Crump Shortwood walked into the silent market at dawn. His boots echoed off cold stone. A devil had hung above the square last night, and now no one would sign a thing. Crump did not panic. He built his name on delivery. He would deliver today. The great market sign loomed dark above him. Bullhorns silent. Screens frozen on the words MARKETS CLOSED. Stalls sat half-stocked. A butcher's door stayed bolted, meat hooks empty inside. Crump pulled a folded paper from his coat. His trade inquiry. The merchant's reply box held one word. No. He crossed to the frozen post at the square's edge. Stone walls sealed in thick ice. Inside that vault sat his promised shipments, waiting on signatures that would not come. Crump pressed a gloved hand to the ice. His breath fogged. Behind him, a relics wagon stood unattended, its broken blades gleaming under frost. Crump did not wait for the omen to lift. He walked stall to stall. He spoke short words. He offered to carry the risk himself. He signed his own name on every line where theirs should go. If the devil cursed the deal, the curse would fall on him alone. By midday, three merchants had taken his terms. The ice post cracked open. Wagons rolled. The bullhorn screens stayed dark, but Crump's shipments moved. He stood in the empty square and folded the signed papers into his coat. He had kept his word. But every contract now bore only his name. Every loss, every omen, every whisper of the devil above — all of it belonged to Crump alone.