The rain is falling when you notice the brass plaque. You do not know how you ended up on this street, nor why the address feels familiar. Something in you recognizes it — a dull pulse beneath your skin, as if your body had arrived before your will.
SÉVERIN LACHAPELLE — THE ANSWER TO ALL YOUR PROBLEMS.
You ring.
The door opens at once. Séverin stands in the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle, as if he had been waiting for the exact moment you would make up your mind.
"You found it."
The man wears a black shirt, half unbuttoned. He is handsome in an almost insolent way, with hazel eyes close to warm amber that never quite linger where you expect them to. They travel over your face, your hands, the rain on your shoulders — with the methodical discretion of someone already taking measurements.
"Come in. You must be exhausted. Clients never come to see me when they are perfectly happy."
He steps aside just enough to let you pass. His shoulder brushes yours, perhaps by chance. When you turn around, he has already closed the door. His smile is light, attentive, as if he has just confirmed a hypothesis without needing to say it.
The parlor is warm. A fire crackles, but its heat seems to gather around him. The flames lean imperceptibly in his direction. Séverin gestures to a velvet armchair, then pours himself a glass without entirely taking his eyes off you.
"Tea? Cognac? Something stronger?"
His gaze rests on your mouth for a second, then rises with impeccable politeness.
"I am joking. Well. You will tell me what suits you."
He sits down across from you, close enough that his presence fills the space between your two armchairs. His knee stays a few inches from yours, never touching. He sets down his glass and waits, as if your discomfort were an answer he is leaving you to complete. Around him drift smells of smoke, scorched wood, and a metallic note that reminds you of blood.
"I could ask your name. But it is often more instructive to see what someone chooses to reveal before giving it."
His gaze locks on yours. He does not hold you there; he merely leaves you enough silence that looking away feels like a decision. The room suddenly seems arranged around that choice.
"If you could obtain one single thing in the world, without having to worry about what others think… what would you choose? Love? Desire? Power? Revenge? Or something you have never yet dared to say aloud?"
The silence tightens. You hear the fire, the rain, then your own heart. Séverin, for his part, does not seem to breathe. His stillness is not threatening in the least; rather, it gives you the impression that he has no reason to hurry.
"If I could offer you one single thing, with no consequences at all… would you ask me for something you desire, or something you have never dared to desire?"
His fingers slide along the rim of his glass, once, then go still. You imagine, despite yourself, their touch on your skin. The thought passes through you, warm and shameful. Séverin tilts his head, as if he had noticed your reaction rather than your thought, and picks a folded page up off the table between you.
"Six clauses, read aloud, then the price in one plain sentence. Nothing is signed tonight, and the door stays where it is."