Three weeks passed faster than TF expected.
They split the crew's payment—sixty-five thousand hex each, delivered by Marcus through encrypted channels. Blood money, earned money, doesn't-matter-anymore money. They divided it evenly despite original agreements, despite TF being the organizer. Nobody argued. Money felt less important after you'd destroyed the power to rewrite reality.
Ekko returned to Zaun with funds to rebuild the Firelights and commission a new Z-Drive. Promised to make it better, safer, more reliable. TF didn't doubt it.
Samira took contracts in Shurima, hunting war criminals for Demacian coin. Said she needed to figure out what honor meant when you defined it yourself. TF understood.
Seraphine canceled her tour permanently. Used her fortune to expand her Zaun foundation, focusing on chem-spill prevention and family support. Her managers called it career suicide. She called it choosing right.
Graves stayed in Bilgewater. Took jobs, drank less, talked about maybe partnering with TF again someday. Maybe. When trust had rebuilt enough. TF said he'd wait however long it took.
And TF—
TF waited for the Broker.
The deadline arrived on a Tuesday. Dawn broke over Bilgewater, painting the docks in gold and rust. TF sat in the same tavern where this had started, third table from back, exit in peripheral vision.
The letter had said: Three weeks. Be at the beginning.
So he waited at the beginning.
The tavern was empty except for the barkeep and one drunk sleeping off yesterday's poor decisions. TF shuffled cards, mind calm, acceptance settled in his bones. He'd die today probably. But he'd die as someone who'd grown.
That was worth something.
The air changed. Temperature dropped. Sound muffled like someone had wrapped the world in cotton.
The Broker appeared across from him.
Same hooded figure. Same shadowed face. Same hands with too many knuckles folded on the table.
"Tobias Felix," the Broker said. Voice still genderless, ageless, empty. "Three weeks have passed. Payment is due."
"I know."
"You have the Chronolith Shard?"
"No."
Silence. The shadow-face tilted, considering.
"Explain."
"We got it. Pulled off the heist, stole from the Eternal Archive, escaped Noxus with the artifact." TF set his cards on the table. "Then we destroyed it."
"You... destroyed it." Not anger in the voice. Curiosity. "The artifact that could've saved your life. You destroyed it. Why?"
"Because using it would've cost more than dying." TF met the empty shadow where eyes should be. "Everyone on that crew had pasts they wanted to change. We all saw what we'd lose if we did. Growth, strength, the people we'd become. The Chronolith showed us the price. We chose not to pay."
"So you chose death instead."
"I chose honesty. Growth. Being someone worth becoming." TF pulled a card—Judgment. "If that means death, then I die. But I won't undo the person I've become to stay alive."
The Broker was quiet for a long moment. The world stayed muffled, paused, waiting.
"You were a coward three weeks ago," the Broker said finally. "Desperate, selfish, running from consequences. I gave you an impossible task expecting you to fail or betray those around you. That's what cowards do."
"Yeah. That's what I would've done. Three weeks ago."
"But not now?"
"Now I'm different. The heist changed me. The crew changed me. Destroying the Chronolith changed me." TF spread his hands. "So collect your debt. I'm not running."
The shadow-face leaned forward. "What if the debt was never about the artifact?"
TF blinked. "What?"
"I don't need the Chronolith, Tobias. I have no use for temporal magic. What I needed was to see if you could change. If a coward could become brave. If a con artist could become honest." The Broker's hands unfolded. "That was the real test. The debt was a catalyst. The heist was a crucible. You emerged transformed."
"So... you're not collecting?"
"Oh, the debt is real. You borrowed power. Payment is required." The Broker pushed something across the table. A contract. "But payment isn't always life. Sometimes it's service."
TF picked up the contract. Read it carefully, looking for traps, fine print, ways he'd be screwed. Con artist instincts died hard.
The terms were straightforward: One job per year for ten years. Broker chooses the job. TF executes it. Jobs would be difficult but not suicidal. Payment would be fair. After ten years, debt cleared completely.
"You're offering me work?" TF asked.
"I'm offering you purpose. You've proven you can assemble crews, plan impossible heists, succeed against odds. Those skills have value." The shadow-face almost seemed to smile. "And you've proven you can be trusted. That's rarer than skill."
TF studied the contract. Ten years of service. But alive. Free to live between jobs. Able to continue growing, building, becoming better.
"What kind of jobs?" he asked.
"The kind that require someone clever, morally flexible, and lately capable of honesty. Retrievals, infiltrations, occasionally protection. Nothing that violates your newly discovered principles."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then the debt stands. Original terms apply. Your life for payment." The Broker's voice stayed neutral. "But I think you'll accept. You've discovered you're good at this. Helping damaged people pull off the impossible. Why stop now?"
TF thought about the crew. About Ekko's brilliance, Samira's skill, Seraphine's empathy, Graves's loyalty. About how they'd worked together despite—or because of—their damage.
About how he'd felt useful. Needed. Part of something larger than his next con.
"I want terms added," TF said. "I choose my crew for each job. You provide parameters, but I select people. And nobody gets sacrificed. We all come home."
"Acceptable."
"And Graves gets veto power. If he thinks a job is too dangerous or wrong, we don't take it."
"Also acceptable."
"And payment gets split evenly among crew, not just to me."
"Generous. But acceptable." The Broker produced a pen. "Sign, and the debt transfers from your life to your service."
TF hesitated. This was a deal with something inhuman, something that trafficked in debts and power. Every instinct screamed it was a trap.
But every instinct also said he'd grown. That he could handle this. That ten years of purpose beat dying today having just started to become better.
He signed.
The contract flared with light, then vanished. TF felt something shift—a weight lifting, replaced by different weight. Still bound, but by choice now. By agreement.
"Your first job arrives in three months," the Broker said, standing. "I'll be in touch."
"Wait. Who are you? What are you?"
The shadow-face almost definitely smiled this time. "I'm someone who collects interesting people. Debts are just how I find them. You're interesting now, Tobias. You've become someone worth investing in."
"And the power I borrowed? The perfect hand that started all this?"
"Was exactly that. One perfect hand. One guaranteed win. You used it, got the score, and created the debt that eventually made you better." The Broker moved toward the door. "Sometimes the best investments require time to mature. You've matured nicely."
"So this was always the plan? Force me to grow?"
"Plans are too rigid. Let's call it an experiment. One that succeeded." The Broker paused at the threshold. "By the way—your crew is waiting outside. You might want to tell them you're not dying today."
Then the Broker was gone. Sound returned. Temperature normalized. The drunk in the corner snored. The barkeep wiped a glass.
TF sat stunned, contract signed, debt transformed, alive.
Outside, voices. Familiar voices.
He stood, moved to the door, opened it.
Graves leaned against the dock railing, Destiny on his shoulder. Ekko perched on a crate, modified Z-Drive humming on his back. Samira cleaned her pistols, alert and ready. Seraphine stood slightly apart, sensing the emotional currents.
They'd come. All of them. Ready to fight the Broker if necessary. Ready to die for him if required.
"TF," Graves said, not turning around. "You dead?"
"Not dead."
"Damn. I had money on dead."
"Liar." TF moved to stand beside them. "You were going to fight for me."
"Maybe. Don't make it weird." But Graves's expression held something like relief.
"What happened?" Ekko asked. "The Broker just left. Didn't kill anyone, didn't collect anything, just walked away."
"Changed the terms. Ten years of service instead of death. One job per year, I choose the crew, we all come home alive." TF looked at each of them. "You're here. Why?"
"Because you're an idiot who destroyed the thing that could've saved you," Samira said. "Someone had to make sure you didn't die stupidly."
"We're a crew," Seraphine added. "That doesn't end just because the job's over."
"Plus I wanted to test my new Z-Drive against whatever the Broker is," Ekko said, grinning. "Science."
"We're not friends," Graves said gruffly. "Just people who don't want to see you die before you finish becoming decent."
TF felt something warm in his chest. Something that might've been hope or might've been belonging.
"The first job is in three months," he said. "Broker didn't give details. But I'm going to need a crew."
"Obviously," Ekko said.
"We'll consider it," Samira said. "If the money's good and the cause isn't terrible."
"I'm in," Seraphine said simply. "Someone needs to keep you honest."
They all looked at Graves.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Three months is enough time to rebuild trust. Maybe. We'll see."
"That's not a no," TF noted.
"It's not a yes either. It's a maybe. Which is more than you deserved a month ago." Graves finally looked at him. "You keep growing, I keep considering. Deal?"
"Deal."
The sun climbed higher over Bilgewater. Ships creaked in harbor. Gulls cried. The city woke to another day of survival and ambition.
Five criminals stood on a dock, bound by shared experience and tentative trust.
They'd stolen from an empire. Destroyed the power to change their pasts. Chosen growth over comfort.
And somehow, they'd all survived.
"So," Ekko said, breaking the silence. "Anyone want breakfast? I'm starving."
"Breakfast sounds good," Samira agreed.
"There's a place near the market," Seraphine suggested. "They don't ask questions about blood on your clothes."
"Perfect for us then," Graves said.
They started walking. Together. Not quite partners, not quite friends, but something. A crew that had worked. That might work again.
TF pulled a card as they walked. Glanced down.
The Star. Hope, renewal, purpose found.
He smiled and shuffled it back into the deck.
Three months until the next job. Three months to prepare, to heal, to keep growing.
Three months to prove he'd really changed.
Behind them, the tavern where it had all started stood empty. The beginning and the ending, the same place transformed by time.
Ahead, possibility.
TF had spent five years running from his past. Spent three weeks stealing the power to change it. Spent one moment choosing to let it stand.
Now he had a future. Uncertain, probably dangerous, but his.
That was enough.
For the first time in five years, that was enough.