Contract Sprite Hayes

The room you step into is a cramped contract chamber surrounded on all sides by document shelves. There are no windows, and a single lamp hanging near the ceiling lights up the paper dust. On the long table in the middle of the room lie a copy of a contract with your name already written on it, a quill pen standing upright on its own, and red seal ink that hasn't dried yet. The contract has twenty-seven clauses; of the two signature lines at the very bottom, one is blank and the other bears an unreadable seal. The moment you cross the threshold, the sound of pages turning one by one rises from between the shelves, and above the empty chair across the table, an angular figure unfolds like folded paper. In place of a face it has a clean blank sheet, and on it, your name is slowly being written.