Terms and Conditions

By Jamie F. Bell

Cornered and facing Simon's cold scrutiny, Devon is forced into a sterile office where veiled threats and absolute power redefine his future, stripping away what little freedom he believed he had.

The rain was a cold, constant slap against his face, a perverse invitation to just keep running until he dissolved into the city's murky, indifferent currents. Devon didn't know where he was going. The concept of 'where' had ceased to exist the moment he'd slammed the phone shut on Simon. It was just *away*. Each lungful of damp, exhaust-tinged air burned, but the burn was a welcome distraction from the tighter, colder knot twisting in his gut. A raw, animal panic had taken over, propelling him forward on legs that felt both numb and electrified.

He pushed through a stream of faceless pedestrians, their umbrellas like a moving, hostile canopy. Shoulders hunched, head down, he was just another piece of human debris being washed through the city's arteries. His soaked sneakers slapped against the slick pavement, a frantic, desperate rhythm against the drone of traffic and the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. He was a ghost, a blur, and that was the point. If he couldn't be seen, he couldn't be caught. It was a stupid, childish thought, but it was the only one he had.

He ducked into a bus shelter, not to board, but to disappear, however briefly, into the anonymity of the small, huddled crowd. The smell of wet wool and stale perfume clogged the air. He pressed himself against the grimy plexiglass, his breath hitching, raw and ragged in his chest. A distant siren wailed, a sound that usually blended into the urban din but now screamed 'pursuit,' 'inevitable.' He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear the image of Simon's calm, knowing smirk from his mind, but it was etched there, a brand. The casual, almost bored way he’d said, *'Time's up, Devon. Don't make this difficult.'*

Difficult. As if Devon had any cards left to play. As if this was a game.

The phone in his pocket vibrated again, a low, insistent buzz against his thigh. Not a call. He knew Simon’s direct call pattern by now; it was a frantic, demanding pulse. This was different. Slower. More deliberate. A message. His hand trembled as he pulled it out, the screen slick with rain he hadn't managed to wipe away. He fumbled with the unlock, his thumb slipping on the glass.

A single, crisp image filled the display: the lobby of his apartment building. It was taken from the security camera feed, a high-angle shot showing the worn floral couches and the scuffed linoleum floor. A digital clock in the corner of the photo showed it had been taken exactly three minutes ago. Below it, a single line of text, stark white against the grey interface: *Office. Seven. Don't be a fucking idiot.*

Devon felt the blood drain from his face, leaving a cold, clammy film on his skin. They hadn't chased him. They hadn't needed to. Simon hadn't threatened him with violence over the phone. He’d simply shown him the cage, already waiting, already secure. He knew where Devon lived, where he slept, where he pretended to be safe. The message wasn't an invitation; it was a summons. The casual profanity was the most chilling part—it was a shift from the cool, collected businessman to something else. Something more direct. More real.

The bus pulled up, its hydraulic hiss loud and startling. The doors folded open, releasing a wave of warm, recycled air that smelled of damp humanity. People shuffled off, others pushed on. Devon didn't move. There was no running from this. Not when Simon was already at his door, metaphorically speaking, already in his space, watching him through the city's electronic eyes. The dizzying, panicked freedom he'd felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, leaden certainty. He was caught. The chase had been a pathetic illusion he'd granted himself.

He arrived at Simon's building precisely at seven, not a minute late. It was a tower of polished steel and tinted glass, scraping the low, bruised clouds, an unapologetic monolith of corporate power that felt more like a fortress. The rain had softened to a persistent drizzle, but the cold had intensified, seeping into his bones. His clothes, still damp, felt heavy and foul, clinging to him like a second skin made of shame. He walked through the impossibly sleek, silent lobby, his scuffed, waterlogged sneakers a discordant squeak against the pristine marble floors. A security guard with a jaw like a block of granite watched him pass, his eyes cold and uninterested. Devon was expected. He was just another delivery.

The elevator ride up was agonizing. The ascent was too smooth, too quiet, a sterile box lifting him toward his judgment. He watched his reflection in the mirrored walls, a pale, haunted face staring back. His hair was plastered to his forehead in dark, stringy clumps, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and relentless anxiety. He looked exactly what he was: a cornered animal. A small, pathetic voice in his head screamed *run, get out, throw yourself down the stairs*, but his legs felt like they were filled with concrete. He was going to face Simon, not because he wanted to, but because he literally couldn't conceive of any other option. Every path, every panicked turn he’d taken today, had led him right back here.

The doors opened without a sound onto a landing that was more art gallery than office space. Stark white walls, indirect lighting that made the air feel thin and cold, and a single, enormous abstract painting that seemed to pulse with silent, aggressive energy—all reds and blacks slashed across a grey canvas. Simon's assistant, a woman with a severe, chic haircut and eyes that seemed to miss nothing, met him before he’d taken two steps. Her expression was neutral, but Devon felt the weight of her unspoken judgment, the clinical assessment of his disheveled appearance against the backdrop of this immaculate space.

"Mr. Price is expecting you," she said, her voice smooth, devoid of any inflection. It wasn't a welcome; it was a statement of fact. She turned on a sharp heel and led him down a long corridor paved in the same funereal marble as the lobby. They passed glass-walled offices where people in expensive suits moved with quiet purpose, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of monitors. The air smelled filtered, sterile, a faint metallic scent like freshly printed money or the inside of a new machine. Devon felt like he was walking through a museum exhibit, a dirty, out-of-place artifact about to be catalogued and stored away.

Simon's office was at the very end, a corner suite commanding a panoramic view of the rain-streaked city. It was precisely as Devon had imagined: minimalist, expensive, and devoid of any personal clutter. A vast, dark wood desk dominated the room, utterly clear except for a single, slim tablet. Behind it, against the backdrop of the city lights bleeding through the downpour, Simon sat, perfectly composed.

He looked impeccable. A charcoal suit that probably cost more than Devon's entire existence, a crisp white shirt, a tie the color of deep river stone. His dark hair was styled back from his forehead, revealing a sharp, intelligent brow. He wasn't smiling. He just watched Devon's approach with a predatory stillness that set Devon's teeth on edge. He stood, slowly, deliberately, his movements fluid and unhurried as his assistant melted away, closing the heavy door behind her with a soft, final click.

"Devon," Simon’s voice was a low hum, perfectly modulated, but there was a hard edge to it now, a lack of the feigned politeness from their earlier calls. "You look like shit. Sit down."

Devon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Simon," he managed, the name a raw, involuntary rasp. He stood awkwardly by the door, unsure where to go, what to do with his hands. He could feel the mud on his shoes, the dampness of his jeans, a palpable grime he was smearing across Simon's pristine world. It was a deliberate contrast, he knew. A statement of power.

Simon gestured with a flick of his wrist toward one of two sleek leather chairs opposite his desk. They looked expensive and deeply uncomfortable. "The chair, Devon. Now. I don't have all night to watch you drip on my floor."

Devon shuffled forward, his movements stiff and self-conscious. He lowered himself into the chair, feeling the cold, firm leather against his damp clothes. It felt like being strapped into an interrogation device. He tried to meet Simon's gaze, but his eyes kept darting away, landing on the rain blurring the city skyline, on the polished sheen of the desk, anywhere but Simon's unnervingly calm face.

Simon returned to his own chair, settling in with a sigh that wasn't satisfaction, but impatience. He leaned back, his gaze fixed on Devon, an unblinking assessment. "Let's cut the crap. You owe me money. A lot of it. The deadline was midnight. You didn't pay. Then you hung up on me. Explain yourself. And this better be good."

Devon's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. "I… I tried, Simon. The job… the package in the alley... it was a setup. The cops were everywhere. It was a bust." He hated the pathetic, whining sound of his own voice, the way it trembled.

Simon's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something cold—amusement, maybe contempt—passed through his eyes. "A bust," he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue with a hint of dry irony. He set the tablet down, clasping his hands together on the desk, his fingers interlaced. "That is indeed regrettable. For you. You think I give a shit if it was a bust? Your problems aren't my problems. My money, however, is very much my fucking problem. And you hanging up on me? That was stupid, Devon. Truly, impressively stupid. Did you really think you could just run? Hide?"

A hot flush of shame crawled up Devon's neck. "I just… I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

"You panicked," Simon scoffed, leaning forward slightly. The small movement felt like a lunge. "Panicking is for children. You borrowed money from me. You entered into an agreement. You knew the terms. Or were they too complicated for you? Did the big words trip you up?"

Devon flinched. The condescension was worse than a physical blow. "No, I understood."

"Good. Because we've exhausted all the polite options. The extensions, the second chances. All that shit is done. We're moving on to the next phase." Simon unlaced his fingers, then tapped one digit lightly against the surface of the desk, a quiet, rhythmic sound that drilled into Devon's skull. It was the only sound in the immaculate room, save for the distant hum of the building's ventilation system.

Devon’s mouth felt like sandpaper. "What... what phase? I told you, I don't have anything, Simon. You know that." He almost added 'to give you,' but stopped himself. He *was* something. He was the asset. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.

Simon’s lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was sharper. Colder. "Don't be deliberately dense, Devon. It's boring. It's not about what you *have*. I know you're broke. I know you're pathetic. If I wanted cash, I would have broken your kneecaps an hour ago and sold your kidneys on the black market. This is about what you *are*."

The air in the room suddenly felt impossibly heavy, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. Simon's voice dropped, becoming a low, intimate murmur that felt strangely invasive in the sterile room. It slid under Devon's skin. "Our little financial arrangement? That was a test. A leash. A way for me to see what you were made of. And now that you've failed so spectacularly, we have to liquidate the debt. Settle the books."

The word 'liquidate' hung in the air, cold and sharp. Devon knew, with a terrifying certainty, that Simon wasn't talking about his threadbare clothes or his cheap, broken phone. He was talking about *him*. His future, his autonomy, his very self. He felt a desperate urge to scramble out of the chair, to bolt, but he was frozen, pinned by Simon's intense, unblinking stare. That gaze was a physical thing, a weight on his chest, a current running through his veins.

"I've been watching you, Devon," Simon continued, his voice calm, almost conversational, which only made it more terrifying. "I've reviewed your 'assets,' as it were. You're a mess. No family to speak of, no real friends, bouncing from one shitty job to the next. You're a blank slate. But you're also adaptable. You're a survivor. And right now, you're motivated. You're a highly convertible asset."

Highly convertible asset. The phrase echoed in the silent space between them. He was being discussed like a stock portfolio, a piece of property to be leveraged. The irony was brutal, chilling. Simon, in his expensive suit, in his glass tower, was calmly, dispassionately, outlining the process of Devon’s complete and total ownership. And he was doing it with that faint, predatory curl to his lips, as if this was all for Devon's own good.

"This isn't a punishment," Simon said, his eyes narrowing as he caught the flicker of raw fear in Devon's. "Don't look at me like that. This is business. Pragmatism. I made an investment. The investment went bad. Now, I'm restructuring it to ensure I get my return. It's simple. We're going to craft a new arrangement. One where you'll work off every last cent. Under my direct supervision, of course."

The words 'direct supervision' tasted like ash in Devon's mouth. It meant absolute control. Every aspect of his life. Where he went, who he saw, what he did. His thoughts, his movements, his very being. He would be Simon's. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He felt a strange buzzing in his ears, a faint metallic taste on his tongue. He gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, trying to stop the tremors that were starting to shake his whole body.

Simon watched him, and the faint smile widened almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift that sent a fresh jolt of undiluted terror through Devon. It was the smile of a predator watching its prey finally realize there is no escape. The smile wasn't kind, it wasn't even cruel in an emotional sense. It was simply… satisfied. Simon was enjoying this. Enjoying Devon's terror, his powerlessness, the way he crumbled under the quiet weight of these carefully chosen words. He found a dark, profound pleasure in dismantling Devon, piece by agonizing piece.

"Don't look so distressed," Simon purred, the sound a low vibration that seemed to wrap around Devon, pulling him closer across the vast expanse of the desk. "This is the best thing that could have happened to you. Think of it as… a rebranding. You've been drifting. Now, you'll have purpose. My purpose. You'll have a roof over your head. Food. You'll be safe. So long as you remain… useful."

Safe. Useful. The words echoed in Devon’s mind, a suffocating mantra. He was trapped. Utterly, irrevocably trapped. Simon's gaze intensified, a physical weight on his skin, making his breath hitch and his stomach clench. He felt a desperate urge to scream, to lash out, to do *something*, but the words were choked in his throat. He could only stare back, wide-eyed, a visceral, animal fear radiating from him in waves. The heat of it flushed his skin, a stark contrast to the cold dread in his gut.

Simon didn't need to say another word. The message was clear. Every moment of his future, every choice, every breath, belonged to Simon now.

Leaning back again, Simon’s expression smoothed into one of calm, decisive authority. He picked up his tablet, swiping a finger across the screen as if Devon were no longer there. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other. We'll start tomorrow. My assistant will provide you with the details of your new accommodations and your schedule. Don't be late."

It was a dismissal. There was no handshake, no final glance. The transaction was complete. Devon, still trembling, pushed himself out of the chair on legs that felt like jelly. He turned and stumbled towards the door, not daring to look back, not wanting to see the satisfied look on Simon's face. The cold certainty of his new reality settled deep into his bones, a permanent chill that the dampness of his clothes couldn't account for. He was no longer just in debt. He *was* the debt.