The storm had left behind an eerie silence. By morning, the sky was clear, as if the rain had tried to wash away secrets along with the city's dust.
Lucifer hadn't slept.
The images of threads, the visions of blood, and his grandfather's harsh voice had kept him awake until dawn. He tried to convince himself it was just a dream, some hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But when he opened his eyes, the threads were still there—thin, glowing strands connecting him to the people in his house.
Green to his mother. Gray to his father. And in memory, that heavy black one, lingering like a shadow.
"I'm losing my mind," he muttered in front of the bathroom mirror, splashing cold water on his face.
He couldn't tell anyone. His mother would drag him to a doctor, his father would dismiss it, and his grandfather… was gone.
John Smith's house stood only a few blocks away. He had died weeks ago under unclear circumstances. Some whispered it was illness, others hinted at something far darker. Lucy hadn't even gone to the funeral. Something about his grandfather repelled him—the hardness in his gaze, the aura of violence that never left him.
But that morning, after the storm, Lucy felt a strange pull. He grabbed his jacket, dodged his mother's questions, and walked under the newborn sun to the house filled with ghosts.
The door was locked, but his grandfather's key still hung on his ring. Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and the smell of old tobacco.
Everything was him.
The shelves lined with military books, the decommissioned weapons on the wall, the black-and-white photos of another lifetime. Lucy walked slowly, afraid to wake something that should remain buried.
Then he saw it.
On the desk, locked with a rusted padlock, was a metal chest.
His heartbeat quickened. John never left things without reason. With trembling hands, Lucy searched the drawers and found a small key wrapped in cloth. The lock groaned, and the chest creaked open.
Inside lay yellowed folders, a black notebook, and a wooden box. Lucy grabbed the notebook first. His skin crawled as he flipped through the pages—lines and lines of notes on karma.
"Invisible threads bind men. Colors reveal emotions. Visions expose sins. Only the one with the Karmic Eyes can pass judgment."
Lucy staggered back, breath shallow.
"No… he knew. He really knew!"
His hands trembled. It wasn't an illusion, wasn't madness. His grandfather had known the same eyes.
Page after page detailed colors, visions, and the truth of confession. One section, marked "Sentence", explained that if the truth was spoken in its entirety, the judged would be unable to deny it.
Lucy dropped the notebook onto the desk.
"So this… this will happen to me too?"
The creak of footsteps froze him. He turned sharply—no one was there. Yet the threads in his vision trembled, pulling him toward the wooden box.
Inside was an envelope addressed to him: "For Lucifer."
The letter was written in John's strong hand:
"If you're reading this, the eyes are no longer mine. The gift—or the curse—has passed to you. Trust no one, not even me. Karma never lies, but men's hearts do. Some will try to use what you see. Others will try to destroy you for it. From this day on, your life will no longer be your own. Prepare yourself."
A knot tightened in Lucy's chest. It was as if his grandfather spoke from the grave, sealing his fate.
A creak behind him made him spin around. In the doorway stood a man in a dark suit, tall and severe, his expression unreadable.
"So it's you," the stranger said in a low voice.
"Who… who are you?" Lucy stammered, stepping back.
"The heir of John Smith. The bearer of the Karmic Eyes."
Lucy felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.
The judgment had only just begun.