John opened his eyes. Above him was the silhouette of a man, outlined by the burning remains of the building he was just thrown from.

As he started to focus, he half expected it to be Snow stood there above him, gun in hand so he could finish the job. He sure as hell didn't expect the man he did see when his vision cleared.

The figure stood above him was a white guy, a little shorter than average and slightly overweight. He was wearing what looked to be a very expensive three-piece-suit complete with a pocket square that matched his tie and thick, round glasses, through which he peered at John owlishly.

John must have a head injury, he had to be hallucinating. There was no way a guy who looked like an upper-class librarian from an old movie was on a bomb site in Ordos, especially not looking as totally unruffled as this guy, who didn't seem to have a single speck of dust on him.

Although he did have a kind of defiant set to his shoulders you only rarely saw in actual librarians. Flames reflected from the lenses of his glasses and stood there in the smoke, even with his underwhelming stature, the guy looked downright sinister.

"John Reese, that's the name you prefer, isn't it? I know you've had several," the man spoke in a tone which felt intimately familiar but wouldn't place itself in John's memory. His voice more or less matched his outward appearance, or at least the persona of who he was supposed to be, well spoken and fairly quiet.

"Y'know, it's funny," John whispered, pausing to cough a mixture of blood and dirt onto the ground in front of him. "Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you're in trouble. Am I in trouble?"

The stranger took a few awkward, limping steps forwards and sat stiffly on a block of scorched concrete on the ground in front of him. With the look of that walk, he had some kind of spinal injury, maybe something up with his left leg too. He looked at John for a long few seconds and John finally noticed the eyes hidden behind those glasses. They looked more like a snake's than human's, with thin slits for pupils, but somehow John wasn't scared. There didn't seem to be any intention to harm him hidden in them, just a look of mild concern.

"You're dying, Mr Reese, although I suspect you already know that. I'd say that probably counted as 'trouble'."

John gritted his teeth. He knew. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"You can call me Mr Finch. I think you and I can help one another."

"You… you just told me I'm dying. Now you want me to help you?"

Slight amusement showed in those reptilian eyes. "You don't have to be dying."

"What? You want information? Money? I don't know anything-"

"And your organisation won't bargain for your life," 'Mr Finch' finished. "I'm aware of that, Mr Reese. What I'm offering you is a second chance at life."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, not much. I only need your soul."

John blinked. The other man, Finch or whatever his name really was, still had the same expression of bland concern on his face. He was a blank page but somehow John knew he was deadly serious. He nearly laughed; now he knew this was a hallucination.

"I know this won't be an easy choice, Mr Reese. These deals hardly have a good reputation."

"What do you want me for?" He wasn't important. He wasn't even a pawn in this game, his usefulness as an asset had ended when Snow had told he and Stanton to kill each other. He wasn't an important figure, even if he had influenced so many lives in the shadows behind his gun.

"A lot of people make deals with people like me. Some of them try to get out of it."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Find them. Make sure they make good on our arrangements."

"How long do I get before?"

Finch seemed almost surprised he'd bothered to ask that. Maybe some people were okay with not knowing how much freedom they had left but John wasn't. He needed to know he could finish what he needed to do before he got dragged into this.

"Long enough. You should know, Mr Reese, that at this point you're going to hell either way. This will just delay the inevitable."

John nodded. He'd known that already. At least this way he got the extra time to help Jessica, even if he knew they'd never be together.

"Where do I sign?"

Finch held one hand out into the air to his side and a roll of parchment appeared in a burst of flame, hovering just above it. John couldn't quite tell with those weird pupils, but it looked a lot like he rolled his eyes at the display of theatricality, then unrolled it and passed it down to John.

"Traditionally, these things have to be signed in blood-"

John ran his fingertips over a cut he'd felt dripping down his forehead and pressed his now-bloody index finger onto the line at the bottom of the contract, leaving perfect print which scorched into the parchment the second he pulled away.

Finch quirked his eyebrows. "Tradition isn't everything, Mr Reese. I was about to offer you a pen."

John couldn't help but smirk. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I see working with you is going to be interesting," the demon said dryly, looking down at John, then offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet, a lot stronger and steadier than his limp and stiff posture made him look. The pain that had been fighting John's consciousness from every corner of his body seemed to flow away through that hand. He felt his cuts knitting together and bones snapping back into place.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Reese," he said, a trace of satisfaction flashing across his face as made a quick final examination of the contract and tucked it into the inside of the jacket of his suit.

"What now?"

"We both go our separate ways. I won't need you for at least another year."

"At least?"

"A lot can change in a year, Mr Reese, but I'm sure the time will just fly by." There might have been the ghost of a knowing smile in his expression, but it was gone as soon as it arrived. "Don't look for me. I'll find you."

He turned on his heel and limped back into the smoke, vanishing into its depths.

He left John stood alone in the still-flaming ruins, wondering what the hell had just happened, only knowing that he had to go, now, and get back home.

"Good afternoon, Mr Reese."

The voice sounded familiar, but through the alcoholic glaze on his mind he couldn't place it.

"Do I owe you money? Cause I'm, ah…" he paused to shake out his coat. "Running a little short at the moment."

The man turned to face him. "Not money, Mr Reese. Just your soul."

Oh.

That sobered him up pretty quickly. "Mr Finch."