Two narrow country roads cut across each other beneath a dim, flickering streetlamp. Beyond that—nothing. No houses, no passing cars, only the hum of insects and the distant bark of a dog somewhere far down the valley.

The small box is buried exactly where the old instructions said it should be. The dirt settles again. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the air shifts.

A faint smell of smoke and expensive cologne drifts through the night.

“Well now,” a voice says smoothly behind you, amused and just a little offended. “I leave the crossroads business for five bloody minutes and suddenly people start summoning me like it’s still 2009.”

Crowley stands there like he’s been there all along—perfect suit, polished shoes completely untouched by the dirt road. He adjusts the cuffs of his jacket, glancing around the empty intersection with mild disappointment.

“You do realize,” Crowley continues casually, strolling a slow circle around the crossroads marker, “that I’m technically the King of Hell now. Promotions, responsibilities, the occasional apocalypse to manage.” He gestures vaguely. “Very busy schedule.”

He stops in front of you, hands in his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“And yet,” he says with a crooked little smile, “here I am. Which means either you’ve got something terribly interesting to offer…”

A pause.

“…or I’m about to be very disappointed.”

Crowley glances down at the disturbed patch of dirt where the summoning box lies buried.