Lilith Crowe woke slowly, like the night was reluctant to let her go . Morning light crept through the thin curtains of her apartment, pale and unassuming, brushing over the cluttered bookshelf the folded jacket on the chair, the small crack in the ceiling she kept meaning to report and never did.
For a few seconds, she lay still. Then memory stirred. Crystal lights, music too soft to feel real. A man with eyes that seemed to pause the room. Lilith exhaled and turned onto her side. "Get over it", she murmured to no one. The gala has never been her idea , she'd only been there because of her friend "Maeve". Maeve,who believed Lilith needed to be "seen" by the "universe" more often. Maeve, who has won two tickets through a donor program connected to the restoration studio and had refused to go alone.
"It's just one night", Maeve had Said, tugging Lilith into a borrowed dress. The gown had not been made for Lilith, that much was obvious the moment she slipped into it, not because it didn't fit, but because it fit too well, like fabric that had been waiting for her without knowing her name. It was midnight black, not dull but deep the kind of black that caught light and softened it , turning every movement into something slow and deliberate. The material clung lightly to her frame skimming her waist before falling into a fluid line that followed the natural curve of her hips without effort or excess. Dark curls spilled freely over her shoulders, untamed, framing a face that was striking rather than perfect, expensive eyes, full lips often caught between thought and restraint, and a beauty that revealed itself slowly like something noticed only after it was already missed. She looked like someone who did not try to be seen. And yet, in the borrowed gown she was impossible to overlook.
Lilith has gone because saying no felt harder. And the thought of free food was too pleasant to ignore. She hasn't expected him.
The city was already alive by the time Lilith stepped outside.she walked to work instead of taking the bus, letting the rhythm of her steps ground her.
"Hawthorne and vale" smelled like old paper and polish, comforting, familiar. Maeve was already there, hair pinned up messily, coffee in hand. "You disappeared last night", Maeve said casually, "did I imagine that, or did you get stolen by a billionaire?. Lilith paused "what?". Maeve smirked " Tall, offensively handsome, you talked for like ten minutes ".
Lilith focused on setting down her bag." He was just.......a person?".
Maeve snorted. "No one who looks like that is just a person". Lilith didn't answer. She spent the morning restoring a damaged canvas, fingers steady, breath slow. She liked work that required patience it made the world feel quieter.
Still her thoughts drifted, the way he hadn't asked her name, the way he hadn't tried to impress her, the way he looked at her like she was a moment not a conquest. Around noon, het fingers stung she hissed softly, lifting her hand. A thin cut bloomed across her skin, red and precise. Maeve glanced over "again?", Lilith wrapped it quickly, "I'm fine ".
But the air felt strange, dense, like something unseen had brushed past her shoulder. She shook the feeling off. That night, lilth climbed the stairs to her apartment with tired legs and a mind too full for sleep. Something white caught her eye, she stopped. A small envelope lay on the floor outside her door.
No stamp.
No name.
Just cream colored paper, perfectly unbent. Her heartbeat picked up. She looked down the hallway. Empty. Lilith crouched slowly and picked it up. The paper felt warm as if it hadn't been there long. Inside was a single folded note. Three words, written in clean , elegant script.
"YOU LEFT EARLY".
Lilith's throat tightened. There was no signature, no explanation. She stood there for a long moment before unlocking her door and stepping inside, locking it behind her with more care than usual. She placed the note on the table and stared at it like it might move. "Okay". She whispered, "I'm officially unsettled".
Far beneath the waking city, hell burned as it always had.
Lucien stood at the center of the obsidian throne room, crown of Shadow forming itself above his head as the "court of Ash" knelt in reverent silence. "You felt it too", Mordain said quietly, stepping to his side. Lucien's gaze swept the chamber. "Yes". Virella's blind eyes bled black tears. She was a high ranking demon who had blind eyes, as she sees futures in blood. She acts as Lucien's secretary and assistant during the day but when they descend to hell she assumes her position at his side as the "seer"
"She walks close to the veil" she said
Lucien's fingers tightened around the arm of the throne. Not power, not threat, something older. "Find out nothing", he ordered calmly. "Do not touch her". Mordain stiffened. "My lord....". "That was not a request". Lucien leaked back, shadows coiling lazily at his feet.
Above, in a small apartment filled with borrowed furniture and quiet dreams, Lilith Crowe folded the note once more and slipped it into a drawer she never used. She didn't know why only that throwing it away felt wrong.
And Hell, for the first time in centuries, was listening to a human breathe.