“This damn clock—why are they always so difficult when he is around?”

The old, haggard clockmaker hunches over a bench.

The man in the dark cloak sits in the corner, waiting.

The clockmaker struggles with this piece. He must get it working. It is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride. He has never found a clock he could not keep running, and he’ll be damned if this one is going to beat him.

The man in the cloak stands and strides over—just as the last gear drops into place, the clockmaker flips the release, and the clock begins ticking again. The cloaked man smiles genuinely at the clockmaker.

“One day, you will not be able to fix it. The parts, maybe… or your skill, perhaps,” he said.

The clockmaker smiles as his eyes follow the still-grinning man as he walks back to the corner, flips up his hood, retrieves his scythe, and steps through the wall.