A room of ten men.
But the sound came from two.
One voice begged. Small, frantic, brittle. The other voice answered like the calm in an earthquake: slow, measured, and with the dangerous ease of someone who knew he owned the world.
"Lucifer boss… please—please, I won't do it again. Please… spare me," the man whimpered, palms pressed to the floor as his shoes scraped the concrete, forehead slick with sweat. He begged for life, for mercy, for forgiveness — whatever currency might buy a future.
Lucifer smiled. It was a smile that split the dim—no warmth, only the thin, surgical curl of a lip that had never met compassion. He grasped the man's hand in iron and the single sound that answered was a small, terrible crack.
A finger snapped. The man yelped, words dissolving into a raw animal sound. "Boss, I—" His plea was a stutter.
