...Gargauth's office existed in no particular place, accessible to those desperate enough to find it. The devil himself sat behind a desk of black marble, his ledger open, his pen poised. Another soul crossed the threshold, and he looked up with eyes that had seen ten thousand deals, each one exactly identical in its essential structure. The human wanted something. Power, usually. Sometimes love. Always something they believed would transform their existence. Gargauth knew better. Transformation was always a diminishment. But he nodded and began to write.

The contract hung in the air between them, written in ink that was almost but not quite blood. The human took time to read it, as though the words might change on second reading, as though there might be loopholes or mercy buried in the legal language. There were not. There never were. And when the pen finally descended and the signature was complete, Gargauth simply smiled and returned to his ledger. One more entry. One more soul learning the precise meaning of exchange. The hells never closed, and there was always more business waiting...