The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Damp. Rot. Iron.
It clung to the back of his throat like spoiled honey. His eyelids fluttered open to a ceiling of warped wooden beams, veiled in cobwebs that swayed in a draft he couldn't feel. He lay on a pallet of moldering straw, his body stiff, his mind a fractured pane of glass. Where—?
Memories slipped like minnows. A name—*Elias?*—then nothing.
He sat up, hand flying to his chest. No heartbeat. No breath fogged the air, though his skin prickled with cold. The room was small, claustrophobic, its walls patched with crumbling wattle-and-daub. A single oil lamp guttered on a stool, its flame the color of a fading bruise. Beyond a crooked door, something groaned—a sound like wet rope snapping.
"Ah. Awake at last."
The voice was polished marble, smooth and cold.
A man stood in the corner where no shadow had been a moment before. Tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that belonged on a Wall Street trading floor, not this… hovel. His tie was crimson silk. His shoes gleamed like oiled beetles. But his face—
Elias recoiled.
The man had no face.
Where features should have been stretched a void, depthless and black, as if someone had cut a hole in the air itself. Only his hands were human, pale and long-fingered, toying with a silver pocket watch.
"You're dead," the man said, matter-of-fact. The watch clicked open. Inside, instead of gears, tiny skeletal figures turned on a carousel. "Run over by a delivery truck. Nasty business. Ribcage made such a delightful crunch."
Elias's tongue felt leaden. "Who…?"
"A question with layers!" The faceless man snapped the watch shut. "Let's begin simply: What am I? The proprietor of your new employer. Where are you? A world called Voryndel. Why are you here?" He leaned in. The void where his face should be hummed faintly, like a wasp's nest. "Because the Black Emporium needed a new merchant, and you, Elias Vorne, were… available."
The name struck a chord. Fragments surfaced: fluorescent office lights, a spreadsheet frozen mid-calculation, the blare of a horn—
"No." Elias staggered to his feet. The floorboards creaked, but not beneath him. His soles hovered a hair's breadth above the wood. "This is a dream. A coma hallucination—"
"How original." The man flicked his wrist. The oil lamp flared, painting the walls with liquid shadows that squirmed into shapes—Elias's crumpled body on asphalt, a crowd of blurred faces, a stretcher vanishing into an ambulance. "You are deceased. Irrevocably. But fear not! We've granted you a… resurrection, of sorts. A promotion, really."
The shadows congealed into a new image: a shop. Not the hut around them, but something vast and impossible. Aisles stretched into infinity under a starless sky, shelves stacked with jars of preserved eyes, swords made of smoke, crowns woven from sinew. Customers shuffled through the gloom—a knight with a chest cavity full of rats, a woman whose tears fell as maggots, a child holding its own beating heart.
"The Black Emporium," the man purred. "A nexus between worlds. Our merchandise is… singular. But currency here isn't gold. It's sacrifice."
Elias's vision blurred. The lamp's flame split into twin suns. "I don't—"
"Allow me to elucidate." The man produced a contract from his breast pocket, its parchment yellowed, ink the brown of dried blood. "You'll broker deals with Voryndel's inhabitants. They'll request a boon—a cure, power, vengeance. You'll extract payment: a memory, a virtue, a firstborn's breath. The more they value the sacrifice, the more potent their… ah, 'fulfillment.'"
"And if I refuse?"
The faceless man laughed—a sound like coins cascading down a drain. "Refuse? Look around, Elias. This hut is the Emporium. You're its anchor now. No heartbeat, no hunger, no age. Just endless transactions." He traced a finger along the contract. The words writhed. "Oh, you'll come to relish it. They always do."
Elias backed toward the door. His hand passed through the iron latch as if it were smoke.
"Ah-ah." The man tsked. "No exit until your first sale. Standard policy."
"Go to hell."
"Already there." The man gestured, and the hut shifted. Rot spread across the walls like cancer. The floor dissolved into a swamp of writhing hair and teeth. Elias fell through—
—and gasped as solid ground rematerialized beneath him. The hut stood intact, the lamp still flickering. The faceless man adjusted his cufflinks, unperturbed.
"Let's try again," he said. "You'll serve the Emporium. In return, you'll lack for nothing. Immortality. Knowledge. Even…" The void-face rippled. "…a chance to see her again. Your daughter. Claire, was it? Drowned at seven in a public pool. Lifeguard was texting."
Elias froze.
Claire's laughter, sunlit and gone. A small coffin. A wife who vanished into pills and silence.
The memories struck like scalpels.
"She exists still," the man whispered. "In another world. Another timeline. Complete your contracts, unravel Voryndel's cage, and the Emporium might… reconsider your employment terms."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" The man snapped his fingers.
The air tore.
A window opened—not glass, but a rift into swirling gray mist. Through it, a girl's voice: "Daddy?"
Elias lunged. The rift sealed instantly, leaving his hands clutching empty air.
"Motivation is so tedious to manufacture," the man sighed. "But effective. Now—" He pressed the contract into Elias's chest. The parchment fused to his skin with a searing hiss. "—let's discuss your inaugural client."
The door rattled.
Someone—something—scratched at it from outside. A reedy voice seeped through the cracks: "Please… I heard whispers… need help…"
The faceless man straightened his tie. "Showtime. Remember: the wish is irrelevant. Only the cost matters."
"Wait—"
But the man was already dissolving, his form unraveling into smoke that stank of burnt hair. His final words hung in the air: "Do try to make it entertaining."
The door slammed open.
Alone, Elias stared at his hands. They flickered, translucent, then solid.
Somewhere, the faceless man laughed.
The lamp flickered.
His first customer was here.