[Devil's Ledger: Inactive]
Quota: —
Perks: —
Warning: Bankruptcy Notice in 14 days (mundane)
Forty empty chairs stared back at Jax Romano like open mouths.
Their white napkins were folded with military precision, each waiting for a customer who would never come.
The fluorescent hum above the prep line made the silence louder.
The marinara simmering on the range should have smelled of tomatoes and basil.
Instead it reeked faintly of pennies.
He tasted it, winced, and threw the spoon into the sink.
Another batch ruined.
Three in a row.
Steam fogged the window between the kitchen and the dining room.
Through the haze he saw the health inspector's reflection—clipboard out, expression neutral.
The man's pen scratched across a carbon sheet with bureaucratic finality.
"Minor violations," the inspector said without looking up. "Grease trap overdue. Fire-suppression tag expired. Nothing serious—if you fix them in two weeks."
Jax nodded, though the words hit like stones.
Two weeks was a luxury he didn't have.
He'd already sold his watch to buy produce that no one ordered.
Romano's had been open for three months.
It might not survive the fourth.
When the inspector left, Jax leaned against the counter and listened to the sauce hiss.
A droplet popped, burning his wrist.
He didn't bother moving.
Pain at least proved he was still here.
The kitchen door swung open.
Elara stepped in, still in her plain black apron.
She carried a stack of unused menus and the kind of expression that pretended not to pity him.
"They didn't show?" she asked.
"Not even the blogger," he said. "Guess free wine isn't enough bait anymore."
She set the menus down.
"I printed new flyers. Maybe—"
"Stop."
He wiped his hands on a towel.
"Payroll's tomorrow. I can't cover everyone."
Understanding flickered across her face.
"You're letting me go."
"I'm pressing pause."
He hated how weak that sounded.
"Just until I get things stable."
Elara gave a small, crooked smile.
"You built this place to change. Don't change your mind first."
Her words cut deeper than she knew.
He wanted to tell her about the scar on his shoulder, about the night that ended his old life, about why Romano's had to work.
But honesty didn't pay invoices.
He nodded instead.
She left quietly, the door chime echoing after her.
The quiet grew heavy.
Jax killed the lights in the dining room and stood in the darkness.
The stainless-steel counters caught the moonlight, cold and sterile.
He traced the scar through his sleeve—a souvenir from a job he never talked about—and wondered if this was all the universe intended for him.
A man who could break bones but not boil water.
He poured the sauce down the drain.
Coins again.
Failure had a metallic taste.
He was halfway to locking up when he noticed the figure seated at table three.
No footsteps, no door chime.
Just there—legs crossed, a gray suit pressed like it had never known wrinkles.
"Kitchen's closed," Jax said automatically.
"I ordered earlier," the man replied, voice calm, cultured, European somewhere in the vowels.
"I believe you owe me a tasting menu."
Jax frowned.
"We don't serve tasting menus."
The stranger smiled without showing teeth.
"Yet."
He set a small black ledger on the table.
Its cover looked older than the restaurant itself—edges worn smooth, corners gilded faintly like a prayer book.
A faint red thread stitched the spine, pulsing as though it had a heartbeat.
"Is this a joke?" Jax asked.
"Quite the opposite. Sit, Mr. Romano."
Jax hesitated, then did.
Something about the man's composure left no room for refusal.
The stranger folded his hands neatly over the ledger.
"You've built something brave," he said. "A place that refuses shortcuts. But sincerity rarely pays rent."
Jax stared.
"Who are you?"
"A patron."
He opened the ledger to a blank page.
Except it wasn't blank.
Lines of faint crimson handwriting appeared as the pages turned, recording numbers, symbols, dates that made no sense.
At the bottom of one page was a name written in darker ink—Jax Romano.
Every instinct from Jax's former life screamed danger.
He pushed back his chair.
"Whatever scam this is, pick another mark."
The man remained unbothered.
"Scams require disbelief. You, Mr. Romano, already believe in debts."
Something in his tone froze Jax mid-step.
The stranger lifted the ledger and set it between them like a dinner plate.
"Your restaurant dies in two weeks," he said. "You'll sell the equipment, pay the landlord, and fade back into the shadows.
Or—" he tapped the cover lightly "—you can make an arrangement."
Jax forced a laugh that didn't sound human.
"With who? The mob?"
"With me."
He offered his hand.
Up close, his skin wasn't pale but translucent, as if light passed through and refracted somewhere deeper.
A faint heat came off him, the warmth of an oven left on low.
"I'm called Kazimir."
The name coiled through the air like smoke.
Jax didn't take the hand.
"What kind of arrangement?"
Kazimir flipped to a fresh page.
"Skill in exchange for labor. Genius for diligence. You wish to cook perfectly; I wish to experience perfect cooking. A weekly quota of effort, a fair trade."
"You're talking nonsense."
"Am I?"
Kazimir gestured toward the ruined pot on the range.
"Try the sauce again."
"I told you, kitchen's closed."
"Humor me."
Jax grabbed a clean pan, poured in olive oil, garlic, crushed tomatoes.
He worked by habit, not hope.
The stranger watched with the patience of a teacher timing a test.
When Jax tasted the result, it still tasted like metal.
Kazimir nodded.
"Exactly as expected," he said. "Because you cook with fear, and fear is flavorless. I can remove that. One signature, one ledger."
The pages fluttered on their own, stopping at a line marked Offer Pending.
Below it, in neat calligraphy, shimmered the words: Weekly Quota 1 (Wickedness).
He didn't understand half of it, but the implication—the absurdity—lit a nervous laugh in his chest.
"You're offering me a deal with the devil."
Kazimir's smile sharpened.
"I'm offering you a contract of mutual benefit. Titles are for poets."
Jax rubbed his temples.
"Even if I believed any of this, why me?"
"Because desperation sharpens talent. And because you want redemption more than success."
Kazimir stood, closing the ledger.
"Think it over. But hurry. The clock, as they say, is already running."
He turned toward the door.
Jax blinked, and the man was gone.
Only the faint scent of smoke remained, and the ledger resting on the table, closed but faintly warm.
Outside, the street was empty.
The neon sign for Romano's flickered, one letter shorting out so it read simply Roma.
A coincidence, probably.
Jax picked up the ledger.
The cover felt alive, like skin after a sunburn.
He flipped it open again.
Blank pages.
No writing, no signature, no evidence anyone had touched it.
He laughed once, quietly.
Stress hallucination.
That's all.
Still, when he locked the door and turned off the lights, he kept the ledger under his arm instead of leaving it on the table.
He told himself it was to throw away later.
At home, he placed it on the counter beside the unpaid bills and tried to ignore it.
But sometime past midnight, when the city's hum sank into sleep, he heard it—a faint, rhythmic sound, like pen on paper.
He turned on the lamp.
The ledger lay open by itself.
Across the first page, ink bled slowly into words he hadn't written:
Mr. Romano,
Let's discuss ingredients.