Somebody signed something, and the clause that matters is never the first one. A contract is a handout the players read twice: once for what was promised, and again, much later, for what was given away.
The title and the reference at the head, the opening words, the parties with the names the contract gives them, the recitals, then the clauses, numbered, each with its own heading. At the foot, the place and date, the signatures over their lines, the witnesses and a stamp you drag where the clerk put it. Every printed heading can be reworded, and the witnesses can come off.
The infernal pact is a covenant on scorched vellum, signed at a crossroads in red ink. The colony indenture is a company form that trades a berth in cold sleep for seven years in the shafts. The non-disclosure agreement is a laser-printed page from a laboratory with a clause about dreams. The 1920s deed is a typewritten warranty deed to an uncle’s house by the harbour, which reserves the lower cellar for someone else.
A4 at 300 DPI. What the dead leave behind is a Last Will, and what the court sends after the man who broke the contract is a Warrant.