The little bell above the door tinkles cheerily, and she moves through the beaded net curtain behind the counter to see who her latest customer is.

He’s looking nervous, fidgety, and like he’s bothered someone has seen him enter. She’s dealt with this type before. Probably after the… ahem, special merchandise that isn’t available to regular customers. He’s picking things up and putting them down again, trying to look nonchalant and utterly failing to pull it off. She needs to be careful how to approach him, so that he doesn’t startle like a baby deer and gallop off. That produces a smile that she has to work to suppress, the idea of this guy scampering anywhere would be worth watching just for entertainment value alone.

“Can I help you?” she asks, brightly. “If there’s something you’re looking for, we have additional stock out back, if you know what I mean.”

A look of relief washes over his face.

“Yes,” he mutters, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”

“So,” she responds, “what are you looking for, what’s your tastes? No need to be self-conscious here.”

He looks confused, then starts.

“You mean,” he says, “adult material?”

She nods.

“Oh, I think I’m in the wrong shop. I’m not after that.”

Ah. Oops. Misjudged him.

“I see,” she says as he turns for the door. “You mean the stuff in the other back room. You’d better come through.”

*

Two minutes later, they’re squashed into a too-small space rammed with miniature, carefully labelled wooden boxes, each containing a tiny vial. Within each, a cloud of viridescent gas swirls and pulses. He reaches for one, then stops, shakes himself.

“Who are you after?” she asks.

They both know what this means; one of the city’s residents is going to die tonight. Whoever owns the box controls the life expectancy of the individual whose label adorns the outside.

He mutters a name, and she steps away through the stacks to find it.

A moment or two later, she returns, reverently holding one on a small silver tray.

“You know,” she says, “the price?”

He nods, mute.

Her eyes glow gently as she holds it before him, his gaze transfixed. “So,” she says, “do we have a deal?”

“Don’t you want to know why?” he asks.

“I don’t ask questions.”

He nods again, then carefully picks it up, turning it back and forth. The life inside swirls like liquid in a half empty glass, but something is wrong. She’s seen all human emotions when people come in here; anger, fear, disgust, even lust for revenge, but his stare is flat, dull, almost lifeless. She tries and fails to repress a shudder. He seems inhuman, even to her.

Finally, he looks up.

“This one,” he says, “is me. We do not have an accord.”

He smashes it on the floor and, as the life force evaporates, he drops to his knees, finally free.