Nine AM Sunday morning, and Lucifer shot out of bed like someone had lit his sheets on fire.
The train pajamas—embarrassing but comfortable—twisted around his small frame as he scrambled toward the door. His new basketball gear sat in the corner where he'd reverently placed it last night, the shoes still pristine in their boxes, the ball still wearing its factory shine.
Today. Finally, today he could start.
Bacon smoke curled up the stairs, mixing with something sweet—French toast maybe, or those ridiculously expensive waffles his grandmother made with vanilla beans she imported from Madagascar. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood as he took the stairs two at a time, which for his five-year-old legs meant a controlled fall more than actual descent.
Pearl stood at the stove, her silver hair caught up in a bun that defied several laws of physics. The morning light through the kitchen windows turned her dark skin golden at the edges, and when she turned to look at him, her smile carved decades off her face.
"There's my baby! Come here and—oh no, absolutely not." She held up a spatula like a stop sign. "Before you start answering questions, you need to brush your teeth and wash your face. I still see drool on your cheek."
Betrayed by my own saliva.
The bathroom mirror showed the damage: sleep crust in his eyes, his hair doing things that would make physicists weep, and yes, a definitive trail of dried drool from corner of mouth to mid-cheek.
Five minutes of aggressive hygiene later, he presented himself for inspection.
"Better." Pearl set a plate in front of him—French toast drowning in real maple syrup, bacon crispy enough to shatter, fresh berries that probably cost more per pound than most people's car payments. "Now, what's got you moving like your tail's on fire?"
"Where's Mom?" The words came out through a mouthful of toast, syrup threatening to escape down his chin.
"That's a surprise."
"A surprise?" He swallowed, hard. Pearl's surprises were legendary. Last time she'd said those words, he'd ended up with a signed LeBron James jersey that supposedly belonged in a museum. The time before that, she'd somehow arranged for him to meet the author of his favorite book series, who turned out to be way weirder in person than his writing suggested.
A surprise? She already gave me the basketball stuff I needed. What could be better than that?
The doorbell's chime—some classical piece he didn't recognize—interrupted his speculation. Pearl's eyes lit up with the kind of mischief that belonged on someone a third her age
"And there's surprise number two."
The man who walked through the door looked like someone had aged a movie star just enough to be distinguished without losing the underlying structure that made cameras love them. Gray beard trimmed with military precision, gray hair that somehow looked intentional rather than elderly, wearing a cashmere sweater that whispered rather than shouted its price tag.
"There's my grandson!" Arthur Capone's voice filled the kitchen like expensive whiskey poured into crystal. He crouched down, studying Lucifer with eyes that matched his own—that particular shade of brown that went amber in the right light. "Damn, you're tall for five. What are they feeding you?"
"Everything," Pearl said, and there was something in her tone, some old joke or older argument that lived in the space between the words.
Arthur straightened, his knees popping like distant firecrackers. "I guess he has a favorite grandparent, right Lucifer?" He winked, the gesture so practiced it had probably been deployed on thousands of boardrooms and bedrooms alike.
Pearl snorted. "The favorite grandparent is the one who's been here, not the one who just flew in from Monaco."
"It was Milan, actually, and—"
"Go get changed," Pearl interrupted, shooing Lucifer toward the stairs. "Your new gear. Your mother's waiting outside, and trust me, you don't want to keep this particular appointment waiting."
The compression shirt felt like being hugged by expensive fabric. The shorts hit just above his knees, the material some space-age blend that probably had a name longer than this sentence. The Kyries—he went with the Kyries first, save the Kobes for when he'd earned them—hugged his feet like they'd been custom molded.
Outside, the October air bit with that particular Chicago cold that promised worse to come. His mother stood near the garden, but it was the woman beside her that made him stop.
Tall, maybe five-ten, with the kind of build that suggested she could run a marathon and then deadlift your car. Her skin was the color of expensive coffee, her black hair pulled back in a bun so tight it looked painful. But it was the eyes that held him—golden, actual golden, like someone had melted down jewelry and poured it into her irises.
I know her. How do I know her?
"Lucifer," his mother's voice carried that careful tone adults used when introducing something important, "this is Nia. She's a good friend of mine, and she's going to be your basketball trainer."
Nia didn't crouch down to his level. Didn't baby-talk. Just extended her hand for a proper shake, her grip firm enough to be serious but not so firm as to be testing him.
"Your mother tells me you want to play." Her voice had an accent he couldn't place—not quite Caribbean, not quite Southern, something that had marinated in multiple places until it became its own thing.
"Yes."
"Then let's see what we're working with."
She led him around the house, past the pool he'd never used, past the guest house that had sat empty since they'd moved in, to a section of the property hidden behind a row of evergreens. The door she opened looked industrial, all steel and purposeful angles.
The smell hit first—that particular cocktail of varnish and rubber and the ghost of ten thousand hours of sweat. The lights came on in sequence, revealing a court that would make Division I colleges weep with envy. The hardwood gleamed like liquid honey, the lines painted with the precision of a surgeon's incision. The ceiling stretched up into shadows, high enough that you could practice full-court shots without worry. Bleachers lined one wall, just twenty seats or so, but real bleachers nonetheless.
"Position?" Nia asked, already pulling out a tablet that looked more expensive than most cars.
"Point guard."
Her laugh was just an exhale through her nose, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. "You and billions of other kids."
She measured him with the efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times. Four feet even—tall for five, but not freakishly so. Arms spread, fingertip to fingertip: forty-eight inches.
"Four foot wingspan on a four-foot frame." She made notes on her tablet. "That's… unusual. Excellent, but unusual."
Then came the tests.
First, the sprint. Baseline to baseline, the timer on her tablet connected to sensors she'd placed at either end. His legs pumped, the Kyries gripping the court like they were magnetized. The burn started in his calves, spread to his thighs, ended in his lungs feeling like someone had filled them with broken glass.
"Again."
Again.
"Shuttle runs now. Suicide drills."
The name was appropriate. Sprint to the free-throw line, back, to half-court, back, to the far free-throw line, back, full court, back. His body was reminding him that despite his adult mind, these were still five-year-old muscles, five-year-old lungs, five-year-old everything.
"Vertical test."
She had him stand against the wall, reach as high as he could, made a mark. Then the jump—no run-up, just explosive power from a standstill. His fingers brushed higher than they should have, higher than any five-year-old had a right to reach.
"Interesting." The word came out like she was tasting it. "Very interesting."
By the time she called stop, Lucifer was on his back at center court, the overhead lights creating halos in his vision, his chest trying to remember how breathing worked. The hardwood was cool against his sweat-soaked shirt, and he could taste copper in the back of his throat.
So this is what real work feels like. I never want to do this again… but I have to.
"You'll do." Nia stood over him, blocking one of the lights, turning her into a silhouette with a golden-eyed eclipse. "Three times a week to start. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. After school."
He managed something that might have been a nod.
"One thing," she continued, and there was something in her voice now, something almost apologetic. "I sometimes have trouble finding babysitters for my daughter. Would it be alright if she watched practice? She's about your age, very well-behaved."
Another maybe-nod. What did he care? As long as she stayed out of the way.
"Wonderful. Actually, she's here today. Let me call her in."
The door opened, and sneakers squeaked across the court—light, quick, excited steps. Then a voice that made his exhausted body try to sit up:
"LUCIFER!"
Pigtails bouncing like they were spring-loaded. That same missing-toothed grin. Those eyes bright with the kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal before noon and probably after it too.
Daphne?
The universe, apparently, had a sense of humor.
And it was laughing at him.