The Crime Scene
The private study of Michael Bradshaw was dimly lit, the thick scent of iron hanging in the air. The body lay slumped over the desk, a knife protruding from the wood, and blood pooling onto the Persian rug below. Harper and Lucifer arrived amidst the flashes of forensic cameras.
"Quite the messy ending for such a prestigious man," Lucifer remarked, stepping gingerly around the blood. "I suppose philanthropy doesn't exempt you from karma."
Harper ignored him, focusing on the carved letters on the desk: HLN-03.
"This isn't random," she murmured, running her fingers over the grooves. "It could be a clue... or a signature."
Lucifer crouched by the body, noticing the position of Michael's hand, fingers stretched toward the edge of the desk.
"Or perhaps our dearly departed friend left us a trail to follow," he said, smirking.
Harper followed his gaze to a stack of documents scattered on the floor. One page, circled in red, caught her attention: Cline Holdings Quarterly Report.
"Roger Cline," she muttered. "Michael's business partner. We need to talk to him."
Lucifer picked up a paperweight from the desk, examining it casually.
"Always the partner, isn't it? Either they're covering up embezzlement or stealing someone's spouse."
Harper shot him a look. "Focus, Lucifer."
---
Roger Cline
Roger Cline's downtown office exuded wealth, with its marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. But the man himself looked anything but confident. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, as he fidgeted behind his desk.
"Detective Harper," Roger greeted nervously. "And Mr. Morningstar... what brings you here?"
Lucifer leaned casually against the doorframe, his piercing gaze locking onto Roger.
"Oh, nothing much. Just wondering why your name keeps popping up in connection with a freshly murdered philanthropist."
Roger's forced smile faltered.
"Michael and I were business partners," he stammered. "Of course my name would come up."
Harper stepped forward, dropping a file onto his desk. "Cut the act. We found financial discrepancies in your company's accounts. Michael knew about them, didn't he?"
Roger's face drained of color.
"I—I can explain," he stuttered. "Michael was threatening to go to the board. He didn't understand that I was trying to fix things."
Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Fix things by skimming off the top? How original."
Roger's defenses crumbled under their scrutiny.
"I didn't kill him," he said desperately. "I swear. I just wanted time to put the money back before anyone found out."
"Then who did?" Harper asked sharply.
Roger hesitated. "I don't know. But Michael had been acting strange lately. He said someone was following him."
---
Angela Morris
Angela Morris, Michael's long-time personal assistant, was next on their list. She lived in a modest apartment, a stark contrast to the wealth of her employer.
Angela greeted them with red-rimmed eyes, her hands shaking as she ushered them inside.
"I don't know anything about what happened," she insisted, clutching a mug of tea like a lifeline.
Lucifer tilted his head, studying her intently.
"Your nervousness suggests otherwise, my dear," he said, his voice velvet smooth. "What is it you're not telling us?"
Angela avoided his gaze, her grip tightening on the mug.
"Michael was... paranoid," she admitted. "He kept talking about someone trying to ruin him."
Harper leaned forward. "Did he say who?"
Angela hesitated, glancing between them.
"No. But he mentioned a video. He said if it got out, it would destroy everything."
"A video, you say?" Lucifer said, his interest piqued. "Now we're getting somewhere."
---
Sam Wilkins
The investigation led them to Sam Wilkins, a private investigator with a reputation for shady dealings. His office was a cluttered mess of files, empty coffee cups, and cigarette butts.
Sam leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face.
"Michael hired me to dig up dirt on some enemies," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Turns out, one of those enemies hired me too."
Harper crossed her arms. "Double-crossing your clients? Classy."
Sam shrugged. "Pays the bills."
"What did you find?" Lucifer asked, leaning in with a devilish smile. "Come on, Sam. What is it you truly desire?"
Sam's bravado cracked under Lucifer's probing gaze.
"Fine," he admitted. "Michael had skeletons in his closet. Big ones. But so does everyone else in his circle."
---
Twists and Turns
Back at the precinct, Harper pieced together the puzzle. The blackmail, the financial discrepancies, and the mysterious carving all pointed to a larger conspiracy.
The carving HLN-03 turned out to be the key: a reference to a storage unit at Hellion Warehouse, where Michael kept his most sensitive files.
Inside the unit, Harper and Lucifer found a treasure trove of secrets, including the blackmail video. It revealed Michael's involvement in laundering money for a powerful crime syndicate.
But the most shocking twist? Angela, the seemingly loyal assistant, was working with the syndicate all along. She'd been feeding them information about Michael's activities, and when he found out, she panicked and killed him.
---
The Confession
In the interrogation room, Angela broke down, tears streaming down her face.
"I didn't mean to kill him," she sobbed. "He was going to ruin everything. I had no choice."
Lucifer watched her impassively, his gaze cold and calculating.
"Choices, my dear, are what make us human. You simply chose poorly."
Harper leaned back in her chair, satisfied but weary.
"Angela Morris, you're under arrest for the murder of Michael Bradshaw."
As Angela was led away, Lucifer turned to Harper with a smirk.
"Well, that was entertaining. What's next, Detective?"
---
The evening was quiet, the soft rustle of the wind through the trees the only sound as Amenadiel stood alone on the rooftop of a high-rise building, gazing at the city lights below. His face, usually calm and composed, was troubled.
He extended his hand to the horizon, willing the world to slow as it always did when he commanded time. But nothing happened. The city below continued its rhythm unabated—cars honking, lights blinking, people bustling.
Amenadiel furrowed his brow, clenching his hand into a fist. He closed his eyes, focusing harder, pouring his divine will into the command. Still, nothing.
"Impossible," he whispered to himself, his voice carrying a tremor of disbelief.
He tried again, this time reaching for his wings, the majestic appendages that always emerged with a thought. His shoulders tensed as he felt... nothing. No familiar warmth of power coursing through him. No majestic stretch of feathers.
"Amenadiel?"
The voice startled him, and he turned to see Selene stepping onto the rooftop. Her expression was curious but tinged with concern.
"Why are you up here, looking like you've seen a ghost?"
He hesitated, debating whether to share his realization. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"It's my powers," he admitted. "They're... fading."
Selene raised an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
"Fading? How? You're an angel. That doesn't just happen."
"I don't know," Amenadiel replied, frustration creeping into his voice. "It started after I brought Debbie back. It required immense energy—pulling her soul from hell and reuniting it with her body. I thought it was just exhaustion, but now..."
He looked at her, his eyes filled with uncertainty, a rare sight for the ever-confident angel.
"I can't slow time. I can't summon my wings. It's like..." He trailed off, struggling to find the words.
"Like you're becoming mortal?" Selene offered, her tone serious.
Amenadiel clenched his fists, anger and fear warring within him.
"I don't know what it means. But if I'm losing my powers, then I've lost the very thing that defines me. What am I without them?"
Selene walked closer, her usual sharp demeanor softening.
"You're more than your powers, Amenadiel. You're a warrior, a protector. Powers or not, you're still you."
He looked at her skeptically.
"Coming from you, that's almost comforting."
She smirked, crossing her arms.
"Don't get used to it. But seriously, maybe this is temporary. Maybe you just need time to recharge."
Amenadiel shook his head.
"This feels different. Deeper. Like... like the universe itself is telling me my time is ending."
Selene studied him, her mind racing.
"Have you told Lucifer?"
Amenadiel let out a bitter laugh.
"Lucifer? He'd probably throw a party at the idea of me losing my angelic edge."
Selene gave him a pointed look.
"Maybe. But he'd also help you. You know he would, in his own annoying, sarcastic way."
Amenadiel sighed, turning back to the cityscape.
"I need to figure this out on my own. If I truly am losing my powers, I need to know why... and what comes next."
Selene nodded, stepping beside him.
"Well, whatever happens, you're not facing it alone. Whether you like it or not, you've got people who care about you. Lucifer. Debbie. Even me, though I won't admit it again."
Amenadiel gave her a faint smile, the weight on his shoulders momentarily lifting.
"Thank you, Selene."
She shrugged, looking out at the city.
"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't."
For a moment, they stood in silence, two celestial beings contemplating the fragility of power and purpose. The city lights blinked below, unaware of the quiet battle waging within the heart of an angel.
---