The streets were quiet. Sowhere near the east gardens of Origin HQ, the night felt softer than usual. Lamps flickered gold along the trimd hedges. Crickets whispered. The wind carried a faint scent of wet roses and old stone.
Mob and Francisca walked hand in hand under the trees, moving slow, like the night had no reason to rush.
Francisca giggled at sothing Mob had just said, her eyes lit up under the warm light.
"—And then when Temmy tried to summon her beast but ended up summoning a floating shoe instead?" Mob smiled. "That might be the highlight of my month."
Francisca laughed louder, bumping his shoulder with hers. "She blad the wind! Said the spirit beast got embarrassed and left!"
Mob shook his head, his fingers tightening around hers. "Next ti, I’m recording everything."
Francisca looked up at him, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "I’m glad we ca out tonight. It’s been so heavy lately. Just being here with you like this..."
Mob glanced at her. " too."
They stopped beneath an arched hallway carved from dark granite and lined with flowering vines. The shadows stretched around them gently, and the light from a nearby lantern cast a soft gold glow on their faces.
Mob leaned in. Francisca tilted her head slightly, her smile growing.
Then—
The sound of footsteps.
Slow. Bare.
They turned.
A figure stepped out from the end of the hallway.
Bare-chested. Skin faintly gleaming with sweat. Muscles tight like cords pulled too long. But the most striking thing—
His hair.
Black.
Not silver.
And his eyes, for a brief second, glead red—but not the usual smooth, regal red of Lucifer. These were raw. Unrefined.
Mob blinked. "Lucifer?"
Francisca narrowed her eyes.
The figure didn’t respond.
He just stopped a few feet away, standing under the moonlight, silent.
His breathing was slow. Calm. But his chest rose with a strange rhythm—like he hadn’t yet figured out how to breathe correctly. His pupils flicked between them.
"Lucifer?" Mob stepped forward slightly. "Did you change your hair back or sothing?"
The figure tilted his head slightly.
No words.
Francisca gently pulled Mob’s arm. "Wait..."
Mob glanced at her. "What?"
Her expression changed. The warmth was gone. Her smile faded.
Francisca stared hard at the man before them.
Sothing was wrong.
He looked like Lucifer. The jawline. The posture. The way his shoulder curved. Even the faint aura felt... similar.
But his eyes weren’t focused. They flicked from left to right, not scanning like Lucifer normally did—just... trying to understand.
"Mob," Francisca whispered, "that’s not him."
"What?"
"Look at his face."
Mob turned again.
The figure stood still. Perfectly still. No smirk. No sharp comnt. Just silence.
Then he stepped forward.
His bare foot touched the stone. Another step.
Mob’s hand tensed slightly in Francisca’s.
"Lucifer?" he called again, slower now.
Francisca’s voice dropped. "Mob—he’s not talking."
Mob finally saw it.
The eyes weren’t just unfocused—they were empty. Not emotionless like Lucifer sotis pretended to be. Empty. Like soone staring for the first ti.
Like a child in a stranger’s body.
The figure took another step forward, his head tilting again.
Then—
He sniffed.
The sound was barely audible.
But Mob felt it in his gut.
It wasn’t curiosity.
It was recognition.
Francisca stepped forward slightly now, her tone gentle. "Who are you?"
The figure blinked slowly. Then looked down at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed them until now.
He turned one over. Then the other. As if trying to confirm he was real.
Mob stepped protectively in front of Francisca. "You’re not Lucifer, are you?"
Still, no answer.
The figure took one more step, now only a few feet away.
That’s when Francisca saw it.
The skin—ash gray beneath the moonlight. Not the usual pale-rose hue of a vampire. And his chest—lined with thin red veins that pulsed like sothing alive was just under the surface.
And those eyes.
They didn’t see her.
They saw through her.
Her heart thudded.
Mob raised his hand, a faint glow building in his palm—light-based energy.
"Don’t co any closer."
The clone paused.
Then slowly, his lips parted.
But no words ca out.
Only a sound.
A low, cracked breath. Not tired. Not hurt. Just... confused.
Then he looked down again at his hands.
And whispered, almost soundlessly—
"...Lucifer."
Francisca froze.
He’d said it like he didn’t understand the word. Like he had heard it before. Like he was trying to believe it belonged to him.
Mob turned to her. "Did he just say—?"
The clone’s head twitched to the side, eyes locking onto Mob now. His feet spread slightly—like an animal preparing to lunge.
Francisca stepped forward. "Wait—don’t."
The clone blinked again.
Then sothing shifted in his face.
Recognition.
He knew her.
He just didn’t know why.
Francisca’s heart sank.
"He’s not an enemy," she whispered. "Not yet."
Mob kept his arm up, but didn’t fire.
The clone stared a mont longer.
Then...
Turned.
He walked away.
Not fast.
Just... aimless.
As if the urge to fight had vanished, replaced by a pull in so other direction.
Francisca and Mob stood frozen, watching him disappear down the hallway.
Silence followed.
Only the sound of their breathing.
Mob exhaled, slowly lowering his hand. "That... wasn’t Lucifer."
"No," Francisca said, voice low. "But he looked like him. Sounded like him."
Mob turned to her. "What do you think that was?"
Francisca shook her head.
"...A shadow," she murmured. "Sothing made from his blood, maybe."
Mob’s jaw clenched. "A clone?"
"I don’t know. But it didn’t feel like Lucifer. There was no presence. No weight. Just a shell with his face."
Mob looked down the hallway again. "Should we tell him?"
Francisca nodded. "We have to."
She stepped forward—but stopped.
Because for a mont, just a mont—she felt sothing.
Like an echo. A flicker of sothing... ancient.
She turned and looked back toward the path the clone had vanished down.
"...Mob?"
"Yeah?"
"I don’t think he knows what he is either."
Mob didn’t reply.
Because deep down?
He felt the sa.
—
Elsewhere, not far away, the clone walked into an empty garden.
He looked at the sky.
The stars shimred.
He didn’t understand what they were.
But sothing in him whispered—
Find him.
Not a voice.
Just instinct.
And with that...
He kept walking.
Drawn by blood.
Drawn by mory he didn’t own.
Drawn... to Lucifer.
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