Richter Curios was especially quiet that morning.
The shop was technically open, but customers were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t exactly surprising. On weekdays, people were rushing to work. On weekends, they were sleeping in. Unless someone had spent the previous night binge-watching horror movies and woken up convinced a ghost was standing over their bed, they weren’t likely to go shopping for protective charms before breakfast. And even then, a hospital was probably the more sensible first stop.
Morning simply wasn’t good for business.
The real tragedy was that the shop looked like this almost twenty-four hours a day.
Evenson had tried to fix that once.
He’d experimented with... unconventional marketing.
Late at night, he’d lurked in deserted alleys, waiting for unsuspecting pedestrians before conjuring eerie lights, phantom whispers, and enough supernatural spectacle to leave anyone convinced they’d brushed against the afterlife.
He’d even sneaked into the mansions of wealthy executives and dropped Fear spells on them while they slept, figuring a few genuine hauntings might do wonders for the exorcism business.
The results had been...
Disappointing.
He’d unintentionally provided tabloid newspapers with weeks of headlines, inspired several urban legends, and helped fill a psychiatric ward.
Sales, meanwhile, remained stubbornly unchanged.
So this morning the shop contained exactly six occupants.
Evenson Richter.
Four demon employees.
And one dog.
Evenson sat behind the counter with a newspaper in one hand and a mug of cheap instant coffee in the other. The coffee wasn’t good, but neither was the store’s cash flow.
Luxury beverages could wait until business improved.
He drained the mug and casually handed it to Sarah, who sat beside the register.
"Everything go smoothly last night?" he asked. "No loose ends?"
Sarah refilled his cup from the battered coffee pot before answering.
"Perfectly. I may not be built for combat, but dealing with a handful of ordinary humans isn’t exactly challenging."
Evenson accepted the steaming mug, decided it was still too hot to drink, and set it aside.
"No blood?"
"I strangled them with my whip."
She shrugged.
"Necks break surprisingly cleanly."
"And the bodies?"
"I fed them to Doom."
She sipped her own coffee.
"If you’re asking whether he digested everything, that’s between him and his stomach."
Evenson still frowned.
"Nobody saw you?"
Sarah gave him a look.
"I was invisible."
Professional pride practically radiated off her.
He relaxed.
"Good."
After a moment, Sarah tilted her head.
"Boss... why did we make the first move this time?"
That was what puzzled her.
Normally, they followed a simple policy.
Don’t start trouble.
Finish it if it comes to the front door.
Just yesterday he’d promised the SHIELD agents he would stay home unless someone practically delivered themselves gift-wrapped to his doorstep.
The agents left...
And only a few hours later he’d personally authorized a complete wipeout of the Dead End Gang.
Quite the turnaround.
Evenson didn’t even lower his newspaper.
"I’ve reached an important conclusion."
Sarah waited.
"Our business is terrible because organized crime has ruined the neighborhood."
He nodded solemnly.
"So I’ve decided to improve public safety. Cleaner streets mean more customers."
Sarah stared.
"...Sure."
She believed absolutely none of it.
Not that she cared enough to press him.
Warlock demons weren’t hired to question strategy. If the master ordered a kill, they killed. Explanations were optional.
"I’m serious," Evenson insisted.
He wasn’t lying.
That simply wasn’t the whole truth.
He flipped to the front page.
The business section had been his real priority.
Most of his income now came from dividends on investments he’d made years ago. Every percentage point mattered. If those stocks ever collapsed, he’d have to start selling soul crystals in the Twisting Nether again just to keep the lights on.
Unfortunately, his reputation among demons had evolved in an unexpected direction.
Across one corner of the Nether, rumors spread about a spectacularly foolish warlock who traded priceless soul crystals...
...for gold.
And gems.
Weak demons had begun hoarding treasure just for him.
Normally they had nothing worth bargaining with. Knowledge? Power? Ancient secrets? They couldn’t offer any of those.
But shiny coins?
They had plenty.
Meanwhile, stronger demons loudly declared they refused to encourage such disgraceful economic behavior.
They absolutely would not participate in this corruption of traditional demonic values.
Not publicly, anyway.
Then Evenson noticed the headline.
TONY STARK WINS THIS YEAR’S APEX INDUSTRIAL AWARD. CEREMONY TO BE HELD TOMORROW NIGHT IN LAS VEGAS.
He blinked.
That...
That sounded familiar.
Very familiar.
His expression slowly changed.
Right.
This was that award ceremony.
Soon afterward, Tony Stark would fly into the Middle East, get kidnapped by terrorists, disappear into a cave, and somehow assemble a powered suit of armor out of scrap metal, car batteries, welding equipment, and pure scientific spite.
Then he’d escape by eliminating an entire armed terrorist camp.
Evenson had never decided what impressed him more.
Tony’s intelligence...
Or his ability to treat impossible engineering problems like weekend hobbies.
"Maybe goblins secretly raised him," Evenson muttered to himself.
But that wasn’t the important realization.
Another thought struck him like lightning.
His eyes widened.
He slammed the newspaper onto the counter.
"Sarah!"
She looked up.
"Sell every share of Stark Industries we own."
"...What?"
"All of it."
He pointed dramatically toward the computer.
"Then buy Hammer Industries."
Sarah stared at him as though he’d suddenly announced plans to eat the furniture.
"Boss... have you completely lost your mind?"
"If we do that, we’ll be living on instant noodles next month."
Evenson folded his arms with exaggerated confidence.
"Great fortunes require great sacrifice."
Sarah’s expression only became more concerned.
He held the pose for another second before cracking.
"Fine. Just trust me. If this works..."
He grinned.
"...we’re going to make an absolute fortune."
Sarah folded her arms.
"That’s exactly what every gambling addict tells his hardworking wife before losing the family’s savings."
Evenson paused.
...
It was an alarmingly accurate comparison.
Then he snapped back to reality.
"Hold on. My savings. Not yours."
Without another word he marched over, pushed Sarah aside, and took control of the computer himself.
Watching him enthusiastically dump their safest investment, Sarah sighed with the hollow expression of someone already planning for financial ruin.
She wandered over to Tyler.
"If we’re really broke next month..."
She glanced toward Habus.
"...how do you think he’d taste in a stew?"
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