The place absolutely stank—burnt coffee and pure anxiety, like someone tried to brew dread in the breakroom. Adrian Kael hunched over his desk, eyes basically fried from staring at two monitors blazing away like twin suns. His tie was a joke at this point—half-untied, flapping around his neck, collar ringed with sweat that had probably been there since lunch yesterday. Numbers, numbers, more damn numbers. Transfers, shell companies, money hopping through a maze only a tax lawyer could love. But under all that digital noise, something rotten pulsed.
And the longer he stared, the more the spreadsheet started looking like—lives. Seriously. Whole decades vanished: factory workers who never got their gold watch, whistleblowers erased from the world before they ever got a medal. One little line moved, and poof, some poor soul's death certificate gets rubber-stamped. This wasn't just some Wall Street fraud. It was sacrifice—human lives, hidden behind Excel.
He scrubbed his face. "No way. This is nuts. Like they're literally cooking the books with time."
The blinking cursor on the screen just sat there, smug as hell.
He was so close, he could taste it—the kind of fraud that could topple governments, the kind of secret no one else could even sniff. But the deeper he went, the weirder it got. Symbols buried in the transactions, equations that didn't belong anywhere outside a Lovecraft math nightmare. His audit report? Not even accounting anymore. More like a spellbook.
Something creaked. The elevator. Oh, fantastic.
Adrian barely had time to blink before the door swung open. Guy in a black coat, face lost in the shadows. Didn't bother with hello. Just reached into his pocket, slow and deliberate.
Adrian's chest went white-hot, pain blooming like a bad joke.
The world tilted. Blood everywhere—his report, his keyboard, his hands. And on the screen, the numbers started shifting, glowing, those little bastards dancing like they knew exactly what he'd lost.
Then—blackout.
He came to, choking, clutching at his chest. All in one piece. No blood, no hole. But the floor was cold marble, and above him, a ceiling covered in numbers, crawling and writhing like they were alive.
A voice crashed down:
"The debtor has arrived."
Shadows slid forward. Hooded things, no faces, each lugging books that glowed with a sick, golden light. Their voices tangled together, spitting out names and numbers in languages he'd never heard but somehow got, deep in his bones.
Right in front of him—one ledger. Floating, pages blank except for his name, slashed across in blood-red ink:
ADRIAN KAEL.
Heart hammering, he reached for it. The numbers on the walls jittered—columns and tables snapping into place, almost like they were just waiting for his touch.
Waiting for him to audit. Oh god.
The chanting stopped. One figure lowered its book, voice sharp as a judge:
"Balance the debts of eternity… or be erased."
He touched the page. Numbers exploded—lifespans traded, taxed, siphoned. Empires fattened on peasants, kings draining soldiers dry. The whole world was a pyramid scheme with no escape hatch.
And for whatever reason, he was the poor sap yanked in to fix it.
He almost laughed—couldn't help himself. A ragged, wild sound.
"…So the audit goes on."
The ledger snapped shut. Chains snapped off. The floor split open and Adrian dropped, screaming, into a kingdom of fire and gold—eternity's debts already clawing at his heels.