"I still don't get why your mom named you Lucifer," she said, tilting her head with a teasing smirk. "Like—seriously? It's so edgy."
The late afternoon sun spilled through the wide windows of the rooftop café, catching the sparkle in her eyes. Francisca William. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Mixed African-Asian, born and raised in the fast, glittering heart of New York City—the Empire City itself.
She leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, twirling a straw between her fingers. Her skin was a warm golden-brown, smooth and glowing under the sunlight. Long black hair framed her face in soft curls, with streaks of caramel brown near the ends—probably done just last week on a whim. Her eyes were sharp, cat-like, with that playful glint that screamed trouble.
She wore a cropped hoodie that didn't try too hard, ripped jeans, and sneakers too clean to be from the streets—designer, obviously. But she didn't act like one of those "rich girl" types. Nah, Francisca was chaos in human form. Mischief lived in her smile, and sarcasm was her second language.
"You know, if I didn't know you, I'd swear you were about to start a cult or something," she added, nudging Lucifer's arm with her elbow. "Dark cloak. Candle circles. Chanting Latin under a blood moon. The whole vibe."
Then she laughed—light, quick, like wind chimes in a storm.
"Lucifer. Seriously."
The boy beside her let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his black hair. It was messy, in that effortless cool way that looked like he didn't care—but totally worked for him. His skin was a deep, warm brown, smooth and clear, with a small scar cutting across his left eyebrow. His eyes, though—those were the real kicker. Crimson red, sharp but calm, like he saw way more than he let on.
"You should ask her yourself," he said, voice low, a little tired. "Oh wait… we don't even know if she named me. Or who she even was."
He smiled, but there was a flicker of something sad behind it. It passed quickly—gone like a cloud over the sun.
"But hey," he said, straightening up with a grin, "tomorrow's the big day. College life. I bet you're hyped."
Francisca turned to him, eyes lighting up like stars. "Hyped? Please, I'd trade my whole closet just to get out of that house for good."
She leaned forward on the table, her curls bouncing. "Being the heir of the William family sounds cool and all, but it's just constant pressure. Expectations. Image. One wrong move and it's on the news or some gossip page. At least in college, I can be me, even if it's just for a little while."
Then she looked at him—her best bud, her partner-in-chaos since they were kids.
"But enough about me," she said, grinning. "You actually made it in with a scholarship. Mr. I-Don't-Rely-On-Anyone is really living the dream, huh?" She mimicked his serious voice dramatically, making her own eyes go half-lidded. "'Hard work over handouts, Francisca.'"
That broke them both. They burst into laughter, loud and unfiltered.
"You've got to stop doing that," Lucifer said, chuckling. "You don't even sound like me."
"You don't sound like you," she shot back.
He laughed again, then leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the sky. The clouds rolled lazily by, like they had all the time in the world.
His smile faded, just a little.
He remembered.
He was six when the William family found him. Wandering the streets. No name, no home. Just another orphan in the city no one looked twice at. Until they did.
They took him in—not out of pity, but for their daughter. Francisca had always been quiet, withdrawn. Lonely in a house full of wealth and noise. So when they saw him, scrappy and curious, something clicked.
They brought him home.
And that little moody girl? She ended up becoming his whole world.
12 YEARS AGO
The rain was pouring hard that day. The streets of Brooklyn were slick, the lights from passing cars reflecting in puddles like scattered stars. A small boy stood under a flickering streetlamp, drenched, shivering, but not crying.
He just stared up at the sky, as if it owed him an answer.
His clothes were torn, too big for him. His hands were tucked under his arms for warmth, but his eyes—those red eyes—were wide open, alert, taking everything in. No fear. Just… waiting.
That's when the black car pulled up.
The door opened. A tall man in a clean, dark coat stepped out, followed by a woman with sharp eyes and perfectly done hair. They didn't look like people who usually stopped for kids like him.
But they did.
The woman leaned down and looked straight into his eyes. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
He blinked at her, then shrugged. "Lucifer."
The man glanced at the woman. "He's alone."
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Let's bring him."
The boy didn't resist. Just climbed in like it was the most normal thing in the world.
When he got to the mansion—their mansion—it was like walking into a different world. Everything smelled clean and expensive. The marble floors. The velvet curtains. He didn't even know houses could be that big.
And then he met her.
Francisca.
She was tiny, just five years old, sitting cross-legged on the living room couch in oversized pajamas. She stared at him like he was some kind of weird animal. Then, without a word, she slid off the couch, walked right up to him, and poked his forehead.
"You look like a cat," she said seriously. "A wet one."
He blinked.
She blinked back.
Then she smiled.
"You can sit next to me."
And that was that.
---
BACK TO PRESENT
Lucifer shook the memory off, lips curling into a soft smile. "You were weird, even back then."
Francisca raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me? Says the boy who thought sleeping in a closet was totally normal."
"It was quiet," he said with a shrug.
She rolled her eyes and threw a crumpled napkin at him.
The wind picked up on the rooftop, brushing against their faces. New York stretched out beneath them—loud, alive, endless. Tomorrow, everything would change. New campus. New people. New stories.
But tonight? It was just them.
Just like always.