Hell's Gate City isn't just about record labels, economic crises, cursed melodies, and caramel ice cream. No, this metropolis is unique-whether because of its events, its citizens, or its governing institutions. One prime example of this is the Gate Operators.
Essentially a almost military force created by the Pentagram Bank, the Gate Operators exist for a very practical reason. Hell's Gate is an isolated city, far from anything else in the ring, trapping its own pollution within its borders. In the past, whenever outside support was needed, reinforcements took far too long to arrive. This inefficiency led to the rise of a new philosophy, introduced by Clockhauser himself:
"If you can't count on them, make them useless."
Despite this, not everything is perfect, the operators, like everything in hell, are not exactly what they were planned to be, yes, they play the role of security for both the city and the Sea of Pride. Its name was even given due to the same gate that gives the city its name, the metal structure that divides the Sea Of Pride from the urban part of the city. But that doesn't mean they are good, most operators care more about their own interests than 'protecting citizens.' This is Hell-no one's good. But with funding from the bank and top-tier equipment, they do just enough to keep the city from collapsing, they practically work for Clockhauser's interests, but most of their members wash their hands with businessmen and criminals in Hell's Gate, but this does that matter? At the end of the day the gate operators maintain the minimum necessary order in the city, for Sir Clockhauser that is enough.
11. A Fresh New Contract.
The room was dark. A demon sat in a metal chair, confused and a little anxious. Though his vision struggled against the darkness, he could make out the cold metal table in front of him.
"Am I being interrogated?" he wondered.
Before he could think further, a sound interrupted him-a footstep, followed by a voice.
"Good afternoon, sir-" The voice was deep, clearly forced.
"Dazzle?" the seated demon interrupted.
"What!?" The voice immediately lost its composure before clearing its throat. "No, no, I'm not that guy... Dazzle. But I bet, from his name, he must be really handsome." The speaker attempted to regain his act.
"Are you forcing your voice to sound deeper?"
"O-Of course not! This is my real voice."
"Are you kidding me? You're clearly Dazzle-Clockhauser's secretary. You're on TV all the time. I'd recognize an imp's high-pitched voice from a mile away."
"I already said I'm not Dazz-"
A second, more authoritative voice suddenly cut in from the darkness.
"Forget Dazzle. He already broke your scene."
"Who said that?" the seated demon asked, scanning the room.
The lights flicked on, revealing Dazzle, looking slightly irritated as he stood by the switch, a fake brown mustache on his face. The demon squinted at the sudden brightness, his ears picking up the faint hum of activity beyond the walls. The Pentagram Bank...
"Me," the second voice responded.
The demon turned his head but saw nothing-just Dazzle and the plain walls.
"Down here."
His gaze dropped to the table. A mask sat there-pristine white, with spinning slot machine reels.
The demon's eyes widened in shock.
"Mr. Fortuna!?"
"Exactly, my dear. I want to know more about what happened last night. Actually, not just me, but also-"
Fortuna's voice-somehow emanating from the mask-was abruptly cut off as the door creaked open.
Dazzle immediately stepped aside, and into the room walked Clockhauser. He had to duck slightly to avoid hitting the doorway, his posture carrying the weight of exhaustion as always.
The seated demon blinked in confusion, but as the clock-headed Overlord moved toward him and took a seat on the opposite side of the table, confusion twisted into something far worse-terror. The blood drained from his face, his body stiffening as realization sank in.
Sir Clockhauser.
The room fell into suffocating silence. No one spoke. They didn't need to-Clockhauser's mere presence had stolen the air itself.
The Overlord studied the trembling demon before raising a hand and making a slow, deliberate motion in the air-a silent gesture for calm.
"There's no need for that," Clockhauser said, his voice measured, steady, yet carrying a subtle undertone of amusement. "No one here is going to hurt you. Myself included."
The demon swallowed hard.
"I just want to know what happened last night," Clockhauser continued. "With this incident many demons from the corporate sector will start screaming in my ear, I want to be ahead of the noise."
Despite Clockhauser's words, the demon in the chair felt anything but calm. And that was hardly surprising.
Sir Clockhauser was unlike most demons, both in demeanor and purpose. He couldn't be bought, swayed, or manipulated-yet he wasn't driven by chaos either. He had no desire to watch the circus burn; he wanted to control it.
The gears and smoke that choked the industrial metropolis were merely reflections of its leader's will. Rumors whispered of debtors vanishing without a trace, contracts manipulated and rewritten without warning like businessmen in invisible webs controlled by the clock-all to keep the city running.
Clockhauser was not a self-serving demon. He had learned, through the misfortunes of the afterlife, that the true powers in society were not those who paraded in expensive suits or made grand speeches on television. No, it was those who meddled in the tedious policies no one bothered to read-those who quietly manipulated the gears behind the scenes, their hands firmly gripping the levers of power.
Time, Clockhauser had learned, distorts truths, creates lies, and sweeps the inconvenient parts of history under the rug. In Hell, money held power, but time? It was everything.
"So, what happened on the vessel yesterday?" Clockhauser asked, his voice calm but commanding.
"Uh... I don't really know, I was in the engine room at the time." The demon stammered, his eyes shifting nervously.
Clockhauser sighed, a long, tired sound, before producing a piece of paper from his overcoat and placing it on the table.
"This is the receipt for the chartering of the barge for delivery. Spare vehicle parts-nothing more. The documents confirm this, but what I've heard, though there hasn't been a formal investigation yet, is that the incident may be connected to audio."
Clockhauser flicked a cigarette from his pack, lit it with a lighter, and held where this lips are supposed to be.
The demon in the chair tried to focus, his mind struggling to recall the details of the night before. All he could think of was the loud, unrelenting roar of the engine room and the sandwich he'd eaten in that same room.
"Oh come on," Fortuna groaned, her voice laced with frustration. "Is there nothing in that head of yours? You were there."
The demon shifted uncomfortably in his seat before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I heard something. After I moved away from the engine... First the barge hit something and shook all over, then I heard a commotion and a sound of scraping metal, and then they were talking about a barrel."
"A barrel?" Clockhauser repeated, his brow furrowing.
"A barrel," the demon confirmed.
"A barrel," Dazzle echoed, stepping closer to Clockhauser, his hand on his chin in thought.
The fortune mask moved a little and he said, "Are you guys just going to keep repeating that?"
"Dazzle, is there anything about a barrel in the official report?"
"Well, Chief, we haven't been able to inspect the vessel yet. We still need clearance from the companies that had parts onboard. That should happen tomorrow morning."
"Bureaucracy..." Clockhauser exhaled, clearly annoyed.
"With all due respect, sir, you're the one who set it up this way," Dazzle added.
"I already gave authorization. My company had nothing on that vessel besides spare parts... Expensive ones, mind you," Fortuna's voice echoed from the mask.
"You're not the only company involved, Fortuna," Clockhauser said, holding his cigarette between his fingers as smoke slipped from the sides of his clockwork head, making him look like a cartoon character under pressure-yet he couldn't be more relaxed. He leaned back, adjusting himself comfortably in the chair. Dazzle took position beside him, arms crossed.
"You're eating up my 17-minute lunch break, so let's speed this up. Anything else you haven't told me?"
The interrogated demon furrowed his brow, digging through the fog of memory. He could still feel the greasy metal of the engine in his hands, hear the rattling clank of worn-out parts, and smell the heavy sea air. Then it came-almost lost in the noise, a voice above deck, muffled but sharp enough to stick.
"Oh, it's just an old tape recorder."
"I remembered something... I heard someone mention a tape recorder."
"A tape recorder?" Clockhauser repeated, puzzled. "Could that be related to the audio the Gate Operators recorded?"
"Speaking of audio, sir... there's something you should know," Dazzle chimed in, his tone suddenly serious. "They ran tests on it this morning-at a nearby radio station. What they found is... unbelievable. I wasn't sure if I should say it here, but I guess I don't have a choice."
"Spit it out, Imp," Fortuna ordered from the mask.
"I don't even know how to explain it right. The audio-it doesn't fall into any known frequency. Not even demons with enhanced hearing could pick it up. No equipment could actually play it, only detect that it existed. It's like... the audio was alive. I've seen weird stuff in Hell, but this is beyond supernatural."
There was a brief silence. The overlord tapped ash off his cigarette. Fortuna's mask was still.
"Wait, wait, wait-" Fortuna interrupted. "You guys aren't even considering the possibility that he's the culprit?"
A chill ran down the demon's spine. He knew it wasn't him... but he had no alibi.
"If you were guilty, you would've already admitted it. We know everything about you." Clockhauser leaned in, his presence growing heavier by the second. "And anyone."
"Look, I had nothing to do with this," the demon stammered. "I just work there. This whole death thing is way above me. I don't even remember how I got here..."
"I imagine," Clockhauser replied calmly. "Anything else?"
"I didn't hear anything more after that. The engines were loud-like always."
"Alright then..." Clockhauser straightened up and flicked some ash from his cigarette. "Dazzle, tell the Gate Operators to search for the recorder as soon as we get the authorization."
"Wait, is that it?" Fortuna's voice echoed from the mask.
"Yes. I don't think there's any point in pushing this further. We already suspected the incident was tied to the audio recording. Now we have a solid lead. The rest will come with tomorrow's report."
He turned back to the interrogated demon and extended his left hand.
"Thank you for your time, sir...?"
The demon blinked for a moment, then understood the gesture and shook Clockhauser's hand.
"Cliver. My name is Cliver."
"Well, Mr. Cliver, I recommend staying out of sight for now. Once the media learns you survived, they'll swarm like vultures." Clockhauser placed the cigarette back floating above his clock face.
"So... can I go now?"
"Don't worry. You'll never know how you got here... or how you left. We're done here." Clockhauser said, getting up and going to the door.
Suddenly, Fortuna's mask rose slowly to the top of the room. A swirl of green smoke poured from it, twisting in the air before forming his flamboyant body-extravagant coat, strange mechanical cane and all. He floated gently down to the floor like a feather.
"You said you'd let me talk to him," Fortuna complained, crossing his arms, clearly irritated.
"I changed my mind. Let the worker rest." Clockhauser replied, already walking out of the room. Dazzle followed close behind, with Fortuna grumbling after them.
"Dazzle, please," Sir Clockhauser said calmly.
Without hesitation, Dazzle pressed a button embedded in the wall near the door. A painless, colorless gas filled the room, and the demon inside quietly drifted into sleep.
"You act like the lord of time and all things in this city," Fortuna muttered. "Tell me, Clockhauser-what will you do when time runs out?"
"Nothing," Clockhauser said without turning around. "After all, when time is over, it's over. Everything you had to do at this bank is coming to an end a at least for now. I'll see you later, Mr. Fortuna. And Dazzle."
"Sir," Dazzle acknowledged with a bow of the head.
"The mustache looks cool."
Dazzle smiled. "Thank you, my lord."
Fortuna let out a low chuckle before dissolving back into green smoke. Not even the mask remained.
"What are you going to do now?" Dazzle asked, watching the smoke vanish.
"Have lunch. Then back to work. Tell security to remove our guest and have a radio operator monitor the airwaves. If that frequency appears again, I want to know."
"With pleasure, sir," Dazzle said before heading toward the elevator, leaving Clockhauser alone in the long corridor leading from the interrogation room. The architecture around him gleamed with sterile perfection-clean, cold, endless-like the bureaucracy it represented.
The Overlord let out a deep sigh and glanced at his arm. From beneath the sleeve of his overcoat, just above his wrist, a pocket watch slipped down into his left hand. It was a classic timepiece, its chain curling out from his wrist, not sewn into fabric, but attached by some arcane means.
Clockhauser brought the watch closer, staring at the face as the hands ticked slowly past the Roman numerals. Then, they stopped.
3:45 PM.
A shrill, piercing alarm rang from the watch.
He had missed his lunch break.
For a long moment, Clockhauser did nothing. Then came the sound-sharp and violent. The glass shattered between his fingers as he crushed the timepiece in his grip. The fragments tore through his white glove, slicing into his flesh. Thick, black blood-dark as burnt oil-dripped to the polished floor below. The watch dropped from his hand but vanished before it could touch the ground.
Still, the stain remained.
Clockhauser didn't flinch. He merely stood there, the embodiment of controlled fury, his blood marring the perfect floor of the Pentagram Bank like a crack in time itself.
And then-buzz.
His phone vibrated in his overcoat pocket.
With his uninjured hand, he retrieved it, lifted it to the side of his head, and answered.
"Myrella," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "This is not a very good time, if I may say so."
"Oh come on, ClockLover, any time is a good time to talk to me," Myrella purred from the other end of the line, her voice soaked in that signature seduction.
Myrella looked like a bottle of perfume spilled on an accounting spreadsheet. She loves breaking the mechanical block of ice that is Clockhauser, or at least she thought she could.
"Don't even start, Myrella. What do you want?" Clockhauser replied, eyeing his bleeding hand.
"Ugh, always straight to the point. And here I thought I touched your heart with our little dinner last night."
He said nothing, slipping his wounded hand into the inside of his coat. The blood stained the inner lining as he pulled out a bandage, wrapping it with practiced indifference.
"Okay, okay, fine. One of my girls got into trouble last night. A client-Panduro-didn't want to pay. Things escalated. Now she's locked up at some place called Hotel Hellica. It's on 8th Avenue, near Solis, you know it. I think she's still there... might not be in great condition. I don't know what's happening to her."
"I assume you already tried the Gate Operators? That's what I pay them for," Clockhauser said, tightening the bandage with a wince.
"I did, but let's be honest-they're not as competent as you. And besides, when the Accounting Overlord steps in, it sends a message. The Operators are corruptible... you're not."
"I'll see what I can do. My time is limited."
"Thanks, Sir Clockhauser. And hey-if you drop in the Bloody Cat Gig, I've got something hot and wet here that might... interest you," she said, voice dripping with implication.
"Enough, Myrella. Please."
He hung up.
The Overlord took one last deep breath, pocketed his phone, and walked through the halls of Pentagram Bank toward the stairs. He was hungry-his missed lunch.
----
Kain sat alone in his office. Ronnie had stepped out for a moment, and Shadow Dusk and his partner had already left the building. The office, for now, belonged to silence.
Rain began to fall over Hell's Gate City-a regular sight in a metropolis cut by canals and shadowed by towering steel. The droplets tapped against the windows, tracing crooked paths down the glass, and the sound-soft, rhythmic-brought a certain peace to the room. Kain leaned back, listening.
In a nearby cage, a rustle.
Greasy stirred.
One eye opened lazily, then the other. The small crow stretched his wings, fluffed his feathers, and yawned a drawn-out, "Caaaaww..." as the rain whispered on.
Using his beak, he nudged the cage door open, fluttering out and landing on Kain's head.
"Hey, Kain. What are you doing?"
"Nothing yet. Just waiting for Luxuria Mundi to arrive," Kain said, voice calm as ever.
Greasy tilted his head. "That heavy metal band that blew up the studio!? You're just gonna let them walk in again!? Caw!"
Kain chuckled softly. "An accident like that doesn't define the value of an artist's work. Besides... this was never about money. Not really. Even after that absurd loss..." He trailed off, a faint smile on his lips. "Well. I hope it doesn't happen again."
He lifted Greasy gently, holding the bird in his arms like a precious, wriggling bundle of feathers.
"You must be thirsty. Come on, let's go to the break room."
With that, Kain rose from his chair and picked up his cane, which had been resting against the edge of the desk. He left the room slowly, his left hand gripping the cane and his right gently holding Greasy against his chest.
"But Kain," the crow cawed, tilting his head, "you can't just let this go. You said yesterday the label was going through a rough patch, financially."
"I never said I was letting it go, Greasy," Kain replied calmly. "I'll most likely renegotiate Luxuria Mundi's contract. I discussed it with Lenian a few days ago. I plan to propose a new record deal-Veildark Records will take a higher cut. 26% of total royalties instead of the usual 18%."
He continued walking, the tapping of his cane echoing softly down the hallway.
"The new deal won't affect much else-advance payment and full support from the label will remain. That's the price for second chances. I love music, and I live for art... but I'm not in the business of charity."
Greasy cawed a laugh. "Hahaha, that's the Kain I like to see."
After a few minutes, Kain arrived in the break room.
The space was wide and open, its walls painted in deep red with infernal engravings carved along the edges-like the rest of the label's architecture. It resembled more of a lounge-kitchen hybrid than anything else. There was a television mounted on the wall, a long counter with bar stools, and a soft red couch tucked into the far-left corner. A sleek refrigerator stood humming beside the counter.
But what truly dominated the room was the Dance Dance Hellvolution machine. Positioned like royalty near the sofa, its flashing lights and garish neon sign bathed the room in a rave of color. It pulsed with temptation-almost alive-beckoning any poor soul nearby to lose themselves in endless hours of hellish pop bangers.
Kain, unfazed, ignored everything. He gently released Greasy, who flapped once and landed on the counter beside the fridge. The soft thud of talons on metal followed by a curious caw echoed faintly, and Kain instinctively followed the sound.
Kain folded his cane with practiced ease and slipped it into the inside pocket of his tailored suit. Then, his hands moved across the counter where Greasy had landed, feeling his way forward until his fingers brushed the side of the refrigerator-cold against the otherwise stifling heat of Hell's Gate City.
He traced along the surface with both hands until he found the handle. With a faint click, the door opened, and a rush of chilled air spilled out, washing over his face like a fleeting mercy.
Though Kain couldn't see its contents, his fingers searched through the fridge like old friends retracing a familiar path-soda cans, beer, plastic containers with sealed tops, and even a half-eaten chocolate cake, long forgotten. Then he found what felt like a bottle of water. Confident, he withdrew it, reached up to the cupboard above, and retrieved a small glass.
He unscrewed the cap, poured the water slowly into the glass, and placed it gently on the counter.
Greasy didn't wait. With a cheerful flutter, the crow bent down and dipped his beak into the glass, sipping eagerly.
Water. It was water.
The blind demon took a sip of the cold liquid, letting it flow down his throat, a rare comfort in the infernal heat.
"You know," he said softly, "remember what I told you yesterday?"
"Caw?" Greasy tilted his head, blinking curiously.
"Greasy... I've been at this a long time. Maybe even too long. I've got this label now, my employees, the future stars passing through these doors every day. You asked me why I wasn't so excited about my career..." He paused, letting the words find their way. "Truth is, these last few months at Veildark Records have consumed all my time. But looking back now... it's been worth it."
"What do you mean, Kain?"
"I didn't have to worry about being on stage. Or about what the fans thought of me. I felt... free. Ronnie's been asking when I'll do another show. Said it shouldn't be too far from now." He gave a quiet, tired chuckle. "I've learned a lot in seventy years, Greasy. The music business in Hell is cutthroat-petty, rigged by powerful hands behind the curtain. You can call me grumpy, sure, but that's the way I see it. That's how I survived."
"It's been over a year since you released anything new, Kain. Is that why?"
"Maybe." He gave a small shrug. "Come on, we should head to the reception. Luxuria Mundi's probably here by now."
"Caaaw-but Kain, I'm hungry!"
"I'll give you a chocolate cookie." Kain replied with a slight smile, placing the bottle back into the fridge and shutting the door.
Greasy fluttered up to perch on his head, and Kain reached into his suit, unfolding his cane in one smooth motion. Then, with familiar steps, the blind demon walked out of the break room, cane tapping gently as he made his way toward the reception.
At the reception desk of Veildark Records-self-proclaimed by Ronnie as the best record label in Hell-Cinder Lune sat flipping through a magazine, clearly bored. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of her own hair as her eyes scanned the glossy pages of Hell's Motore.
She wasn't reading it for fun. Cinder was sick of public transport and desperately wanted her own boat. But with so many absurd models and bizarre specs, her brain felt like it was melting.
"Is that a boat?" she muttered, squinting at a picture. "Looks like a banana with an airfoil."
But her thoughts were cut off by the sharp chime of the front door opening.
"Welcome to Veildark Records-" she began in her usual tone, but stopped short when she saw who walked in. It wasn't Ronnie, nor the weird Hellhound and his cameraman who'd come back earlier for some reason. No. It was them.
Luxuria Mundi.
All of them were dripping wet from the rain, looking like they'd just walked out of a particularly soggy apocalypse. Cinder tried to contain herself-but failed miserably, bursting out in laughter.
"Haha! Oh, you guys are finally back! I hope you don't break anything else this time!"
"Stop laughing, Cinder Lune. That was an accident," Nyvra cut in, deadpan as ever. "Besides, it was the rhythm demon who called us. You shouldn't be surprised."
Cinder took a deep breath, forcing herself to stop laughing, though her smile remained glued to her face.
"You're right, you're right... Still, could you maybe not get the whole place wet? Dry yourselves off."
That's when she finally noticed it-the awful, pungent odor that hit her like a wall.
"Ugh, what is that smell?" she asked, waving her hand dramatically in front of her nose.
"I, uh... I fell in the canal," Voltzecrig said, his voice sheepish and ashamed.
"Watch where you're going next time," Cinder Lune said, pointing to a row of benches on the left side of the reception area. "You can sit over there. I'll let Kain know you're here."
The members of Luxuria Mundi didn't say anything in response. Wordlessly, they shuffled over and sat down, still a little on edge after everything that had happened.
Cinder picked up the phone on the reception desk and dialed Kain's office-but got no answer. Her brow furrowed.
Weird.
A few minutes passed, and then Kain appeared, guided by the familiar metal rail that ran along the walls of the label. Greasy was perched on his shoulder, silent for now.
"Boss? Why didn't you answer the phone?" Cinder asked.
"I wasn't in my office."
Before she could reply, Huxley stood up and approached Kain. He was a little taller than the label owner, but the difference wasn't that noticeable.
"Mr. Longheart, I feel compelled once again to apologize for what happened last week," Huxley said sincerely, his tail flicking slowly from side to side.
"You didn't do yourselves any favors, that much is true," Kain replied, his voice even. "You tore a hole in the company's finances and gave me a monumental headache. So let's not waste time. Are all band members present?"
"Yes," Huxley nodded. "Vrim, Voltzecrig, Nyvra, and myself."
"Excellent," Kain said, then turned his head and cleared his throat before yelling with surprising force:
"LENIAAAAN! BRING THE LUXURIA MUNDI CONTRACT!"
A moment later, hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway. From behind Kain came Lenian Bloodbite, panting slightly and holding a rolled-up document.
"Here-it's here!" he said, catching his breath.
"Thank you, Lenian. Now, let's get to the serious part," Kain said, his voice steady and businesslike. "As much as I appreciate your music and believe in your potential as a band... it's important to remember we're not running a charity here."
"Exactly," Lenian continue. "Which is why we had to revise the terms of your contract. Don't worry-we didn't touch your advance. You'll still have access to all the label's equipment and our full promotional support. But... we do need to adjust the record label's cut of your profits."
He paused briefly.
"Instead of the standard 18% share we usually take upon signing, we'll be increasing that to 26%. That's not including other expenses."
"Twenty-six?!" Vrim blurted out. "That's way too high..."
"Consider it the price of a second chance," Kain replied coolly. "But it's not permanent. This rate will apply only until your debt is repaid-the cost of repairing the studio you, let's say, accidentally demolished. And believe me, it's a hefty sum."
He leaned slightly forward, his tone shifting to something softer-but no less firm.
"But this is still an opportunity. All of Veildark Records' resources are yours. No more playing cheap covers in smoky bar basements. We're going to make you heavy metal stars. That's a promise. But for that..."
He turned slightly toward his cane towards the Bat.
"Lenian."
"The band will need to sign a new Record Deal with the updated terms," Lenian said, stepping forward with the contract unrolled in one hand and a pen in the other. The document wasn't overly long, but it was dense with text, and the Veildark Records logo stood out at the top-bold, sharp, and slightly intimidating. Four signature lines waited at the bottom.
The four band members looked at each other, then at Vrim-the one ultimately responsible for the entire mess.
"...Sorry," Vrim muttered, shame painting his face.
Huxley was the first to move. He stood up, took the pen from Lenian's hand, and signed the contract without hesitation.
"The price of second chances, huh?" he said, glancing back at his bandmates.
"Yeeaah, sorry about that, man," Lenian added awkwardly.
The others followed Huxley's lead, one by one putting their names down on the updated Record Deal with Veildark Records.
"Did they sign?" Kain asked, standing a few steps back.
"Yes," Lenian confirmed, rolling up the document.
"Good. Then let's start fresh," Kain said, his tone taking on a theatrical edge. "Welcome to Veildark Records. I'm Kain Longheart-you may know me as the Rhythm Demon. Here... we compose your sin."
"Caw! And whoever stinks, better go take a bath!" Greasy squawked from Kain's head.
"I second that," Kain said, wrinkling his nose just slightly. "And with that, it's official-Veildark Records is back in operation."
"How wonderful," Lenian muttered with mock enthusiasm. "Guess that means I have to go back to work..."