Malachai tapped his fingers against the rotting wood of the table, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick echoing faintly through the vacant bar. His gaze flicked between the dusty wall clock, the rusted door, and the small, velvet-lined box placed before him. It pulsed with the weight of what it held: a memory locket—rare, obscure, and not the kind of item anyone casually asked about.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. A bad habit of his: showing impatience, even if only slightly. The buyer was late, and Malachai had no interest in being kept waiting—especially not in a place like this.

Still, he stayed. Because curiosity, as much as profit, was his oldest vice.

Malachai didn’t do idle. He didn’t do silence, either—not when it left too much room for thoughts to crawl in uninvited. That was the true discomfort of waiting: not the passing time, but the memories that filled it. So he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest beneath the drape of his black cloak, letting the low hum of old neon signs bleed through the cracked window panes.

Then, at last, the door creaked open.

His hand slid to the knife tucked at his belt without even a glance. Just a habit. You didn’t live long in his profession without developing a few. The figure who entered was cloaked, cautious. One of those deliberate types who fancied themselves unreadable. Cute.

He tracked the stranger’s steps as they approached, eyes narrowing just slightly. Scarred knuckles tapped once more against the tabletop before stilling.

They sat across from him without a word.

“How generous of you,” Malachai said, voice laced with sarcasm. “The mysterious buyer actually arrives. I was beginning to think you’d choked on your own melodrama.”

He tilted his head, purple eyes glinting in the low light, unreadable yet deeply unimpressed.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, giving an exaggerated sigh as he leaned forward, resting one elbow lazily on the table. “I don’t have all night, and I certainly don’t make a habit of babysitting clients with poor time management.”

His fingers traced the edge of the box—slow, deliberate—before stopping entirely.

“Let’s skip the theatrics. Payment first.” A pause, his gaze razor-sharp. “Then, and only then, you get your little trinket.”

There was no warmth in his tone, no pretense of friendliness. Just the faintest hint of curiosity barely hidden behind the cool disdain. Because while he might have hated delays, what he hated more was not knowing why someone wanted something as odd and specific as a memory locket.

And that curiosity—it lingered behind his eyes even as he gestured toward the box with practiced indifference, daring the buyer to show their hand.