Missy stared at the contract.
The burning script shifted subtly, as if reacting to her attention—letters curling, tightening, loosening again. The scent of scorched parchment lingered in the air, heavy and dry.
Body and soul… verbal control… fulfilled wishes…
She didn't recoil.
Instead, she leaned back slightly, eyes unfocusing as she actually thought.
Control. That was the real price. Not death. Not pain. Control.
She rolled the idea around in her head, weighing it against everything she knew—her job, her life, the base, the rules she'd lived under for years. Orders. Chains dressed up as duty. Limits pretending to be safety
Then there was him.
Power that bent reality. Cards that rewrote identity. Wishes—not metaphorical ones, but tangible, enforceable outcomes.
Her lips twitched.
She looked back at the contract, then up at Qiren. "So," she said slowly, "this is the part where I'm supposed to hesitate, right?"
Qiren watched her closely, head tilted. "You should," he replied calmly. "Most humans are reluctant to surrender control over their own bodies."
She hummed, tapping a gloved finger against the desk. "Yeah… I can see why."
A pause.
Then she smiled—easy, genuine.
"But if it comes with almost unlimited wishes?" She shrugged lightly. "I'd gladly sell my constitution. I'm that simple."
She tilted her head, crimson streaks catching the light. "So… where do I sign, Mr. Solitaire?"
For the first time since the contract formed, Qiren blinked.
A soft, amused sound escaped him—something between a chuckle and a breath. "Bold," he murmured. "Or foolish."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Missy replied.
Qiren extended his hand.
A small corner of the dark parchment tore free, folding in on itself, spiraling inward until it formed a sphere.
From it emerged a red ballpoint pen. Its body was patterned with hearts, and at the top sat a five-pointed hat shaped into a feminine jester's grin—one eye a black spiral, the other hidden beneath a black eyepatch, a red, heart-shaped gem set where it should have been.
It wasn't hard to tell who it was imitating.
"Sign," he said, offering the pen.
Missy took it without hesitation.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the ballpoint flared brighter. Embers shimmered, alive, waiting.
She bent over the parchment and signed her name in one smooth motion.
Missy Stormhill.
The pen dissolved into smoke the instant the final letter was complete.
The contract snapped shut.
The burning script sank into the parchment—then ignited into a roaring flame.
Missy watched as the parchment burned to ash. The words of the contract resonated as their physical vessel scattered into dust.
The room fell silent.
Qiren smiled.
The link he felt as the ash sank into Missy's body was intoxicating. It made him wonder—briefly—if it was simply a demon's nature to abuse any leverage it was given.
He restrained the urge. For now.
Turning away from her, he surveyed the office, his gaze passing over the corpses before settling on the man named Swift.
He grabbed him by the collar.
Slosh.
Blood gushed from the man's abdomen as Qiren tore the machete free from where it had lodged in his body. "It's time the other mechanics joined the fun."
Swish—Riiip!
The blade flashed as it tore through Swift's neck, skin and muscle parting beneath the violent arc.
Qiren turned back to Missy.
"Missy," he said softly.
He met her eyes and smiled.
"I want you to decapitate the rest of the corpses."
The words settled into her like a command snapping into place.
Then he added, lightly—
"Have fun."
Her breath hitched.
Heat surged through her veins. Her pulse spiked. Adrenaline flooded her system, sharp and exhilarating. Joy—bright, sudden, wrong—sparked behind her ribs as her body moved before her mind could catch up.
Her fingers flexed.
She smiled.
Standing, she took the machete from his hand, the weight of it feeling right. "Giving up my freedom's never been this much fun," she said, excitement buzzing through her as her blood sang.
…
First Floor Garage
Men and women worked across the auto shop, hands buried in engines and machinery, unbothered by grease staining their arms.
"It's been an hour since the big boss called Michael and the others into the office," said an Italian man with slicked-back hair.
"What's wrong? They're probably just talking business or something," replied a bald man. "Stevie, pass me that wrench."
He slid out from beneath the car.
Stevie grabbed the wrench and handed it over. "I don't know, man. I just can't shake the feeling something's wrong."
"When isn't something wrong in Red Flags?"
Stevie couldn't explain it, but ever since he'd seen Missy walk past with that manic look in her eyes, unease had gnawed at him. Call it a sixth sense—but there'd been something twisted in her gaze.
Vrrumm… vrrumm.
A truck engine roared at the garage entrance.
"Huh," Stevie muttered, turning. "Did someone bring in a new piece to work on?"
He walked toward the sound with a few others.
Then they stopped.
"The hell!?" Stevie shouted, stumbling back.
Dozens of guards were piled in the back of an old pickup truck. Bags of guns, ammunition, and drugs were scattered across the front seats.
Before anyone could react—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots rang out.
Five mechanics fell.
"Greetings, one and all."
Two sinister figures appeared in the center of the garage. One of them radiated something deeply unsettling.
Stevie stared at the new arrivals.
How'd clowns get in here—
Bang! Bang!
An older mechanic reached for his revolver with a quick draw. The male jester grinned; he clinked his guns together. "Phantom Carnival: String Act; Cat's Cradle."
He spread the guns apart, revealing a web of clear string.
The bullets fired at him netted into the threads—stopping them in place.
Then he ripped his guns away from the string, letting the stopped bullets and thread fall freely.
"I hate to cut your work short," Qiren said pleasantly, spinning twin silver pistols, "but I've got an afternoon deadline to meet that requires some of your assistance."
He placed one pistol at his waist next to a single revolver.
His eyes traced over the auto shop, he said, "That's why… from this moment on, you're my hostages."
"Which mental asylum let this clown leave?" the man whose bullets had been stopped spoke, pulling out a pistol to use in tandem with his other.
"I don't know how you pull that stunt. But I don't think you people know who you're messing with," a man in a red jacket yelled. He swung a wrench on his shoulder. "This is Red Flags, you fucking clown, not some little kid's birthday party."
"I very much know who I'm messing with," Qiren spoke as he moved his arm toward Missy kneeling beside him.
She ruffled through the misshapen sack she had brought with her.
"A bunch of low lives that won't be missed when slaughtered in bulk." He lifted up a head she had fished out. The whole building went silent…
"Is that… the boss?" Stevie whispered the words everyone had in their heads. In the middle of the garage, the jesters before them held their boss's head for all to see.
God.
How did they…
Jesus.
Whispers filled the crowd as they were locked on the vile scene displayed to them.
Stevie looked at C.C.'s head traveling to the woman next to the three male jesters.
His eyes instinctively widened, Lady Scarlett?
He froze.
He recognized Missy right away, even though she was dressed differently. Her mischievous demeanor remained the same underneath her makeup.
She flung the sack she had opened over her shoulder, holding a blood-stained machete with a smile.
He stared at her, recalling the voice on the coms calling for her and the other two head mechanics to the boss's office.
"That's why I chose to infiltrate yours first," Qiren spoke, drawing their attention.
"I began with the guards outside. I killed them off one by one, ripping through their necks, and watched as their eyes drained of blood~" he cooed, motioning with the barrel of his gun right at the dismembered head's throat. "It was amusing to watch them frightfully embrace death."
He threw one head at the middle-aged men bravely walking toward him with whatever they found in their toolboxes.
The head rolled onto the oil-stained floors.
"Tch," the man that shot at Qiren aimed at the head and shot it straight through. "You think some movie prop would scare us! I know what you're doing; you're trying to get in our heads."
He spoke unsure but unwilling to believe otherwise.
He stared at Qiren, pulling out more bullets and loading them into his gun. "Like I said, you don't know who you're messing with."