"A partnership," I said. "Formal business arrangement with mutual benefits."
"Elaborate."
"I provide consistent demand for supernatural artifacts. Legitimate buyers with resources to pay premium prices. Intelligence on monster-world markets—what's valuable, what's dangerous, what collectors will fight over." I ticked off points on my fingers. "My organization has contacts across multiple species. That's access you don't currently possess."
"And in return?"
"Acquisition services. You find items, I buy them. Hunter-world intelligence—movement patterns, threat assessments, who's operating where. And..." I paused. "Legitimate business fronts. My cover identity needs depth. You have experience creating those."
Bela absorbed the proposal with the attention of someone weighing profit against risk. Her pen—she'd produced a notebook at some point, another detail I'd missed—scratched quiet notes.
"The margins you're describing are substantial," she said. "Artifact acquisition to monster-world sales could generate significant revenue on both ends."
"That's the idea."
"But you're asking for something else too. Intelligence. Access to my networks." Her eyes found mine. "That's not standard business arrangement. That's partnership in a more meaningful sense."
"Yes."
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't." The honesty surprised both of us. "Trust is earned over time. I'm not asking for trust—I'm asking for a trial period. Small deals first. Build a track record. If either party finds the arrangement unsuitable, we part ways with minimal complications."
"And if one party decides to betray the other?"
"Then the other party responds accordingly." I let the implication settle. "I'm not making threats. I'm establishing expectations. We're both predators, Bela. We understand how survival works."
She was quiet for a long moment. The restaurant's ambient noise—soft music, distant conversation—filled the silence between us.
"I want protection," she said finally.
Not what I'd expected.
"From what?"
"Something's coming for me." Her voice dropped, vulnerability surfacing beneath the professional mask. "Not hunters. Not business rivals. Something supernatural. Something with a deadline."
The demon deal. She was dancing around it without naming it—perhaps couldn't name it, depending on the contract's terms.
"What kind of deadline?"
"Not yet." Her mask snapped back into place. "We're not there yet. But if this partnership develops... if you prove trustworthy... I may need assistance that money can't buy."
"And you think I can provide that?"
"You're building something. An organization with supernatural resources. Coalition between species that normally kill each other on sight." She leaned forward. "Whatever's coming for me isn't afraid of money or connections. But it might be afraid of power."
Demons weren't afraid of power—they wielded it. But desperation made people reach for any available hope.
"I can't promise protection without understanding the threat," I said. "But I can promise that if we build a working relationship, your problems become strategically relevant to my interests. And I take care of my interests."
"That's surprisingly honest."
"Honesty is efficient. Lies require maintenance."
Something shifted in her expression—recognition, perhaps. The acknowledgment that we operated from similar foundations.
"Terms," she said, all business again. "Standard commission on artifact acquisitions—fifteen percent. Intelligence sharing is reciprocal. No exclusivity on either side—I maintain my other clients, you're free to work with other dealers."
"Agreed."
"Trial period: three months. If either party is dissatisfied, clean break. No repercussions."
"Agreed."
"And the protection discussion remains open. To be revisited when trust is established."
"Agreed."
She extended her hand across the table. "Then we have a deal, Monster King."
I took it. Her grip was firm, her palm cold—whether from nerves or the restaurant's air conditioning, I couldn't tell.
"Sebastian," I said. "In public, at least."
"Sebastian." She released my hand. "You can call me Bela. Most of my business associates do."
The server appeared with scotch—the good kind, aged longer than some of my coalition members had been alive. We drank in silence, the verbal fencing concluded, both exhausted from maintaining masks through hours of negotiation.
"You're good at this," I admitted.
"I survive by being good at this." She stared into her glass. "It's not a compliment. It's a necessity."
The confession sat between us. She'd revealed more than intended—the pressure she was under leaking through cracks in her professional facade.
"I understand necessity," I said.
"Do you?" Her eyes found mine. "You're building an empire. That's ambition. Necessity is what happens when the alternative is death."
I thought about the System's demands. About the apocalypse timeline ticking down. About all the things I'd done to survive in a world that hadn't asked my permission before throwing me into it.
"You'd be surprised what I understand."
We finished our drinks and left separately.
Manhattan at midnight was different from Manhattan during the day—quieter, stranger, the supernatural signatures more visible against the reduced human activity. I walked back to my hotel through streets that held threats I was learning to navigate.
Bela was hiding something fatal. I knew the feeling. Maybe that was why I found her interesting.
Or maybe I was just glad to encounter someone whose desperation matched my own.
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