Chapter 8 – The Contract

  One of the underlings who had exited the room earlier soon returned, carrying a heavy-looking black sports bag in one hand.

  In the other hand, he was still holding the machete dripping with blood and flesh.

  The sight made Sole feel sick and nauseated.

  Bell also noticed these theatrics but did not pay them much attention. At this moment, most of his focus was on the contract that Don Shapiro had produced.

  The contract stipulated that within an interval of thirty days, under any circumstances, he must reimburse the house.

  Failure to follow the clauses of the contract would grant Don Shapiro’s company the right to “demand reparation” for the troubles caused to his business.

  Bell already had an idea of how they would proceed to demand that reparation.

  There were also clauses related to the interest he would have to pay—twenty percent. It was a huge rip-off.

  “It’s not as if I don’t intend to pay, but soon these notes of money will lose all their value. They will be no different from common paper. In fact, toilet paper will even be more useful than money,” Bell thought calmly.

  There were other clauses as well, some stating that he could not leave the prefecture before paying his debt.

  Everything in the contract seemed clear and straightforward, without much legal wording.

  Bell faintly noticed a flaw in the contract. It did not say anything about repaying partially before the échéance, nor did it mention the possibility of interest compounding over the interest.

  It was a simple agreement—brutal, vicious, and effective.

  People who worked with loan sharks did so because they were often unable to secure a deal with a bank. And even banks were often just as vicious.

  Then Bell looked at the quill and the red ink that Don Shapiro had placed on the table before him. It glimmered brightly under the light of the lamp.

  As soon as Bell signed the contract and his hand left the paper, his expression changed.

  He had briefly noticed a strange pull originating from the contract, as if something from his very essence was being drawn away.

  At this moment, Bell’s perception was fully activated under the power of the dream dust.

  There was nothing strange in the room apart from the ordinary-looking contract.

  His perception focused on it. Right before him, in a spectrum outside ordinary human sight, Bell saw above the contract a strand of grey gaseous matter slowly mixing with the bloody hue hidden inside the lines written on the document.

  “A soul binding!” Bell felt a mental tremor at the discovery.

  He had never imagined that he would face something like this so soon—even before the start of the ‘apocalypse.’ This was literally his first supernatural encounter with something external to him.

  “What’s the origin of this power? An item? A beyonder? An evildoer?” Bell was momentarily flustered.

  But he could not dwell on it for too long. Whatever the origin of that power, he could not allow himself to be at the mercy of others for a measly amount of money.

  “Should I just destroy the contract? These people are armed. It’s going to complicate things… but I could certainly deal with that…”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  His hands, which had just left the document, returned to it. He was about to act when he suddenly thought of something.

  “The second ability granted by the dream dust—erasing my presence while casting a copy, an illusion formed from the same power.”

  “This looks like a basic contract, so it should work.”

  As soon as these thoughts crossed his mind, Bell started to act.

  With a headache-inducing mental strain, he managed to stop the process of the grey strand of his essence being absorbed by the bloody contract line, dragging it back into his body. But the pull from the contract was still present—relentless, like a law of attraction, like the Earth drawing objects toward it under gravity.

  But this time Bell was prepared. He created a projection that mirrored his essence using the power of the dream dust.

  Like a shark smelling blood, the strange power surged again, dragging the projection and merging it into the line of the contract.

  Bell resisted the vertigo that assaulted him—the mental strain and the backlash from the dream dust.

  As he raised his head, Bell looked at Don Shapiro once again, this time with a hint of caution.

  Everyone inside the room seemed none the wiser about what had just happened. For them, everything had proceeded as usual—nothing unusual, nothing like the feeling of negotiating with a devil and almost losing.

  “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Bell said, looking at the smiling and comfortably seated Don Shapiro.

  “I do hope so,” Don Shapiro replied before turning toward his guard.

  “Seven, will you lead these gentlemen out?”

  “Yes, Boss,” the man who had been silent until that moment answered respectfully.

  As the three exited the room, with the guard at the front and Bell just behind, the bag of money strapped to his shoulder, Sole Baye made a peace sign with his hand, his fake smile ever present.

  “Peace out,” he announced, sounding slightly more relaxed.

  The way back felt far less relaxing than Sole Baye had expected.

  He had noticed something change as they walked away from the neon lights of the nightclub. Something about Bell had changed.

  It was not just his calmness or lack of excitement. While Sole Baye could not quite put his finger on it, if he had to describe it, it felt like Bell now carried danger around him—like a powder keg about to explode.

  In the territory that belonged to Don Shapiro, things had felt relatively safe. But once they moved farther away, Sole Baye began to have a bad feeling.

  Moving with that amount of money—even if they were not openly displaying it—created a pricking sensation at the back of the neck, goosebumps rising as if every gaze were fixed on your back.

  And soon, his worries were confirmed.

  As they reached a poorly lit area, figures slowly emerged from the shadows.

  There were at least three of them in front. Sole Baye guessed there was probably at least one more behind them, blocking any escape route. From their appearance alone, they clearly meant trouble.

  One of them had already brandished a long knife that gleamed under the faint light.

  “I think maybe we should go back,” Sole suggested cautiously.

  “Don’t worry. Just follow me,” Bell said before taking something out of his pocket.

  Sole did not know exactly what it was, but the certainty behind those words made him move forward. Still, this feeling coming from Bell was unfamiliar—it was as if he were walking beside a completely different person.

  “Does he have a gun?” Sole thought internally.

  The thugs approached quietly. They said nothing until they were only a few steps away.

  They moved in coordination, poised to attack, trying to identify the object in the young man’s hand.

  Then they heard a relieved sigh.

  “Just in time to vent all this frustration,” Bell said.

  The next moment, the flashlight in his hand lit up. With his other hand, he removed his sunglasses.

  The thugs found themselves staring at his eyes.

  Dilated pupils, dark like the abyss, with something akin to golden stardust swirling within them, forming strange and incomprehensible symbols. As soon as you gazed into them, you could not look away.

  The three men froze mid-step before beginning to convulse.

  Bell turned off the flashlight and placed his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose.

  He continued walking forward, passing between the three trembling figures. He did not intentionally avoid them. As he brushed past one of the men, the latter collapsed to the ground, his body still convulsing.

  From his state, it would not have been surprising if he drowned in his own saliva.

  Sole quickly followed, practically running now, his mind in turmoil.

  “What just happened?” he muttered to himself.

  “What kind of sorcery is this?”

  As they kept walking, the silence became oppressive for Sole. It almost felt as if he had forgotten how to speak, how to even think clearly.

  That was when Bell finally spoke.

  “You can go back now. But keep in mind that I will need your help for the next step of my business. You will buy things for me, and I’ll pay you,” Bell said calmly.

  Sole Baye quickly nodded, his fake smile shining brightly under the streetlamp at the corner.

  By now, they had reached a more populated area. The roar of cars slightly drowned their voices. People moved in every direction. At this hour of the night, for Sole Baye, it felt as though life had returned from the grave.

  And somewhere, hidden in the shadows, something was watching—unbeknownst to anyone.

  Alternative title: Humans are fragile