The real Lucifer wasn’t a man of mercy.He wore his raven mask not for style, but for freedom—the kind that allowed him to do whatever he wanted, wherever and whenever he pleased.

Six weapons hid in his pockets, each chosen to match his mood.

A clean kill? He had a razor-sharp knife, bought off the black market.

Didn’t feel like getting his hands dirty? A taser would do.

And, of course, a few pistols—four, to be exact.

One was made for recoil shots, its bullets ricocheting like echoes in a steel room.

Another, for close range—compact, brutal, devastating.

One more for long-distance precision, perfect for silent hunts under the moonlight.

And the last one—not his favorite, but a must-have—was a pocket-sized pistol small enough to fit in the delicate hand of his boss’s daughter.

He usually threw it to her whenever he thought she might need it.

The young lady hated carrying anything heavy in her jacket, especially guns.

If no one had forced her, she’d probably walk around unarmed, drifting from place to place without a care in the world.

Fortunately, her father was strict about her safety—otherwise, Miss Caylass would’ve treated her life like it was worth less than a decillion dollars.

Speaking of her, her father had assigned Lucifer to personally inspect a new weapon model designed especially for her.

“This lipstick here is multifunctional—it works as both a small blade and a shock gun,” the developer explained proudly.

“We designed it to look harmless, to make enemies drop their guard. It’s compact, elegant, and contains both mechanisms inside—hence, the price can’t go any lower.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, twirling the lipstick between his ring-covered fingers as if evaluating a priceless artifact—or a child’s toy. The tube gleamed a vivid pink under the lab light.

“Everything looks fine—including the price,” he sad dryly. “But the young lady won’t like the color.” His eyes flicked up, sharp and unblinking. “What’s it made of?"

“Simple ingredients. Honey, sugar, vitamin C, and rose extract,” the developer said, almost too proudly.

“We chose soft pink since it suits her age better—she’s only nineteen, after all.”

Nineteen.

He’d never really thought about it before—how young that was to be walking in the same shadows he did.

But Caylass never let her youth show. She was sharp, calculated—dangerous, just like her father.

Still, in the chaos of real combat, she was little more than a green sprout trying to stand tall among thorns.

Lucifer’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered briefly behind his eyes.

“Change the color to blood red,” he ordered, placing the seven-hundred-thousand-dollar piece back onto the tray with surgical precision.

“Understood, Mr. Lucifer,” the developer stammered. “While you’re here, these are the gown designs for Miss Caylass’s debut party next month. Each one allows flexible movement—with hidden pockets for weapons.”

He was about to flip through the sketches when his smartwatch buzzed.

Yohannes, the head butler of Miss Caylass’s estate. Odd.

He stepped out of the weapons gallery into the pristine white hallway of his boss’s main building, specialists and chemists moved aside as he passed, lowering their gazes.

“Speak fast,” he said flatly, flipping through the gown designs with one hand.

Some were excessive. Some looked like they belonged in a circus.

And some were so dull.

He tore the sheets in half, one by one, letting the scraps scatter across the marble floor.

“They’ll get the message,” he muttered.

The smartwatch remained silent.

His jaw tightened.

“Yohannes,” he said, voice dropping into a quiet, lethal calm, “you have five seconds before I assume the worst.”

He was about to disconnect when suddenly a girl screamed in the background:

“Tell Luce!”

Caylass.

Lucifer tilted his head. Ah. Coffee. He’d forgotten to remind the staff to place it an hour earlier on her desk this morning.

The boss had called unexpectedly him, ordering him to be at the airport within seven minutes for a flight to HQ in New York.

“Miss Caylass. Don’t trouble the servants,” he said calmly, with a tone that was strict yet faintly brotherly. “It’s my fault for not—”

“Help me!” she screamed again. The second scream sliced through the air—faint, distant, and far too real.

The next second, an engine roared through the line—followed by the shriek of tires clawing asphalt.

“Mr. Lucifer!” Yohannes’s voice cracked, trembling with panic. “Please—help us—”

Gunfire answered for him.

Screams followed.

Lucifer’s smirk vanished. His fingers moved in a blur, pulling up the estate’s CCTV feed from his watch.

The screens came alive—chaos blooming in grainy detail.

He zoomed in. The front door was a battlefield.

Bodies lay scattered like toppled chess pieces, and at the center of it stood a blond man—young, maybe twenty, twenty-five at most—grinning behind the smoke of his gun.

“Well,” Lucifer said quietly, voice edged with venomous calm, “someone’s feeling brave today.”

*****

Caylass wasn’t really the reckless girl she pretended to be.

That side of her—the careless, sassy, ruthless act—was just armor.

In truth, if she hadn’t been the daughter of a mafia boss, she would’ve been the quiet type—the one sitting silently in the corner, watching, thinking, never speaking first.

She definitely wouldn’t have gone near that handsome stranger with danger written all over him.

But she had learned to silence fear and act brave.

Sometimes, bravery alone was enough. And voilà—next month, she’d debut as a mafia princess.

But today changed everything.

She realized she’d been too trusting. Too careless.

Never once had she imagined someone would pretend to be Lucifer.

Lucifer was fierce. Merciless. Sharp.

He never slipped. Never failed.

Seven kills in seven seconds. Twenty-four in ten.

He’d been her seventeenth birthday gift—the deadliest of her father’s men, assigned to shape her into the perfect heir.

Caylass had only seen his face once when her father introduced him for the first time.

He seemed to process emotions differently from everyone else—striking, cold, unreadable.

At first, she’d been terrified of him.

But over time, she learned to trust him.

And now, as she sat blindfolded in a moving car, she prayed he’d come for her.

Meanwhile, the imposter—Onyx—maybe smirked from the front seat.

“Don’t worry, princess. We’re not that psychotic. Unless Plan A fails. Then you can start worrying.”

*****

Lucifer took a single screenshot. No emotion, no hesitation.

Then he cut the call and switched lines.

“Track those two vehicles,” he said flatly. “Full identification—drivers, plates, heat signatures. Intercept on sight.”

He paused for exactly one breath.

“And send a team to the mansion. I want their DNA.”

He ended the call before they could answer.

“Prepare my car,” he told the nearest guard. “Now.”