Deal [3]

Henry walked.

His footsteps echoed against the polished marble, sharp in the silence that followed.

The weight of the moment clung to the air, thick and unrelenting, pressing against his shoulders like an unseen force.

He did not look back.

Azrael did not call after him.

But just as Henry reached the threshold—just as his fingers brushed the handle of the heavy wooden doors—

"Wait."

A single word.

Calm.

Measured.

And yet, in the quiet, it struck like a gunshot.

Henry's fingers curled slightly against the handle.

He did not turn, not yet.

He merely let the silence stretch, as if weighing the cost of humoring whatever it was that Azrael had left to say.

Then, finally—he exhaled.

Slowly.

Controlled.

And turned.

Azrael stood exactly as he had before.

Still.

Unhurried.

But the key was no longer on the desk.

He held it now, between his fingers.

Turned it idly, the metal catching in the dim light.

A lazy motion.

Thoughtful.

Almost detached.

And yet, when he spoke—his voice was anything but.

"Tell me, Henry,"

He murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Did you ever wonder why the key was hidden in the first place?"

Henry's expression did not change.

Azrael hummed.

"No curiosity? No hesitation?"

He let the words roll smoothly, like silk over steel.

"You are a man who measures every move. A man who knows the weight of consequence. And yet, you stand there, willing to hand me something that was meant to be lost."

Henry's jaw tightened.

"I don't deal in what was meant to be."

"Ah."

Azrael's lips curved—not quite a smile.

"No, of course you don't. You deal in what must be."

He took a step forward.

Not fast.

Not threatening.

But deliberate.

"You know,"

He continued, tone light,

"I've always admired that about you, Henry. That relentless conviction. That ability to do what others cannot."

Hiseyes flickered, catching something unseen.

"But conviction, Henry—"

He turned the key between his fingers again.

"—is a blade without a sheath. It cuts. And it does not care whom."

Henry did not move.

"And yet,"

He said, voice steady,

"It is still better than indecision."

Azrael chuckled.

"Is it?"

Another step.

"You say that as if conviction does not also lead men to ruin. As if those who burn with purpose are any less consumed than those who hesitate."

Henry exhaled through his nose.

"Spare me the philosophy."

"Ah."

Azrael stopped, close enough now that the air between them felt weighted, charged with something unspoken.

"But isn't that what this is, Henry? A matter of philosophy?"

He lifted the key slightly.

"Tell me—when you made your choice, did you ever consider what would happen if you were wrong?"

Henry's gaze did not waver.

"No."

Azrael's brows lifted slightly.

"No?"

"No,"

Henry repeated.

"Because I am not wrong."

Azrael let out a slow breath—almost amused.

"Such certainty,"

He murmured, shaking his head slightly.

"And yet, I wonder… is it certainty that drives you?"

His gaze darkened, sharp as a blade's edge.

"Or is it fear?"

Henry's fingers twitched.

Azrael saw it.

Of course, he saw it.

"You speak of debts to the dead,"

Azrael continued, voice softer now.

"But tell me, Henry—when was the last time you counted the debts you owe the living?"

A pause.

Henry's throat worked slightly.

But he said nothing.

Azrael tilted his head.

"You can leave, if you wish,"

He murmured.

"Walk away. Let this be the end of it. But if you do, then you must do so knowing this—"

His fingers curled around the key, closing it in his palm.

"—What you have given me today is not just a key."

A beat.

"It is permission."

Henry's heart slammed once, hard, against his ribs.

And for the first time—he hesitated.

Azrael smiled.

"Ah,"

He murmured.

"There it is."

The silence stretched, deep and suffocating.

And Henry Blackwood—who had come here so certain, so unshaken—

Stood still.

And did not move.

*****

Henry stood there.

Still.

Silent.

The weight of Azrael's words clung to the air, thick as iron, pressing against his ribs.

He should move.

He should turn.

Should open the door and walk away.

That was the plan.

That was the choice.

That was the point of all this.

And yet.

Yet.

He did not move.

Azrael had known.

Had seen it—before Henry had even realized it himself.

That brief hesitation.

That fraction of a second where something in his chest tightened, just slightly, just enough.

That was all it took.

Azrael smiled, slow and knowing, and took another step forward.

"Tell me,"

He murmured, voice silk-smooth,

"Did you really think you could come here, place something like this into my hands, and leave without consequence?"

Henry's jaw clenched.

"You think I don't know what I'm doing?"

Azrael's expression didn't change.

"I think,"

He said,

"That you believe you do."

The words slotted into place with the precision of a blade finding its mark.

Henry inhaled, slow and measured.

"I know exactly what I've done."

Azrael hummed, gaze sharp as golden glass.

"Do you?"

He lifted the key slightly between his fingers, tilting it against the dim light.

"Then tell me, Henry—tell me what this is."

Henry didn't answer.

Azrael exhaled, turning the key idly.

"Go on,"

He prompted.

"You handed it over with such certainty. Surely, you must know what it represents."

Henry's hands curled into fists.

"You already know."

Azrael smiled.

"Ah, but I want to hear you say it."

Silence.

Then—

"A burden,"

Henry said, voice low.

Azrael nodded, slowly.

"Yes. And?"

Henry's throat worked.

He should stop.

Should turn and walk out that damn door.

But he didn't.

"...A responsibility."

Azrael's fingers drummed lightly against the key's surface.

"Yes. And?"

Henry exhaled through his nose.

"A choice."

Azrael tilted his head, watching him closely, gaze unreadable.

"Ah,"

He murmured.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

The silence between them stretched, thick as smoke.

Then—quietly, almost gently—Azrael asked:

"And tell me, Henry… whose choice was it, really?"

Henry's fingers twitched.

Azrael saw.

Of course, he saw.

"The key was never meant to be found,"

He continued, voice smooth and measured.

"And yet, here you are, offering it to me as if it was always meant to fall into my hands."

He lifted the key slightly.

"Was it, Henry?"

Henry exhaled, sharp and tired.

"You already have your answer."

Azrael smiled again—something small, something edged.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

He murmured.

"This—"

He held the key up between them, the space between his fingers impossibly slight,

"—this is not about the object. Not about what it unlocks. Not about what it means to men who have chased its shadow for centuries."

His golden eyes flickered, unreadable.

"This is about you."

Henry stilled.

Azrael watched him, gaze patient, knowing.

"You came here with certainty,"

He said.

"With resolve. And yet…" He leaned in slightly, just enough that his next words ghosted the space between them.

"…You hesitated."

Henry's breath left him slow, steady.

He held Azrael's gaze, refusing to break first.

"It doesn't matter."

Azrael hummed, thoughtful.

"Doesn't it?"

Henry's fingers twitched again.

He willed them to still.

Azrael watched.

Waited.

Then—softly, with the weight of something inevitable:

"You are afraid."

Henry's jaw locked.

"No."

Azrael tilted his head.

"No?"

"No,"

Henry repeated, sharper now.

Azrael exhaled a quiet chuckle.

"You say that as if it will make it true."

Henry didn't respond.

Azrael took another slow, measured step forward.

Close now. Close enough that the space between them barely existed.

Close enough that Henry could feel the heat of him, the quiet hum of something ancient and knowing beneath his skin.

"You see, Henry,"

Azrael murmured,

"You came here thinking this was an ending."

His gaze flickered, dark with something unreadable.

"But you forgot something very important."

A pause.

Then, softly—

"Endings are only as real as the hands that hold them."

He lifted the key between them again.

"And right now,"

Azrael said, smiling,

"This ending? This choice? This burden you so graciously placed upon my desk?"

His fingers curled around the metal.

"It belongs to me now."

A silence stretched.

Deep.

Unyielding.

And Henry—who had walked in here so sure, so steady—

Could do nothing but watch as the door he thought he had closed slowly, irrevocably, disappeared.