Deal [2]

For the first time in their conversation, Azrael's expression shifted—not much, but enough.

A flicker of something in his golden eyes.

A subtle shift in the set of his shoulders.

It lasted only a second.

And then, he smiled.

A slow, dangerous smile.

Henry placed the key on the table.

And then, without another word, he stood.

But Azrael did not move.

He did not reach for the key, nor did he take his eyes off Henry. Instead, he let the silence stretch—let it coil between them like something alive, something waiting.

Then, finally, he exhaled, a quiet, almost amused sound.

"Curious,"

He murmured, tapping a single finger against the polished surface of his desk.

"You stand there, Henry Blackwood, acting as if you have already won the moment. As if you are not still in my domain. As if that heartbeat of hesitation didn't just betray the fact that you are not entirely certain of what you've done."

Henry didn't blink.

"You never asked if the key was real,"

He repeated, voice measured.

Azrael tilted his head.

"No, I didn't."

His fingers drummed lightly.

"Tell me, Henry, do you believe I should have?"

Henry let out a slow breath.

"Any man dealing in power should always ask."

Azrael chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

"And yet, if I had—if I had questioned, if I had cast doubt—would that have changed your decision to leave it on my table?"

Henry didn't answer immediately.

He merely studied Azrael, as if weighing something invisible between them.

Azrael lifted the key with two fingers, holding it up to the dim light.

The metal gleamed, old yet untarnished. Heavy, despite its size.

"This key,"

He murmured, almost to himself,

"Has been sought after by men greater than either of us. Men who believed it would unlock their future. Men who believed it would save them, change them, elevate them beyond mere mortality."

His golden gaze flickered back to Henry.

"And you? What do you believe, Henry?"

Henry exhaled through his nose.

"I believe it no longer belongs to me."

Azrael smiled.

"Ah. But does it belong to me?"

Again, Henry was quiet.

He did not fidget.

He did not shift.

But there was something in the stillness of him, something not unlike the sharp edge of a blade waiting to be drawn.

Finally, he spoke.

"That depends,"

He said.

"On whether you were ever meant to have it."

A beat.

Then Azrael laughed.

A deep, rich sound.

"Ah, Henry. You always know just how to make things interesting."

He turned the key between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

"Tell me—why now? Why bring this to me? Surely you could have buried it. Thrown it into the depths of the sea. Left it to rot in a place where no man would ever reach it again."

Henry's jaw tightened.

"You know why."

Azrael studied him, and for the first time that evening, something unreadable passed through his gaze.

Something quieter. Something that almost—almost—resembled understanding.

"Because it is a burden,"

Azrael murmured.

"And you are tired of carrying it."

Henry's fingers twitched.

Not much.

Barely noticeable.

But Azrael saw it.

He saw everything.

Henry said nothing.

Azrael exhaled through his nose, tapping the key against the desk once more.

"Tell me, Henry… do you regret it?"

Henry's gaze darkened.

"I don't have the luxury of regret."

"Mm."

Azrael leaned back, resting the key on the desk once more.

"Then what do you have?"

A long silence.

And then—soft, quiet, almost imperceptible:

"A debt."

Azrael's brows lifted ever so slightly.

Henry exhaled, running a hand through his hair, his composure still intact but… looser, now.

There was something about this room—this conversation—that pulled at the threads he usually kept tightly wound.

He hated it.

Azrael, of course, only smiled.

"A debt, you say."

He tilted his head.

"To whom?"

Henry met his gaze.

"To the dead."

Something flickered in Azrael's eyes.

Not surprise.

Not amusement.

Something else.

Something darker.

He hummed under his breath, tapping a single finger against the armrest of his chair.

"The dead ask for many things, Henry."

His voice was softer now, almost thoughtful.

"But they rarely answer when you call back."

Henry's jaw tightened.

"They don't have to."

Azrael smiled again, but this time, it was different.

Smaller.

Sharper.

"You're afraid,"

He said, not unkindly.

Henry's shoulders stiffened.

""I'm prepared."

Azrael gave a slow, knowing nod.

"Ah. And yet, so many men mistake one for the other."

Henry didn't respond.

Azrael's gaze flickered down to the key one last time.

Then, with careful precision, he closed his fingers around it, the metal vanishing into the palm of his hand.

"Very well,"

He murmured.

"If this is how it must be."

Henry's grip on the box tightened slightly.

"It is."

Azrael tilted his head.

"And if I told you,"

He said, voice calm,

"That what you have just done cannot be undone?"

Henry's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.

"Then I'd tell you that it was never meant to be."

A pause.

And then Azrael laughed.

Not the same amusement as before.

Not the same quiet indulgence.

No, this was something heavier.

Something final.

Something real.

"You."

Azrael said, shaking his head,

"Are either the most foolish man I have ever met or the most dangerous."

Henry's gaze was steady.

"Maybe both,"

He said.

Azrael chuckled again, rising to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Well then, Henry Blackwood,"

He murmured, stepping around the desk.

"Shall we see which?"

Henry did not flinch as Azrael stopped mere inches from him.

Did not look away as the crime lord's gaze searched his own, reading him, dissecting him.

Then, without warning, Azrael reached out.

Not for the box.

Not for the key.

For Henry's shoulder.

A single, firm grip.

And then—quiet, almost too quiet:

"Be careful,"

Azrael said.

"There are worse things than debts to the dead."

Henry didn't breathe.

Didn't move.

And then, just as quietly—

"I know."

Azrael studied him for a moment longer.

Then, with a slow, final exhale—he let go.

And Henry turned.

And walked away.