Night had fallen over Hell's Kitchen, and for once, the streets seemed quieter. Too quiet. Maybe the chaos had slunk deeper into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. From my perch on the rooftop, I let my senses stretch out, scanning for trouble.
Hmm? A pickpocket? Yawn.
A car thief? Hard pass.
A turf war brewing a few blocks over? Not my style.
A guy selling drugs on the corner? Tempting... but nah. Judging by the way he was casually puffing on a cigarette, his stash was probably long gone, passed along to other low-level players. I wasn't about to spend the night chasing breadcrumbs when I could be hunting the whole bakery. I was after bigger fish—someone who could really hurt Fisk where it counted.
But so far? Nothing.
This city. Always a hundred tiny fires and never the inferno I needed. The big players were probably off in some high-rise, sipping top-shelf whiskey, surrounded by beautiful women, and laughing about how untouchable they were. Meanwhile, the small-time thugs cluttered the streets like cockroaches.
I was about to call it a bust when a voice floated up from an alley below.
"Hey, have you heard? Lux just got a new batch of girls—every one of 'em gorgeous and stacked."
I froze, my interest piqued. "Lux? Seriously giving me DCU and Lucifer vibes," I muttered, crouching to listen closer.
"Another shipment? Where does Jason even find this stuff? And what happened to the last batch? That place isn't that big—how do they always need more people?"
"Ha, you want to know where the last batch went? Those rich bastards killed them. Spend money on pleasure, then throw it away. If I had that kind of cash, I'd be in there having fun too."
"Cut it out. With our pay, we couldn't even afford a cheap beer. How do you know all this anyway?"
"Jim told me. He's been selling on the side, you know? Said one of his clients might even take him to see the place. Lucky bastard. Flaunts his cash like he's someone important. I can't believe the Red Reaper hasn't killed him yet."
"Shh, keep your voice down! If she hears us, we're dead meat..."
"Word is that she is hot though, I don't mind bumping into her..."
"Dude do you have a dead wish?"
Jason? A shipment? And this Lux place?
I furrowed my brows. This was bigger than the usual street nonsense. If these guys were talking about trafficking, this wasn't just a target—it was the target.
With a quick whoosh, I appeared behind them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Hey, fellas," I said with a grin that didn't quite reach my eyes. "That place you're talking about? Mind pointing me in the right direction? Sounds like somewhere I'd love to visit."
"Who the—"
They whipped around, and the sheer panic in their expressions almost made me laugh.
"The Red Reaper?!" one of them squeaked, his face draining of color faster than a bad paint job.
I tilted my head, amused. "Oh? You've recognized me? I'm flattered." My smile widened, but my tone grew sharper. "Now, how exactly did you know it was me?"
The guy froze, trembling, and stuttered, "A-a c-couple of days ago, someone saw you standing on a rooftop with a black bow, shooting arrows. And then, well, it spread around."
I couldn't help but smirk. Am I really becoming that famous already?
"Well," I said, squeezing their shoulders, "since we're all friends here, why don't you spill the details? And don't worry—I promise to make your night unforgettable if you lie to me."
So, someone had seen me and lived to tell the tale. About time my outings started paying off. Maybe this would finally get back to Fisk. A soft hum escaped my lips, and I felt a faint smirk tug at the corner of my mouth.
"Well, since we're already chatting…" I let my voice drop into a calm, lethal tone, pulling my hood lower to let half my face sink into shadow. "Why don't you tell me about this Lux place? Where is it?"
The guy in front of me gulped audibly, practically tripping over his words. "The Lux? It's, uh... it's a club—a place for rich people to, you know, have fun." His eyes darted to the ground as he continued. "The owner, Jason, he... he's got young, pretty girls working for him, providing, uh... services. It's in a bar on the next block. Real exclusive. Only regulars get in. That's all I know, I swear!"
His buddy, meanwhile, looked like he'd been hit by a freight train of fear. Poor guy was shaking so badly he could've outdone a leaf in a hurricane. Torn between his fear of Jason and his terror of me, it was clear which side had tipped the scales. He stood frozen under my hand, which I kept resting casually on his shoulder.
I chuckled low, watching the first guy flinch. "You're good. Pleasure doing business with you." Then I turned my attention to the other one, the one trying—and failing—not to faint under my touch. "But you," I said, my tone shifting to something sharper, more curious, "you seem more scared of Jason than you are of me. Why's that?"
As I spoke, I let a flicker of black flame dance to life in my palm. His wide-eyed stare locked onto it, his face draining of color.
"Is it because I don't kill often?" I mused, the flame swirling like a living thing. "Or... is it that I haven't killed enough scum?"
"N-no!" he stammered, his voice trembling as much as the rest of him. "Please, spare me!"
I sighed theatrically, shaking my head as if disappointed. "Relax. I was just asking a question." Then I tilted my head, my voice softening. "But you… you were thinking about warning him, weren't you?"
His panic was answer enough.
"Too bad."
Before he could react, I pressed my hand to his shoulder. The black flames roared to life, engulfing him completely. His mouth opened, but no scream escaped. The Hellfire devoured him swiftly, leaving behind only ash and the acrid stench of charred flesh.
Another confirmation, Hades' Hellfire doesn't even seem to drain magical energy, I mused as I watched the remains scatter on the wind. Maybe it's an ability? Something worth looking into later.
I turned to the survivor, now sprawled on the ground, trembling like a broken puppet. His wide, unblinking eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought he might pass out.
"You got lucky tonight," I said coldly, brushing past him.
Before he could form a response—or even breathe—I vanished into the shadows, leaving him scrambling to escape like the scared little rat he was.
I turned to the survivor, who was now cowering on the ground, wide-eyed and pale. "You got lucky tonight," I said coolly. With that, I vanished into the night, leaving him scrambling to escape like a scared rat.
...
Lux had two faces: the "Lux Bar," where the casual crowd could grab a drink, pretending it was just another swanky watering hole, and the "Lux Private Club," which was about as far from normal as you could get. Entry wasn't just exclusive—it was borderline satire. Five hundred grand just to step through the door, and once inside, you didn't spend; you hemorrhaged. Millions.
But the price tag wasn't for overpriced cocktails or fancy cigars. No, the "menu" was something far worse.
The "goods" they were selling? People. Men, women, children—snatched from every corner of the world. For the rich, it was a playground where every dark whim could be indulged without consequence. For the victims? It was hell on earth, a nightmare from which there was no escape.
It wasn't just indulgence. It was indulgence with immunity. Money bought secrecy, silence, and worse—compliance. The law? A joke. Hell, half the people funding this circus were probably the law.
I stood on the rooftop across the street, staring at the neon glow of the Lux sign. My fists clenched, and my shadows started lashing out around me. "No wonder they call this the Hell's District," I muttered, bile rising in my throat. "These gangs really outdid themselves."
Jason. He was the name I kept hearing, the one running this twisted show here. If anyone knew where the supply chain led, it'd be him.
A cold smile curved my lips. "Guess I'll be taking him to hell with me." I pulled my hood lower over my face. "Since Kara doesn't want the position, I'll gladly accept the role of Queen of the Underworld."
A surge of power coursed through my veins, burning like wildfire. My gaze locked onto the bar ahead, where shadows seemed to bow before me, acknowledging my claim. Even my own shadow—still twisted, unpredictable—shifted and grew, transforming into the shape of a burning pyre.
"...Someone has to clean this mess up."
I stepped off the roof, landing with barely a sound on the pavement below.
"You're so fond of this 'hell' place, aren't you?" I muttered under my breath as I pulled my hoodie further over my head and walked in.
The bar smelled like stale beer and bad decisions, but I pushed through, weaving between the patrons with my hood pulled tight. No one looked twice. People hiding their faces wasn't unusual around here. Most of them weren't coming for the drinks.
The bartender glanced my way, his eyes narrowing for half a second before he went back to wiping a glass. He seemed to get the gist immediately, though I doubted he saw many women walking into a place like this.
He wouldn't be a problem. It was the two brick walls in suits guarding the back door that were going to be a headache.
I stopped in front of them, their faces hidden behind sunglasses and headphones. One of them raised a hand, his expression as flat as the asphalt outside.
"Card. Hoodie off," he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I tilted my head slightly, meeting his gaze from beneath the hood. The other guy shifted, his hand brushing the gun at his side like a nervous tic.
"Card. Hoodie," the first one repeated, this time slower. Like I was the dumbest thing he'd seen all week.
Oh, sweetie, you have no idea.
A smirk tugged at my lips as my eyes flashed red. His confidence cracked just enough for me to notice. Before either of them could react, I cast the illusion.
To them, I turned and walked out, head low, tail tucked. In reality? I strolled past them like a ghost, slipping through the heavy door without a hitch.
The scene beyond was worse than I imagined.
The main hall stretched wide, the dim, golden glow of low-hanging chandeliers illuminating the depravity below. Plush sofas circled the space, where men in tailored suits lounged, their faces hidden behind ornate masks. Dancers swayed on raised platforms, their movements mechanical, empty.
The "staff" moved like shadows between the tables. Young women, barely dressed, offered drinks, lit cigars, or leaned in close, their smiles paper-thin and hollow. A few men worked the floor, too, but their eyes were just as lifeless.
Then there were the private rooms lining the walls. Faint cries seeped through the cracks, muffled but unmistakable.
My stomach churned. My fists clenched.
These men wore suits and masks, parading as cultured elites, but underneath? Monsters. Beasts.
My gaze lingered on one of the girls, a young girl no older than fifteen. She moved with the grace of someone who'd long since given up fighting.
If I'd been born into her world instead of mine, I thought bitterly, would I have had the courage to die, or would I have been chained to this hell, too?
I exhaled, and the rage inside me flared, raw and hot.
No. This place didn't deserve redemption. It didn't deserve mercy.
It deserved to burn.
Heat surged through me, and Hellfire erupted from my body, licking at the edges of my hoodie.
The room froze. Heads turned toward me, curiosity painted across their faces. At first, they weren't alarmed. Why would they be? Anyone who got through that door had to be one of them, right?
But as the flames danced higher and I stepped forward, their confidence faltered.
The light caught the edge of my hoodie, casting shadows across my face, and I tilted my head just enough for my glowing red eyes to gleam.
The fear was instant.
One of the men stood, his drink spilling as he fumbled to draw a weapon. I raised a hand, and the flames roared to life, silencing him before he could even aim. The gun clattered to the floor, its owner reduced to ash.
The screams began.
"Wrong hell to play in," I muttered, stepping into the chaos.
And then, the cleansing began.