Chapter 1: An Infernal Retirement

The espresso machine hissed like a dying demon as Lucifuge Rofocale Faust pulled the perfect shot. Steam curled from the cup in patterns that would have made his old colleagues think of sulfur and brimstone, but to him, it was just Tuesday morning in his meticulously crafted mundane life.

His penthouse overlooked the sprawling metropolis of Blackstone, where glass towers pierced the perpetually overcast sky like crystalline spears. Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows, distorting the city lights into watercolor smears. At this height, forty-three floors above the chaos, he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy recluse with expensive taste and questionable sleeping habits.

The illusion shattered when his door exploded inward.

"Cousin!" Bael stumbled through the wreckage, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled. Where Lucifuge had chosen subtle elegance—charcoal wool pants, Italian leather shoes, a silk shirt that cost more than most mortals' monthly rent—Bael looked like he'd been dragged through a particularly stylish hell. His platinum hair was matted with something that might have been blood or ichor, and his designer jacket bore claw marks that definitely weren't from any earthly creature.

Lucifuge didn't even look up from his coffee. "You're paying for that door. And the security deposit."

"Lucy, we have a problem—"

"Don't." The word carried enough infernal authority to make the remaining glass in the doorframe crack. "That name died three years ago. Along with everything else."

Bael's laugh held no humor, only desperation. "Tell that to Uncle Mammon. He's not exactly respecting your retirement."

The coffee cup paused halfway to Lucifuge's lips. In the reflection of the black liquid, ember-red eyes flickered briefly before returning to their carefully maintained human brown. "What did you do?"

"It wasn't me!" Bael collapsed onto the imported Italian leather sofa, leaving what looked suspiciously like scorch marks. "Remember the Hartwell contract? Premium grade, twenty-year binding, worth enough souls to buy a small country's worth of political influence?"

Of course Lucifuge remembered. Marcus Hartwell, tech mogul, had traded his soul for the breakthrough algorithm that launched his empire. Standard greed-class contract, ironclad terms, scheduled for collection in 2045. The kind of high-value asset that kept Hell's quarterly reports in the black.

"Let me guess," Lucifuge said, settling into the chair across from his cousin. "Our client has developed a sudden case of buyers' remorse?"

"Worse. He's gone."

"Gone?" Lucifuge's brow furrowed. "Define gone. Fled the country? Witness protection? Spontaneous combustion?"

"Gone gone. Vanished. Disappeared. His penthouse is empty, his accounts are frozen, and more importantly—" Bael's voice dropped to a whisper that carried the weight of cosmic dread, "—the contract is void."

The coffee cup hit the marble floor with a sound like breaking reality. Twenty years of careful distance from his old life evaporated in an instant. "That's impossible. Faust Conglomerate contracts don't just become void. The binding is absolute."

"Tell that to the blank parchment sitting in Mammon's vault." Bael pulled out his phone, fingers trembling as he swiped to a photo. The image showed what should have been an ornate soul-binding contract, covered in infernal script that burned to look at directly. Instead, there was nothing but empty parchment, as if the words had never existed.

Lucifuge's hand shot out faster than human reflexes should allow, snatching the phone. His eyes—fully ember-red now, dropping all pretense—analyzed the image with an intensity that made the air around him shimmer with heat. "This isn't just void. This is... erased. Unmade. As if it never existed in the first place."

"Mammon thinks you know something about it."

"Of course he does." Lucifuge set the phone down with deliberate care. "And naturally, he sent you to collect his wayward nephew instead of one of his other enforcers."

Bael's silence was answer enough.

The apartment's expensive sound system crackled to life without anyone touching it, filling with a voice like grinding glass and melting gold. "Nephew."

Even through electronic speakers, Mammon's presence was suffocating. The air grew thick and cloying, tasting of copper pennies and broken promises. Somewhere in the walls, the building's steel framework groaned under spiritual pressure that had nothing to do with physics.

"Uncle." Lucifuge didn't stand, didn't show deference. Three years of freedom had reminded him what dignity felt like. "I hear you have a problem."

"We have a problem. Forty-eight hours, Lucifuge. Find my property, or young Bael here discovers what happens when family disappoints me."

The threat hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Lucifuge had seen Mammon's disappointment before. It involved screaming, creative anatomy, and several centuries of regret.

"The Hartwell contract was worth twelve million souls in subsidiary bindings," Mammon continued. "Premium corporate package, political influence web, generational wealth curse—the works. Someone didn't just break it, they erased it from existence. That level of power..." The voice paused, and when it returned, it carried the weight of genuine concern. "That level of power threatens our entire operation."

Lucifuge closed his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of obligation settle on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He'd known this day would come. You didn't just walk away from being Hell's top Acquisitions Specialist without consequences. The only surprise was that it had taken three years.

"If I do this," he said slowly, "Bael walks away clean. No matter what I find."

"Find my soul first, nephew. Then we discuss terms."

The speakers died with a sound like reality tearing.

Bael slumped forward, the oppressive presence gone. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I tried to handle it myself, but—"

"But you're middle management in a cosmic corporation, and this is clearly above your pay grade." Lucifuge stood, rolling his shoulders as three years of carefully suppressed power began to stir in his bones. "Stay here. Order room service. Don't touch anything expensive."

"Where are you going?"

Lucifuge was already moving toward his bedroom, where his real clothes waited in a wardrobe he hadn't opened in months. "To dust off some old skills."

In the mirror above his dresser, his reflection showed the truth he'd been hiding. Sharp, aristocratic features that belonged on classical sculptures of fallen angels. Eyes like dying stars. And around him, barely visible even to his own demonic sight, the faint outline of power that had once made princes of Hell step carefully in his presence.

He touched the wardrobe's hidden panel, revealing a suit that cost more than most people's houses and was worth every penny. Italian silk so fine it felt like liquid shadow, cut to accommodate both formal meetings and the kind of violence that left expensive carpets permanently stained. The jacket's interior was lined with symbols that would make most occultists weep blood just looking at them.

As the fabric settled across his shoulders, Lucifuge felt the familiar weight of his old identity. The Soul Index stirred in the back of his mind—his innate ability to see the metaphysical worth of any soul, their contractual obligations, their deepest desires and fears. It was invasive, overwhelming, and utterly necessary for what came next.

He'd retired for good reasons. The last case had ended badly—a soul destroyed rather than collected, an innocent caught in crossfire that still haunted his dreams. But Bael was family, and family was the only thing left that mattered.

"Forty-eight hours," he murmured to his reflection.

The man looking back at him smiled with too many teeth, and for just a moment, the penthouse felt like what it really was: a beautiful cage built around a monster trying very hard to be something else.

Time to remember what monsters were good for.