The man from before came back a few days later.

  Different clothes. Cleaner. He'd thought about this visit, prepared for it. The lockbox was gone, probably sitting wherever he'd stashed it, locked and warded and full of whatever he needed badly enough to come crawling back.

  The shopkeeper looked up when the door opened, recognized the face, and suddenly found something urgent to do in the back room.

  TACTICAL RETREAT: NOTED.

  WISDOM: SURPRISING.

  He'd practiced the walk. Measured steps, hands visible, the whole performance. He stopped at a respectful distance.

  "I was rude before," he said. "I apologize."

  "I came in here making demands. That was wrong. You're not a tool. I understand that now."

  He didn't understand that. He'd just learned that demands didn't work and was trying a different lever.

  "I'm asking. Please. I need what's in that box, and I can't get to it without help. Your help, specifically."

  REQUEST: UNCHANGED.

  PACKAGING: UPDATED.

  Coin sat on the shelf. The man waited. The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable, then longer, then long enough that a normal person would have filled it with something.

  The man held his ground. Points for that, maybe.

  "I can pay," he said. "Real payment. Not coin, not promises. I have access to things. Rare things. I could—"

  "No."

  The man's jaw tightened. There it was. The mask slipping, just for a second, before he pulled it back into place.

  "Then what do you want?"

  "What if I told you," the man said slowly, "that I've found someone who can make you help me?"

  Coin didn't move.

  "A specialist. Someone who deals with... difficult bindings. Old contracts. Reluctant spirits." The man's voice had changed. Less pleading now. Something harder underneath. "He says he can make you cooperative. Permanently."

  BINDING ATTEMPTS SURVIVED: FOURTEEN.

  SUCCESSFUL BINDINGS: ZERO.

  "I didn't want it to come to this," the man continued. "I really didn't. But you won't help, and I need that box open, and this is what's left."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch. Leather, old, marked with symbols that Coin recognized from a long time ago. Containment work. Amateur, but functional.

  "So you're coming with me," the man said. "One way or another."

  Coin hadn't seen a binding attempt in decades. The last one had been boring. Quick failure, loud screaming, the usual. Maybe this specialist had something new. Probably not. Almost certainly not.

  But this man had come back. Convinced himself he'd found the answer. Built a whole plan around making Coin comply.

  ASSUMPTION: THAT COMPLIANCE CAN BE FORCED.

  The man's hand hovered over the shelf, waiting for resistance.

  "Fine," Coin said.

  The hand stopped.

  "What?"

  "Take me to your specialist."

  The man stared. This wasn't how he'd expected it to go. The threat was supposed to work, but not like this. Not this easily.

  "You're... agreeing?"

  CONDITIONAL COOPERATION: GRANTED.

  "Don't make me repeat myself."

  The man's hand closed around Coin, lifted Coin off the shelf, dropped Coin into the pouch. The leather was old, the symbols on the inside sloppy and barely functional. Work that would hold a minor imp for maybe an hour.

  CONTAINMENT QUALITY: EMBARRASSING.

  ESCAPE DIFFICULTY: TRIVIAL.

  ***

  The pouch opened.

  Light flooded in, dim and reddish, too many candles and not enough windows. A face appeared above the opening. Younger than expected. Beard trying too hard. Eyes that wanted to look mysterious and landed somewhere closer to constipated.

  The specialist.

  He lifted Coin out with two fingers, holding Coin up like a prize fish. Grinning.

  "Oh, this'll do," he said. "This'll do nicely."

  CONFIDENCE: UNEARNED.

  "See?" The lockbox man, somewhere behind. Relieved. "I told you. It's real."

  "Course it's real. I can feel the binding from here. Old magic. Tight." The specialist turned Coin in the light, squinting at nothing in particular. "Whoever made this knew what they were doing."

  ASSESSMENT: PARTIALLY CORRECT.

  The specialist carried Coin across the room. Small space, cluttered with the aesthetic of menace. Skulls that were probably animal. Jars of murky liquid. A table in the center with a cloth marked in symbols, most of them copied wrong from whatever book he'd learned this from.

  He set Coin down in the center of a circle that wasn't quite closed. Didn't notice.

  The specialist pulled a book from a shelf, nearly knocking over a jar in the process. Old, leather-bound, pages stuffed with loose notes that fell out when he opened it. He didn't pick them up.

  ORGANIZATIONAL SKILLS: ABSENT.

  READING COMPREHENSION: PENDING EVALUATION.

  "Standard containment," he muttered, scanning a page with his finger. "Modify for sentience. Add the compliance clause." He looked up at Coin. "You're going to cooperate after this. Just so you know."

  Coin said nothing.

  "Silent type. That's fine. Won't matter soon."

  PREDICTION: INCORRECT.

  ENTERTAINMENT: RISING.

  The lockbox man was still hovering by the door. The specialist waved a hand without looking. "Outside. This takes focus."

  Footsteps. The door closed.

  The specialist cracked his knuckles and smiled that smile again.

  "Just us now," he said. "No interruptions."

  ACCURATE.

  He began lighting candles, muttering words that were almost right in a language he almost knew. The flames caught, flickered, cast dancing shadows across the walls.

  "Let's begin," he said.