The Viper in the Courtroom
The courthouse was a cathedral of cold judgment, its marble pillars bathed in a sickly morning light that filtered through cracked skylights like the last breath of heaven. The air was thick with tension, as though the very walls knew what kind of darkness walked its halls that day.
The accused sat slouched at the defendant's table, a man named Merrick Thorne—a rich brat from an even richer family. He wore a smug grin that didn't quite reach his bloodshot eyes. The charges against him were enough to make even the jaded court clerks blanch: assault, harassment, battery—most heinously, the violent attack of a woman found nearly lifeless in a back alley, her face shattered like porcelain, her voice forever stolen by trauma.
The evidence was overwhelming. Witnesses. Surveillance footage. Hospital reports. Bruises that bloomed like dark flowers across the victim's body, and a dress stained with the fingerprints of a monster.
The prosecution painted a picture clear and damning.
"He did it," the lead prosecutor snapped, jabbing a finger toward Merrick like it was a dagger. "He beat her. He broke her jaw. Her spirit. He left her for dead. There is no question. No doubt."
The jury nodded. The crowd whispered. Even the judge—a grizzled man with too many years and too few illusions—seemed ready to drop the gavel and let justice thunder down.
And then, the doors creaked open.
Lucien Virelli entered like a shadow wrapped in Armani. His tie was obsidian. His smile, razor-thin. The courtroom shifted—like prey sensing the approach of a predator.
He took his seat beside Merrick with calm, fluid grace. His eyes scanned the room, calculating, knowing. The judge raised an eyebrow. The prosecutor sneered.
Lucien simply nodded once and rose to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, voice a purr beneath a serpent's hiss, "we live in a world where perception so often devours truth. Where headlines scream before facts are whispered."
He walked slowly, deliberately, every footstep echoing like a heartbeat of doubt.
"Yes, you've seen photos. Reports. You've heard tearful testimonies." He turned, eyes gleaming with something not quite human. "But have you asked yourselves: how much of this was emotion… and how much was fact?"
He produced documents—manufactured, doctored, falsehoods dressed in legal satin. Reports suggesting the victim had a history of self-harm. Emails that never existed. Psychiatric notes scribbled by a ghost.
Gasps rippled through the room.
"She had enemies," Lucien said smoothly. "People who wanted to see Merrick fall. And isn't it curious that none of the surveillance footage shows the moment of the alleged attack? Isn't it odd that key timestamps were… missing?"
He turned to the jury, and here he worked his true sorcery.
Not with logic. Not even with facts.
But with emotion.
He planted seeds of doubt in the soil of tired minds. He watered them with calm reassurances, cloaked in the velvet of reason. He wove a story where Merrick was not a villain—but a victim of hysteria, of cancel culture, of public rage running rampant.
The courtroom, once boiling with fury, now simmered with uncertainty.
The victim's family looked on in horror. The girl's mother clutched a crumpled tissue soaked with tears, her mouth agape, as if trying to scream through a dream where no sound would come.
The prosecutor's face twisted, red with fury. "He's lying!" she barked. "This is manipulation! Fraud!"
But Lucien only tilted his head and smiled.
"And yet, dear counsel, if I am lying—why does it feel so much like the truth?"
Silence.
The jury forewoman shifted uncomfortably. One man rubbed his temple. A young woman closed her eyes.
Lucien returned to his seat, slow and graceful as a cat returning from a kill. He didn't look at Merrick. He didn't have to. The verdict had already taken shape in the air like smoke curling into the word innocent.
The judge sighed. The gavel rose, then fell.
"Not guilty."
The crowd erupted. Some in shock. Some in disgust. Some in hollow applause.
Lucien smiled, as though he'd merely solved a crossword puzzle. Merrick laughed—loud, cruel, victorious.
The victim's mother collapsed to her knees.
And somewhere, unseen, the scales of justice cracked a little more.
The Price of Applause
The courtroom doors burst open with a theatrical groan, and out stepped Lucien Virelli, the victor draped in invisible laurels. His stride was effortless, almost lazy, as if he hadn't just bent the spine of justice until it snapped. The air outside buzzed like a hive on fire.
Click.Flash.Click.Flash.
Cameras popped like fireworks, a thousand eyes on him. Reporters swarmed like hungry gulls, microphones shoved into his face like weapons. The courthouse steps became a stage, and Lucien the star—unbothered, untouched, untouchable.
"Mr. Virelli, how did you manage to win such a controversial case?""Do you truly believe your client was innocent?""Some are calling this a miscarriage of justice—what do you say to that?"
Lucien raised a hand—smooth, practiced, commanding silence with a smile that could sell ice to the dying flame of a furnace.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice rich and honeyed, "I understand emotions are high. It's only natural. But we are a nation of law, not pitchforks and torches. My client was tried by a jury of his peers, and the truth—however painful—was revealed in court."
He paused for dramatic effect, lifting his chin slightly as cameras captured the moment like worshippers before a god.
"I don't defend saints. I defend the law. And today, the law spoke."
Applause. From some. Hesitant claps. Nods. Even admiration from a few young legal interns at the edge of the crowd, notebooks pressed to their chests like holy texts.
But then—
A voice cut through the air, trembling and sharp as shattered glass.
"You bastard!"
The crowd split as a woman surged forward, red-eyed and hollow-faced, hair in a messy bun that had seen no sleep. She was small, trembling, but her voice—her voice thundered.
"Because of you, he walks free," she spat, pointing a shaking finger at Lucien. "Because of you, my daughter lies in a hospital bed with tubes in her throat and bones barely holding together. She may never speak again! She may never walk again!"
Lucien's eyes flickered to her. A flicker—nothing more.
Reporters stepped back. The air stilled.
"Does it feel good, Virelli?" she screamed. "Saving monsters just because they're rich enough to pay your price? Are you proud of yourself? Does your soul sleep at night knowing the blood on your hands was paid for in full?"
Her hands balled into fists, her sobs fighting through her fury.
"You're not a lawyer," she whispered, voice cracking. "You're a dog. A leashed animal that guards the gates of power and pisses on justice when it gets in your way. You're nothing."
Silence. Cameras kept flashing. No one moved.
Lucien looked at her with the same calm he wore in the courtroom. His smile didn't waver. His suit caught the light just right.
"Ma'am," he said with exquisite gentleness, "I truly am sorry for your pain. But anger does not equal truth. The court has ruled."
And with that—he turned.
No defense. No argument. No apology.
He stepped off the courthouse steps, leaving behind only echoes and weeping. The woman collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest, the sound of her sorrow rising above the horns and city clatter like a siren for a world gone wrong.
Reporters hesitated. Some turned their lenses away. A few even lowered their microphones. But Lucien—Lucien did not look back. He disappeared into his sleek black car, its windows tinted like the eyes of a predator, and within moments, the beast had vanished.
Back on the steps, the mother wept.
And in the sky above, the clouds gathered.
Because justice—true justice—had been gagged once again.
And somewhere, fate stirred in its grave and whispered:
Soon.
Echoes of the Forgotten Smile
The courthouse doors flung open. Lucien Virelli stepped into a blinding wall of cameras and shouting voices. The media swarmed, a frenzy of flashing lights and desperate questions.
"Mr. Virelli, how did you turn the case around?""Was your client truly innocent?""Do you believe justice was served?"
Lucien smiled—cool, unshaken.
"Justice," he said, "isn't about feelings. It's about fact. The jury spoke. My client is free. That's the law. That's truth."
Applause scattered through the crowd. A few admiring glances. Reporters leaned in, feeding off his charm. But then—
"You bastard!"
The crowd fell silent. A woman pushed forward, her voice raw, face streaked with tears. The victim's mother.
"Because of you, my daughter can't speak! She can't move! And that monster walks free!" she cried. "How do you live with yourself, defending scum just because they're rich?"
Lucien looked at her, unflinching. His smile held.
"I'm sorry for your pain," he said softly, "but anger doesn't change verdicts."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away—past the cameras, past the grief, stepping into his black car like a king retreating to his palace.
Behind him, the mother dropped to her knees, wailing. Reporters looked away. The applause died.
And justice? Justice never showed up that day.
Echoes of the Forgotten Smile
Before the courtrooms, before the verdicts, before Lucien Virelli learned how to twist truth into a weapon—there was a summer afternoon.
The television buzzed softly in the living room, playing old cartoons, their colors bright and silly and alive. Young Lucien, maybe six or seven, sat at the table, legs swinging beneath his chair, a giant slice of watermelon clutched in his small, sticky hands. Juice dribbled down his chin, seeds scattered across the wood. He laughed at something on the screen, eyes wide with unfiltered joy.
The kitchen was alive with warmth. His mother hummed to herself as she moved gracefully from counter to stove. A song without words, familiar and light. She wore a simple dress with little sunflowers stitched into the fabric, a thin gold chain around her neck that caught the light when she turned.
Lucien looked over and grinned."Mommy, look! I ate the green part too!" he announced proudly, a smear of pink and red around his mouth.
She turned, saw the mess, and gasped in mock horror.
"Oh, Lucien!" she said, walking over and snatching a towel from the oven handle. "You're a little monster, not a little boy!"
She crouched and wiped his face, gently but firmly, laughing as she worked. Her fingers were warm. Her scent was soft—vanilla, maybe, or something sweeter, something lost.
"You're so pretty, Mommy," he said.
But even now, Lucien's memory faltered. Her face—it was blurred. Shapeless. Like a dream fading with the morning sun. He could remember her touch, her voice, her humming—but not her face.
He hated that.
"Is Daddy coming home today?" he asked, cheeks still wet from watermelon juice.
She smiled—he remembered the smile, not her lips."No, love. Daddy's coming tomorrow. He called this morning. He'll be here for dinner."
Lucien's heart leapt with the kind of happiness only children know. "Yay! Daddy's coming home!"
His father was a pilot. He flew through clouds and brought stories back with him—stories, and little gifts from faraway places. Tiny plastic Eiffel Towers. Keychains shaped like whales. A toy biplane that Lucien once slept with like a stuffed bear.
That night, they ate dinner together—just mother and son. He remembered the clink of the spoon against the plate. Her humming, still going. The light outside, turning golden through the curtains. He fell asleep that night smiling, dreaming of the next day, of the way his father would swoop him up and kiss his forehead.
But the morning came like a thief.
His mother pulled him from bed before the sun had fully bloomed, coaxed him into his school uniform with sleepy yawns and a promise.
"Go on now, be good. When you come back, Daddy will be here."
He remembered the school bus arriving. The long day of numbers and games and noisy classmates. But his thoughts were on home. On his mother. On his father, returning from the skies with gifts and hugs and laughter.
He ran off the bus when it finally pulled up to his stop, backpack bouncing, heart pounding. The door of his house stood just slightly ajar—odd, but not alarming.
"Mommy?" he called out, breathless.
No answer.
"Daddy?"
Silence.
He stepped inside. The air was still, too still. The cartoon voices were gone. The kitchen was cold. The table where he'd eaten watermelon yesterday was cleared. Empty.
Then he saw it.
A note, resting on the table.
The handwriting was soft, a little rushed, but unmistakably hers:
"Sweetheart, I'm going to pick up Daddy from the airport. There's food in the fridge. Microwave it, okay? Love you lots. Be back soon. —Mommy"
Lucien read it once. Then twice. Then again. It felt strange—off. He stood there for a long time, holding the paper in hands too small to understand what was happening.
The Night the Stars Went Out
The house was still. Too still.But Lucien didn't notice.
After reading the letter, his heart had bloomed with excitement. He practically skipped to the fridge, pulling out the plate his mother had left him. He struggled with the microwave—too high for him to see the buttons properly—but eventually managed to warm the food, his small fists punching at the controls like he was solving a puzzle.
He sat at the table, legs swinging, scarfing down the reheated meal with a grin. The taste wasn't great, but that didn't matter. His parents were coming. His dad was coming home.
Tomorrow had become today.
And so he waited.
He turned on the TV, cartoons again, the same silly voices filling the quiet space. But time dragged. The sun dipped low, shadows stretching like tired arms across the floor. He sat on the couch, then lay on the carpet, hugging a pillow, eyes fixed on the front door like it was a portal to paradise.
They'd walk through any minute.He'd run to them.He'd get the biggest hug.They'd laugh, and maybe they'd go out to eat. Or get ice cream. Or—
Sleep overtook him on the floor, curled up beneath the glow of the television.
And in his dreams…He was with them.
They were at the theme park, his dad lifting him up on his shoulders to see a parade. His mom holding cotton candy in one hand, reaching out to ruffle his hair with the other. They went to the movies—some silly cartoon about a dancing cow. They went swimming—his father threw him in the air, and he landed with a splash, giggling, water in his nose.
He didn't want to wake up.
But then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell sliced through the dream like a blade. Lucien shot up, heart pounding, eyes wide.
"They're here!"
He ran barefoot to the door, stumbling over a toy car in the hallway, nearly slipping in his excitement. His small hand twisted the lock, turned the handle, and flung the door open.
But there was no warm smile.No suitcase.No familiar voices saying, "There's our boy!"
Just two officers. Uniforms pressed, faces grim. One was a tall woman with tired eyes. The other, a middle-aged man who looked like he'd seen too many broken homes.
Lucien blinked, confused."…Mommy?" he asked softly."…Daddy?"
The officers looked at each other.
"Son," the woman said gently, crouching down to his eye level. "Is there another adult here with you?"
Lucien shook his head, voice barely a whisper. "No. Just me. Mommy said she went to get Daddy from the airport."
The man swallowed, his throat visibly tightening.
"Do you know if you have any aunts or uncles? Maybe grandparents?"
Lucien frowned. "Why are you here? Where's my mom?"
The woman hesitated. Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder—soft, trembling slightly.
"There was an accident, sweetheart. On the way back from the airport."
Silence. The words didn't make sense.
"They were in a car," she continued, voice cracking. "There was… a truck. The roads were wet. It happened fast."
Lucien stood frozen. A ringing began in his ears. His small hands clenched the doorway frame.
"No," he said, the word dry and brittle. "No. They're coming home. They told me. They're coming home…"
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
But he didn't hear the rest. The world became a blur. The officers' voices faded to static. The living room behind him stretched into a ghost town. He looked past them, beyond the street, half-expecting to see headlights in the distance, a figure stepping out with a suitcase and a smile.
But there was nothing.
Only the wind.
That night, the boy who would become Lucien Virelli went silent.
And the silence never left him.
The boy who once dreamed of swimming pools and theme parks learned that life could take everything from you, and all it left behind was paper and pity.
He didn't cry—not that night. Not ever.Not for them.
He learned instead how to build walls.With words.With lies.With charm.
And from that shattered floor, a devil began to rise.
Ashes of the Innocent, Fire of the Lie
The boy didn't cry.
Not at the news.Not when the officers drove him away from the house that still held the smell of his mother's perfume.Not even at the funeral.
But oh, he remembered.
He remembered the smell of flowers—too sweet, too many. The way the sky looked that day, gray and wide and silent. The soft murmur of unfamiliar voices, relatives who spoke his name like it was a burden.
Suits. Sunglasses. The clatter of a shovel against soil.
He remembered the way people looked at him—not with warmth, not with kindness, but with that quiet pity that always ends in someone else's problem.
They came in clusters. Cousins, uncles, family friends. Faces blurred with time. They shook their heads, whispered behind closed doors:
"We can't take him.""We already have two of our own.""He's just too old… too quiet… too strange."
And just like that, Lucien Virelli, age 8, was discarded.
The orphanage was cold in more ways than one. The walls echoed with the voices of too many forgotten children. The beds were hard. The food was bland. But the worst of it was the other kids—the bigger ones. The ones who smelled weakness like blood in the water.
Lucien, with his too-pretty hair and his soft silence, was a target. They pushed him. Mocked him. Took his food. Beat him with knuckles wrapped in stolen shoelaces. One broke his tooth. Another broke his ribs.
And the adults?
They saw. They knew.
And they did nothing.
He learned then what justice was: a story grown-ups told kids to make them behave.
At age 14, a flicker of hope—or so it seemed.
A couple came. Smiling. Hands held tight. Said all the right things. Said they wanted to "give him a better life."
He moved in. But behind their smiles were scars, and behind their fridge—needles. Pipes. Secrets buried under empty bottles and whispered fights at midnight.
He ran.
He ran for his life, for his soul, for the last thread of himself that hadn't been burnt by the world.
He slept in alleys, under bridges, beside dumpsters. Stole bread. Swiped old coats. Learned how to vanish in a crowd. He stopped being a child and became something else: a ghost with teeth.
And then, one rainy afternoon, fate blinked.
A limousine passed him on the street. Slowed. Stopped. A voice—elegant, sharp—asked him if he could clean shoes.
Lucien said yes.
That family was old money. Silk gloves and chandeliers. They didn't adopt him. No—they hired him. A servant. A house boy. A shadow in their estate.
He swept floors. Polished marble. Carried bags. But he watched.
He listened.
He learned.
At night, while others slept, Lucien stole hours. Buried himself in books. He found an old, half-torn LSAT prep guide in a library bin, and he studied like a man possessed. Because he was. Possessed by the hunger to never be helpless again.
By seventeen, he took the LSAT. Scored near perfect. The rich family scoffed—"What does a servant boy need law for?"
But he had already applied to schools. Applied and got in.
He studied harder than anyone. He didn't party. Didn't make friends. Didn't trust. He built himself into a weapon with charm for a handle and lies for a blade.
Graduated top of his class. Passed the bar with ease.
Sworn in with a smile.
Lucien Virelli—no family, no past, no fear—became a lawyer.
And he never stopped learning. But what he learned wasn't law. It was people. Their fears. Their secrets. How to twist the truth into a rope to hang their enemies—or to save them, if they paid him enough.
He lied as easily as breathing.
And people believed him. Because he was beautiful. Because he was tragic. Because no one ever suspects the angel with a broken halo.
But behind that smile, beneath that suit, in the mirror behind his eyes—was still the boy on the floor.
Waiting for someone who would never come home.
The Devil You Know
The world came back in flashes.
Leather seats. The soft hum of the engine. The gentle sway of the car as it idled on cobblestone.
"Sir," came a voice. Sharp, British. His driver, Devon, is punctual to a fault and immune to surprise.
Lucien blinked awake, his cheek leaving a faint mark on the car window. He straightened his tie, rolled his neck, and glanced out the tinted glass at the looming building ahead—a private estate the size of a small museum.
"We've arrived," Devon said, tapping his watch with that delicate hint of judgment only the English could perfect. "The Cranes are expecting you."
Lucien yawned like a lion in silk. "Let the monsters wait," he muttered, reaching for his cufflinks.
But even as he moved, there was something distant in his eyes—like a man waking not from sleep, but from memory. The warmth of a child's dream still lingered in the cold morning fog. Then, like a flicked switch, it was gone.
The door opened. The wind kissed his face.
Lucien Virelli stepped out onto blood-soaked marble, though it looked clean, polished, divine. The estate's stone lions watched from above with frozen snarls.
Inside, the man he came to see waited with a smile that could make a guillotine seem merciful.
Jareth Crane.
A devil in a designer suit.
His hair was slicked back, too dark to be natural. His eyes were serpentine, amused, and completely devoid of empathy. His cologne was musky and aggressive, like power distilled into scent.
He was seated in a throne of velvet, legs crossed, sipping whiskey at 10 a.m. as if judgment were optional.
"Lucien," he purred, rising with a hand outstretched. "The maestro of misdirection. The legal Lazarus. My family said you were the best liar in the city."
Lucien took his hand, smile razor-sharp. "Liar's such a heavy word. I prefer… illusionist."
They sat.
The case was already infamous.
Jareth Crane, heir to the Crane dynasty—a family older than the courthouse itself. The headlines were clear: Massacre at Hollowgate. Dozens dead. Civilians. Children. An "accidental" weapons demonstration gone rogue. Witnesses silenced. Evidence buried under shell casings.
And still—Lucien took the case.
Because Jareth was rich. Obscenely. The kind of rich that didn't ask if justice could be bought, but how much for overnight delivery.
The Cranes could buy governments. Buy silence. Buy a lawyer with no soul and no shame.
Lucien had no illusions. He knew exactly who Jareth was. The kind of man who smiled while slaughtering, and only cried when his favorite cigar burned out.
But Lucien didn't flinch.
Because he'd learned something young.
Money was the god that answered prayers.
And Lucien had made himself its prophet.
"So," Jareth said, fingers dancing along the rim of his glass. "You think you can save me?"
Lucien tilted his head. "Save? No. Salvation is for sinners. You're something else entirely."
He leaned in.
"But I can set you free."
The room fell quiet.
A beat passed. Then Jareth grinned, wolfish. "That's what I like to hear."
In the corner, assistants took notes. A PR manager typed on a laptop, prepping a campaign of spin, tears, and virtue-signaling distractions. Outside, protestors chanted through megaphones. Reporters swarmed. Police stood like mannequins, bored and blinking.
But inside?
Inside, two devils shook hands.
One born of privilege.One carved from pain.
Lucien Virelli didn't care if Jareth was guilty. He didn't care about the victims. He didn't care about justice.
He cared about the retainer fee—seven figures, upfront.He cared about winning.And he cared about proving, again and again, that the law was not about truth.
It was about power.
And Lucien? He was its high priest.
The Fall of the Viper
The day broke heavy with rain, a gray curtain cast over the city as if the heavens themselves mourned what was to come.
Outside the courthouse, the crowd swelled like a hive on fire—protesters with signs, reporters with mics, police with grim faces and riot gear. Cameras clicked like gunfire. The people screamed for blood. For justice. For Jareth Crane to burn.
And through the chaos, the man of the hour arrived.
Jareth Crane. Immaculate. Calm. Hands in his pockets like he was walking into a dinner party instead of a courtroom.
And beside him, the devil's own defense: Lucien Virelli. Clad in obsidian silk, shoes that clicked like clockwork against marble, eyes veiled in cold calculation. He walked as if the trial were already won.
He had reason to believe it. After all… he always won.
Inside the courtroom, the walls trembled with tension. Rows upon rows of spectators packed in, their eyes venomous, their murmurs sharp.
The judge entered. The jury assembled.
And the storm began.
The prosecution wasted no time. Evidence mounted—videos, photos, reports, testimonies from survivors who trembled on the stand. Jareth was going down. The narrative was solid, the voices of the dead echoing louder than any defense could deflect.
And yet Lucien smiled.
He rose, smooth and slow, and laid out his counterattack like a magician revealing the final twist. Falsified autopsy reports. Altered security footage. Expert witnesses bought and paid for, blinking like deer in headlights as they swore to lies crafted in the darkest rooms of Lucien's mind.
And the courtroom began to shift—as it always did. People leaned in. Doubt slithered like smoke.
Until she spoke.
Rosa Verlain. The opposing counsel. Fire in her stride. Thunder in her voice. She didn't raise objections—she raised hell.
But she didn't attack Jareth.
No. She turned her full fury on Lucien.
"You think you're untouchable," she said, pacing like a lioness before the kill. "You dress in silk and shadow, but all I see is a boy hiding behind lies."
Lucien laughed. A small, sharp thing. "You've run out of facts, Counselor. Resorting to theatrics now?"
"Oh, I haven't even started."
And with a flick of her hand, she did the unthinkable.
She pulled out a document—his file. Orphan records. Adoption history. The names of the drug addicts who took him in. Hospital reports. Notes from child protective services. The scars of his youth laid bare for all to see.
The courtroom gasped.
Lucien froze, just for a second.
She leaned in. "This is who you are, Lucien. You defend monsters because the world made you believe you were one too."
His jaw tightened. His fingers curled.
But he couldn't speak.
For the first time in his career, Lucien Virelli was speechless.
And the jury saw it.
They saw the cracks in his armor, the flicker of the boy beneath the venom.
And they chose.
"Guilty."
The word hit like a hammer.
"Guilty on all counts."
The courtroom erupted. Cheers. Cries. Reporters scrambling. Jareth's mask finally broke—but not in grief.
He smiled.
That slow, terrible smile.
And in one smooth motion, he reached beneath his coat. A flicker of silver. A whisper of metal.
A knife. Hidden. Sleek. Ready.
Security yelled.
Too late.
He lunged—not at the judge. Not at Rosa.
At Lucien.
A flash of steel. A shriek.
Lucien staggered, the blade dragging across his ribs in a single, elegant arc. Blood spilled—vivid, violent—soaking through his pristine shirt in a bloom of crimson.
He fell to one knee, breath hitching, eyes wide.
Jareth was tackled. Screams echoed. The bailiffs wrestled him to the ground. Cameras exploded with flashes.
Lucien heard it all like it was underwater.
The roar of the crowd. The chaos of justice. The end of his reign.
He pressed a hand to his wound, fingers slick with blood.
For a moment—just a sliver—he thought: So this is how it ends.
Not in a courtroom victory.
But in betrayal. In pain. In truth.
The Viper in Velvet had finally been bitten.
A Stairway to Damnation
They carried him out on a crimson tide.
Lucien Virelli, wounded but alive, his side leaking heat, his breath ragged, his white shirt a ruined flag of war. The courtroom had become a battleground—sirens wailing, officers shouting, the press frothing like jackals behind yellow tape.
Paramedics rushed to his side, slapping gauze over the wound. "We've got a pulse!" someone barked. "He's stable, but we need to move—now!"
As they helped him down the grand staircase of the courthouse—those towering, pompous steps he'd climbed with confidence so many times before—the sky seemed to darken. Or perhaps that was just the edges of his vision closing in.
People stood frozen. Some gasped. Others whispered.
"Is that Lucien Virelli?""Was he stabbed?""Poetic justice…""No, look—he's gonna make it."
Lucien coughed, a metallic taste rising to his tongue. But in spite of the pain, he smiled—a cracked, blood-slick grin.
Of course I'll make it, he thought. I always do.
But fate, that cruel playwright, wasn't finished with its script.
One step. Just one.
The marble was slick with rain, or perhaps with his own blood. His polished shoe met it—and betrayed him.
His foot slipped.
Time slowed.
He saw the sky flicker above, the great stone pillars spinning in his vision. The sirens seemed to fade, replaced by a low, dreadful silence.
He tumbled—down, down, down.
Each stair was a sentence. Each impact a final word.
His skull met marble with a wet crack—like thunder under deep water.
Gasps erupted. Cameras clicked in morbid unison. Someone screamed.
The medics rushed faster now, stumbling down the steps to reach him—but too late.
Lucien Virelli didn't die from the blade.
He died from the fall.
When they reached him, his eyes were still open. Wide. Staring at nothing.
Mouth parted. As if about to speak one final lie.
But there was no breath behind it.
No soul.
Only the silence of a man who had built his empire on deception, and was buried by irony.
And yet—in those final flickers of awareness, as his consciousness unraveled like thread in the wind—Lucien thought not of law, nor lies, nor clients.
He thought of stories.
Of dusty books in the orphanage. Of dog-eared light novels he devoured by candlelight, curled beneath threadbare blankets.
He remembered those tales of reincarnation. Of second chances.
Of truck-kuns and magic kingdoms. Of heroes born anew.
Maybe, he thought, maybe this is it. My reset. My isekai.
Maybe I'll wake up with a sword in my hand. Or fur on my back. Or slime for a body. Maybe I'll be the chosen one.
His eyes closed.
He breathed his last.
And then—he opened them again.
But there was no magic.
No sword.
No goddess.
Only fire.
The sky was a bleeding wound. The air was molten ash. Screams clawed through the smoke like broken violins.
He awoke on cracked earth, naked, raw, his flesh smoking as if freshly forged in flame.
Lucien Virelli had not been reborn in a fantasy world.
Not as a hero or villain. Not even as a monster.
He was in Hell.
And somehow…
…he wasn't surprised.
The flames reflected in his eyes as he sat up slowly, groaning, scorched but aware. He heard laughter—low, guttural, wrong. Eyes blinked from the shadows. Claws clicked against stone.
He breathed in sulfur and despair.
And he whispered, to no one but the fire:
"…of course."
Because deep down, he'd always known.
A man like him?
A soul like his?
This was where the road always led.
And Hell…
Hell felt like a place where he always belonged.