Leo had signed papers before.
Receipts for spare parts.
Loan forms with interest rates that made his chest ache.
Consent forms at the hospital when his mother couldn't hold a pen steady anymore.
But none of those papers had ever felt like this.
The document in front of him was thin — too thin for how heavy it felt. Just a few pages clipped together, resting on polished mahogany like they belonged there. Like they had always been waiting for him.
Across the table, Mr. Kola watched him with the kind of patience that didn't come from kindness.
It came from certainty.
The office was quiet in a deliberate way. No ticking clock. No humming AC. Just silence thick enough to make Leo aware of his own breathing, the faint grease stains still embedded beneath his nails no matter how hard he scrubbed.
"You're reading it like you expect it to bite you," Mr. Kola said mildly.
Leo didn't look up. "I expect it to cost me."
Mr. Kola smiled — not wide, not cruel, just knowing.
"Everything worth signing does."
Leo swallowed and forced himself to read again.
Exclusive Service Agreement.
Non-Disclosure Clause.
Non-Compete.
Performance-Based Continuation.
Every line was clean. Professional. No obvious traps. Which was what scared him.
Mr. Kola leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. He wore a dark native top today instead of a suit, the fabric crisp, the embroidery subtle. He looked comfortable. At home. Like a man who did not need to dress loudly to be heard.
"You're wondering why I'm offering you this," he said.
Leo's jaw tightened. "I know why."
"Oh?" Mr. Kola tilted his head. "Enlighten me."
"Because I'm useful," Leo said. "And desperate."
Mr. Kola chuckled softly. "Half right."
Leo finally lifted his eyes.
The man across from him didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His gaze was steady, assessing — the same look he'd worn the first time they met, back when Leo still believed help came without strings.
"You are useful," Mr. Kola continued. "But desperation alone doesn't earn a seat at this table. Plenty of desperate men beg me every day."
Leo's fingers curled against the edge of the paper.
"Then why me?"
Mr. Kola leaned forward.
"Because you endure."
The word landed heavier than Leo expected.
"You work without praise. You fix things people abandon. You keep showing up even when the cost keeps rising," Mr. Kola said calmly. "Men like you are rare. And profitable."
Leo exhaled through his nose. "You make it sound like a compliment."
"It is," Mr. Kola replied. "And a warning."
Silence stretched between them again.
Leo glanced down at the final page.
The signature line waited patiently.
"What happens if I don't sign?" Leo asked quietly.
Mr. Kola didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The city below buzzed with movement — cars, people, ambition.
"Nothing dramatic," he said at last. "You go back to your workshop. You keep working twice as hard for half the reward. You keep proving yourself to people who already decided what you're worth."
Leo's chest tightened.
"And Sophia?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Mr. Kola turned slowly.
"There it is."
Leo hated how quickly his weakness surfaced in this room.
"She's doing well," Mr. Kola said smoothly. "Better than she expected. Better than you imagined when you paid her fees, made those calls, swallowed your pride."
Leo's throat burned.
"She's moving in circles that don't intersect with yours anymore," Mr. Kola continued. "Circles where names matter. Where perception matters."
Leo clenched his jaw. "You promised you wouldn't—"
"I promised opportunity," Mr. Kola interrupted gently. "Not permanence."
The words cut deeper because they were calm.
"This contract," Mr. Kola went on, tapping the folder, "gives you leverage. Stability. Access. It ensures that when people speak your name, they don't stop at mechanic."
Leo stared at the page again.
"And the price?" he asked.
Mr. Kola returned to his seat. Sat. Folded his hands.
"You work for me. When I call, you answer. When I ask, you don't ask why," he said plainly. "Your time, your skill, your discretion — they become assets I can deploy."
Leo's stomach twisted.
"And if I refuse?"
Mr. Kola's eyes hardened — just slightly.
"Then you remain admirable," he said. "And invisible."
That word stayed with Leo.
Invisible.
He thought of the nights sleeping on the workshop floor.
Of customers who smiled while underpaying him.
Of Sophia's eyes drifting away when he spoke about "one day."
He thought of how tired he was of proving his worth to people who never intended to see it.
His hand hovered over the pen.
"You know," Mr. Kola added softly, "people like to believe dignity is something no one can take from them."
Leo didn't look up.
"It isn't," Mr. Kola continued. "Dignity is something you trade — whether you admit it or not."
Leo picked up the pen.
It felt heavier than it should have.
"What happens after I sign?" he asked.
Mr. Kola smiled again. This time, it didn't reach his eyes.
"After?" he said. "After, you stop pretending this world rewards patience. You stop knocking. You enter rooms already seated."
Leo hesitated for one last second.
Then he signed.
The ink flowed smoothly, too smoothly, like it had been waiting for him all along.
Mr. Kola watched the pen lift from the page.
"Good," he said quietly. "Welcome."
Leo slid the document back across the table.
As Mr. Kola stood to shake his hand, Leo felt it — the shift. Not triumph. Not relief.
Weight.
The kind that settles into your bones.
Their hands clasped. Mr. Kola's grip was firm, unyielding.
"You've done well," he said. "Just remember — proving yourself never ends. It only gets more expensive."
Leo nodded.
He didn't trust his voice.
As he left the office, the door closing softly behind him, Leo realized something he hadn't expected.
The room hadn't felt like a victory.
It had felt like a cage with velvet walls.
And he had walked into it willingly.