The rain wasn't a problem, not here. Not in the Ouroboros Lounge. Here, in the heart of the Grey Market, the rain wasn't falling, it was merely existing as blurred streaks on the enchanted bay windows, a muted backdrop to the low thrum of a temporal jazz quartet.
The air inside hummed with the scent of aged whiskey, burnt ozone, and secrets. Every drink on the polished obsidian bar surface shimmered, caught in its own micro-loop of three perfect, never-ending seconds.
Quinn Paradox, however, was bored.
He leaned back in his plush crimson booth, his dirty blonde hair shifting with a silk-like shimmer as he tilted his head. He was devastatingly handsome, the kind of man who commanded a room simply by existing within it. He was busy adjusting his 7:3 part with a gloved hand, his mercury-grey eyes reflecting the reverse-ticking hands of his pocket watch.
He wore his customary brown trench coat, brown slim pants, a crisp white shirt, and a slim red tie.
Across from him, occupying two seats with his hulking frame, sat Valakas. The Demon Lord, currently masquerading as a Wall Street shark in a bespoke suit, wasn't subtle. His eyes glowed a faint, internal magma-orange. He was trying to negotiate a soul, or rather, trying to intimidate Quinn into "erasing" a very specific temporal debt.
"…and so, Paradox," Valakas rumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender, "the soul of one, Bartholomew Jenkins, a minor bureaucrat, is hardly worth the time you've already wasted. Simply… adjust his karmic ledger, and his debt to my house is nullified. Your usual fee, of course." He gestured with a clawed hand, the movement sending a ripple through his untouched glass of a blood-red vintage.
Quinn sighed, a sound of profound theatrical suffering, and didn't look at him.
Instead, his attention was fixed on a translucent holographic map projected from the ring on his finger. Timelines overlapped in layered strands, most stable, some flickering. One cluster far to the north pulsed erratically, unstable and bright.
Interesting.
"Valakas," Quinn began, his voice a smooth, articulate counterpoint to the demon's growl, "your problem is that you treat time like a currency."
The demon snarled. "It is money."
"No, It can be, but it's not. It's a canvas. And you, my dear friend, have just tried to doodle on my favorite part of the painting." He finally glanced up, his expression one of almost pitying amusement.
"And honestly, Bart Jenkins? The man once spent three hours debating the optimal way to stack paperclips. Even by your standards, that's a low-yield investment."
Valakas bristled, his orange eyes flaring. "My investments are none of your concern! The contract—"
"Oh, the contract exists," Quinn interjected, waving a dismissive hand.
"Perfectly legally binding, in fact. You signed it, Bart signed it, and I…" he paused, a knowing smirk playing on his lips "I saw you sign it, two weeks before you did."
The demon blinked. "What…?"
"And that's where things get interesting," Quinn continued, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"See, I found this particular bottle of wine. A 1924 Chateau Valyrian. Very rare. Very… holy. I bought it. Stored it for a hundred years in a cathedral's basement, just so it would be here, in your hand, right now." He tapped his pocket watch, the reverse-ticking hands jumping forward with a soft clack-clack-clack.
"In exactly," Quinn announced, his eyes locking with the demon's, "three… two… one…"
The blood-red vintage in Valakas's glass began to shimmer. Not with light, but with an internal luminescence, turning translucent. The demon roared, his clawed hand dropping the glass as the liquid within fizzed violently, emitting a thin stream of white steam. It was holy water. Or rather, it had become holy water.
Valakas scrambled back, his tailored suit smoking at the cuffs.
"You, you knew! You set this up!"
Quinn chuckled, a low, satisfied sound.
"My dear Valakas, I merely leveraged your predictability. You always order the most expensive vintage. I merely ensured what that vintage would be. You owe me double, by the way. For the wine, and for the dry cleaning bill you're about to incur."
He pushed a small stack of glowing sand, "Lost Seconds"— the Grey Market's true currency — across the table, enough to cover his own, much more mundane, bill.
The bartender, a stoic ghoul with perpetually weary eyes, collected the Seconds. He gave Quinn a nod of genuine respect. Such a sum could buy his daughter an extra decade of stable life.
Quinn stood up, his coat swishing around him. He checked his pocket watch again, his gaze lingering on the flickering anomaly to the north. His eyes, usually cool and detached, held a faint spark of anticipation.
"Seventeen failed runs," he murmured, more to himself than to the still-steaming demon. "And I always waited until the 21st century to start recruiting. No wonder I lost." He sighed softly.
"Time to play the Gacha Game of history. Let's see if the Ninth Legion lives up to her hype."
He gave a final, dismissive wave to Valakas, who was still trying to put out the smoldering patches on his suit. Quinn walked towards a storage closet at the back of the lounge. As he opened the door, the muted jazz and the clinking of glasses vanished, replaced by the raw, howling wind of a Caledonian winter.