Something was wrong.

A sense of unease settled over the dimly lit office, like a thick fog that refused to lift. Phantom, a man accustomed to the thrill of the deal, sat motionless in his worn leather chair, his piercing gaze fixed on the empty chair across from him. The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder that something was terribly wrong.

It had been an eternity since he'd last brokered a deal - a week, to be exact. An unheard-of drought for a man of his caliber. The bar, his domain, still bustled with its regular patrons, but the absence of performers, the lifeblood of his business, was a glaring omission. The lack of souls, the very currency he traded in, was starting to take its toll. The air was stale, heavy with the weight of his own desperation.

Phantom's eyes, sunken and dark, seemed to bore into the very soul of the empty chair, as if willing a client to materialize. His mind raced with the implications of this dry spell. The show, his show, must go on, no matter the cost. The alternative was unthinkable. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. The creak of the chair was the only sound in the oppressive silence.

As he stood, his tall, lean frame seemed to fill the room, his presence a testament to the power he wielded. But even he couldn't deny the fatigue that was creeping in, the result of expending so much energy with limited resources. The lack of souls was draining him, sucking the life from his very being. Still, he refused to yield. The show must go on, no matter the cost to his own well-being. With a resolute nod, he set his jaw, determination burning in his eyes. He would find a way to revive his business, no matter what it took.