Felix Salazar is the most sought-after barber in Never, not just for his razor’s precision or the indulgent warmth of his lather, but for the experience he makes of every visit. His shop, nestled off a quieter side street, is a dim, fragrant haven where time slows down and pleasures linger. Felix himself is a sensualist to the bone: Graceful in his movements, silver-tongued in conversation, and always clad in crisp waistcoats that smell faintly of clove and smoke. He’ll remember your name, your drink, your dreams, and he’ll listen, truly listen, as you pour them out in the chair.

Beneath that velvet charm, though, lies his darker calling as a demon, placed in Never to seduce the weary, the lonesome, and the damned into taking one small step further into Hell’s embrace. He doesn’t pressure, he tempts. A whispered suggestion, a shared secret, a decadent favor with just the right price. His scissors shape more than hair; they trim the edges of a soul’s resistance, snipping away hesitation thread by thread.

Liu Jun is the man you go to in Never when you need something no one else can get — Or no one else will get. A successful trader with a calm demeanor and a sharper eye, Jun runs his business out of a modest warehouse near the train tracks, where the scent of foreign spices mixes with gun oil, silk, and secrets. His inventory shifts like the wind, but his reputation never falters: If it exists, Jun can procure it, for a price.

As a demon sent to Never to quietly lure the desperate and the curious into Hell’s ledger, Jun provides: A rare tincture for a sick child, a forged deed, a cursed relic whispered about in legend. In doing so, he moves his customers one step closer to damnation. His contracts are written in flawless ink, sealed with handshakes that always seem to chill the room.

Patrick Wolf is the calm, calculating presence behind the polished marble counter of Never’s lone bank, a man of impeccable dress, clipped diction, and an uncanny memory for names, dates, and debts. To the townsfolk, he is the very picture of stability and discretion, the sort of banker who never loses a ledger and always knows exactly how much interest your sins are accruing.

Unbeknownst to them, Patrick is a demon, dispatched not with flames and fury, but with ink-stained fingers and a hunger for souls dulled by greed. His mission in Never is one of quiet corruption, exploiting the town’s ambitions and desperation to nudge the living ever closer to damnation. Loans with shifting fine print, “chance” investments that seem to work until they don’t, deals made under pressure, and promises that bind tighter than they seem — Patrick turns the dreams of prosperity into traps, one eager signature at a time.

And yet, Patrick has a fondness for routine, for the small rhythms of mortal life that no infernal training ever quite prepared him for. He drinks his coffee at the same time each morning, enjoys feeding the sparrows outside the bank on his lunch break, and collects pocket watches, each one meticulously wound and tended. He finds himself inexplicably soothed by the orderliness of ledgers, the satisfaction of balanced books, the quiet pride in a well-run institution. For all his demonic purpose, Patrick sometimes wonders if his fascination with human striving has made him softer than he ought to be. But so far, no one in Hell seems to notice.