Victor sat on the velvet sofa, the contract—a heavy parchment that also served as a bearer bond for five hundred thousand Hell Gold—resting on his knee. The ink was still wet. It was a number that didn't just solve problems; it murdered them. It was enough to pay the interest, fix the plumbing, and maybe, just maybe, buy a mattress that didn't scream when you lay on it.
He took a sip of the tea Yggdrasil had poured. The air in the drawing room smelled of ozone, expensive cologne, and the lingering scent of burnt gunpowder. Greymane had just left, his limo purring down the driveway like a satisfied cat. The deal was done.
"Finally," Victor whispered, raising his cup to the hole in the wall. "We survived."
"Survival probability re-calculated: 99.8%," a raspy, metallic voice intoned from t
