The air temperature plummeted. A pressure, cold and precise as a scalpel, pressed in on Kaelen’s mind. It was a familiar touch, one he felt every time he bent a rule to its breaking point.

He didn’t need to see her to know. Far away, in some sterile, obsidian office in the heart of the infernal hierarchy, his supervisor had just received a notification. An account had failed to close. An asset had become a liability.

Lilith knew. And an audit was coming.