9. Bats, Spiders and whatever else is there.
The situation was becoming increasingly tense, and for the employees of Veildark Records, things weren't much different. Among them was the demon bat known as Lenian Bloodbite. He slept not in a bed, but as any bat might-hanging from the ceiling by his feet, cocooned in his own wings.
The room itself was modest in size but well-organized. Without a bed, the space felt open, occupied only by a desk, a cupboard filled with various items, a guitar, an old amplifier, a television attached to a stand upside down and a large window obscured by a red curtain. The walls, painted a deep red, were covered in graffiti, some random pictures and phrases written by Lenian. Scattered among the graffiti were a concert poster of the band Blade of Torment-The de band still active, though without Lenian. Once a rockstar, his fame had since faded.
Suddenly, the room was filled with the blaring sound of a rock song-his old band's hit, "Get to Hell, Walking Freaks!" The phone's ringtone shattered the quiet, stirring the bat from his slumber.
Inside his cocoon, Lenian groaned, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to ignore the noise.
"Uhmmm... Let me sleep..." he muttered groggily.
The song continued relentlessly, too loud to ignore. With a resigned sigh, he unfurled his wings and let himself drop to the floor, landing deftly on his feet. His black fur bristled while he was just in his underwear, and his face was a mix of anger and lingering exhaustion as he stood there, glaring at the source of the disturbance.
He took a deep breath and grabbed the phone. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was a call from a spider demon he worked with frequently. Groaning, he rubbed his temples before bringing the phone to his left ear.
"Do you know what time it is?" he grumbled, his voice heavy with irritation. His eyes drifted to the digital clock on his desk, which read 8:30. "It's eight-thirty in the morning, and you're calling me? You have work at ten, bro."
"Look, I know it's early, but I have a good reason for calling," Rash replied on the other end of the line. "And like you said, we don't start work until ten. I've got an hour to show you something."
Lenian sighed, already skeptical. "Let me guess... another one of your crazy inventions? Again?"
"Am I really that predictable?" Rash chuckled.
"Dude, this is the fourth time this month! And last time, I had pink fur for three days! People on the street called me bat-gut. Do you know how depressing that was?"
"Okay, okay, I get it! But this time, I swear it's not about testing paint. I've been working on something for months-something that could revolutionize the entire arms industry in hell."
Lenian raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Wait... are you making another gun?"
"No, it's not a gun. Just come over. You need to see it."
Lenian sighed again, defeated. "Alright... but this is the last time, okay?"
"That's fine by me. Same address, scrapyard at the docks in the Pentagram District. Don't be late."
Lenian ended the call, shaking his head. "Why....?" he muttered under his breath.
With that, Lenian left the room to get ready for the day, dragging himself sluggishly toward the bathroom. He lived in the Hellquiem District, sharing a two-story house with a confectioner. His room was located just above her shop-a modest living arrangement he'd managed to secure after moving to the polluted metropolis a few weeks before Veildark Records opened.
He opened the door slowly, stepping out onto a small wooden walkway that connected to a staircase leading both up and down. Opting to head upward, he ascended the creaking steps, their faint groans barely audible in the early quiet. After a short climb, he reached a locked door.
Lenian rummaged through his fur, eventually pulling out a small key. Sliding it into the lock, he turned it with a click and pushed the door open.
"Marzi, I'm coming in," Lenian muttered tiredly as he stepped into the living room.
He stopped abruptly, confusion flashing across his face as he took in the scene. The room itself appeared normal-split into a small kitchen and a cozy living space typical of a residence-but what caught his attention was the demoness sitting cross-legged on a rug in the middle of the floor. The TV was off, and the only light came from a ring of candles flickering around her.
She wore a pink dress with white and orange stripes, her pale skin as light as powdered sugar. Her orange hair, fluffy and voluminous, resembled cotton candy from a distance. Black tights and simple flats completed her outfit, complementing the firm bust outlined by the dress.
The demoness sat with her eyes closed, softly mumbling something Lenian couldn't make out.
"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, perplexed. "Marzi." He called out her name, but she didn't respond.
"Marzi," he repeated louder, still nothing.
"Marziphella!" he finally shouted, startling her.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him, blinking as though she'd only just noticed his presence.
"Oh... Good morning, Lenian. Sorry, I didn't see you there."
"What were you doing sitting in the dark surrounded by candles?"
"My therapist suggested I meditate to reduce stress. You know I can't risk accidentally sticking another customer's head..." She clasped her index fingers together sheepishly. "...in the cake batter again."
"Doesn't change the fact that it's weird," Lenian said, crossing his arms and frowning.
Marzi raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You go around sucking other people's necks, and I'm the weird one?"
"That's different, okay? I do it to survive. Besides, I don't just do it to anyone, and sometimes... I pay."
"Sometimes you pay?" she repeated, her tone dripping with amusement.
"Sometimes I pay," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
Marzi smirked, leaning slightly forward. "Is that why you're standing here in your underwear?"
"What? No, of course not-" Lenian cut himself off as he glanced down and realized, to his horror, that she was right. His face turned bright red as he frantically used his wings to cover himself.
"L-Look, can I use the bathroom?" he stammered, desperate to change the subject.
Marzi chuckled, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. "Well, it's not normal for you to be up this early, but go ahead."
With that, Lenian made his way through the house, still using his wing to cover himself. The house wasn't particularly large, but it had a distinctly opulent charm, filled with decorative objects and adorable memorabilia-a perfect reflection of Marziphella's personality. The walls, like much of Hell, were painted in a soft pink, giving the space an oddly cheerful vibe.
Finally, Lenian reached the bathroom. To his left was the door leading to Marziphella's bedroom, and directly in front of him was the bathroom door. He shuffled inside, noting how, like the rest of the house, the bathroom was meticulously organized and undeniably cute. Even with the lights off, the room seemed overly bright in a way that almost clashed with the darkness around it.
Lenian moved to the sink and grabbed his toothbrush, housed in a sleek black plastic case that stood out amidst the pastel tones. Despite the dimness, he navigated effortlessly-his impeccable hearing and echolocation allowing him to perceive his surroundings with precision. Like any bat, he relied on sound waves, frequencies so low that most demons couldn't even detect them. However, such acute hearing came with its downsides. Living in a city where industrial noise dominated the day and chaos ruled the night was a constant strain-The sounds bothered him more than his boss, who was blind and heard the same thing, even if not as accurately.
He squeezed a dab of grape-flavored toothpaste onto the toothbrush and opened his mouth wide, revealing a set of sharp, silver-like fangs that gleamed even in the faint light. With deliberate movements, Lenian began brushing his teeth, the routine as mundane as it was oddly comforting.
Afterward, Lenian stepped into the shower, letting the warm water rinse away the last remnants of sleep. Once finished, he wrapped himself in a pink towel and opened the bathroom door. Now, with the lights on, his eyes immediately caught sight of a frog sitting in the hallway, staring straight at him.
The frog was unusually large, hid yellow skin adorned with strange red symbols that stood out like tattoos. His eyes were milky white, giving it an otherworldly appearance, and atop his head was a peculiar mohawk of white hair.
Lenian froze, locking eyes with the frog. They both remained perfectly still for about ten seconds, locked in a silent standoff. Then, the frog croaked, its throat inflating and deflating dramatically.
"Good morning to you too, Grot," Lenian muttered, breaking the silence.
The frog turned without a word-or rather, without another croak-and hopped toward the kitchen.
Lenian followed, his towel still draped around him. Once in the kitchen, he went straight to the freezer and pulled out a red cooler. Setting it on the floor, he removed the lid, revealing several neatly arranged blood bags inside.
Reaching in, he grabbed one, then carefully replaced the cooler in the freezer. He took a straw from the holder on the counter, pierced the bag with it, and began drinking the blood as casually as if it were a juice box.
While drinking, Lenian noticed Marziphella leaning casually against the kitchen counter, her head resting on her arm as she watched him with a knowing look.
"So... did you manage to ask her out?" she asked, her tone teasing but curious.
Lenian froze mid-sip, nearly choking on the blood as his eyes widened.
"W-What? What are you talking about?" he stammered, trying to deflect.
"Don't play dumb with me. You think I haven't noticed? You're totally into that receptionist at the record company you work for."
"What?! No, no, no. She's just a coworker. We need to keep things professional."
"Ah, so she turned you down, huh?" Marziphella smirked.
Lenian's expression hardened, and he muttered reluctantly, "Maybe."
"I thought so." She chuckled lightly. "Look, you might know a lot about music, Lenian, but when it comes to girls? Not so much. And, let's be honest, being a vampire probably isn't doing your personal branding any favors."
As she spoke, Crot hopped onto the counter beside her. She gently stroked the frog's head, making him close his eyes in apparent contentment.
"What are you going to do? Start giving me love advice?" Lenian asked, raising an eyebrow before taking another sip of blood.
"Of course not. I'm a confectioner, not a counselor," Marziphella replied with a shrug. "And even if I were, knowing you, I doubt you'd listen to me. Face it, Lenian-you're stranded on the love boat."
"Well, at least I'm not the only one," he shot back, smirking. "Anyway, I need to head out. See you later, Marzi."
With that, Lenian left the apartment, descending the stairs to his room. Once inside, he changed into his usual attire: a snug vest, dark pants, and polished shoes. He moved to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain. The sudden brightness of the polluted city and the red-gray sky above made him wince as he instinctively shut his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened them again, allowing his vision to adjust to the dim, yet oppressive light. Tossing the now-empty blood bag into the trash, Lenian spread his large, leathery wings. With one smooth motion, he leapt out of the window, gliding into the bustling chaos of the Hellquiem district.
Lenian soared higher, gliding effortlessly over Hell's Gate City. Below him, the dense smog blurred the view of the sprawling metropolis, but faint outlines of its labyrinthine canals and towering industrial structures peeked through. Despite the pollution, the aerial perspective offered a peculiar beauty-especially in the morning light. This was the hour when the Sea of Pride's countless workers poured out of their homes, ready to face another grueling day.
Up there, the city's chaotic noise faded into silence, but the distant hum of factories persisted-a haunting echo that served as a constant reminder of the city's true nature. Hell's Gate wasn't just a city; it was a vast industrial machine, where endless production was the sole purpose, and its inhabitants were little more than cogs in the infernal apparatus.
After a few minutes of gliding through the heavy, acrid air, Lenian angled himself downward, picking up speed. As he descended, the details of his destination came into view. Nestled near the ship dismantling yards was a scrapyard-a chaotic expanse of discarded boat parts and miscellaneous junk ferried through the canals to the docks.
With a graceful landing, Lenian touched down in the middle of the scrapyard. He scanned the surroundings, which matched every stereotype of such a place: piles of scrap metal stacked haphazardly, rusty debris scattered across the muddy, reddish-brown ground, and tufts of stubborn red grass pushing through where they could. The recent rains had left some areas slick with muck, adding to the scrapyard's grimy charm.
What stood out most, however, was an open garage at the edge of the yard. It seemed oddly out of place in a city with no conventional cars. Beside it stood a dilapidated control center, its worn-out sign reading: Junkyard scrap of sin
"Rash! I'm here!" Lenian called out, scanning the scrapyard for the familiar technician.
After a brief pause, a voice echoed from atop a towering pile of scrap metal.
"I'm up here!" Rash shouted, waving all four of his arms enthusiastically.
Lenian spotted him perched on the heap, his waving arms unmistakable. "Oh, hey man. So, what's this big invention you wanted to show me?"
Rash clambered down the mountain of junk, his usual engineering overalls now even more grease-stained than the last time Lenian had seen him.
"My friend, Lenian," Rash greeted, extending his left hand.
Lenian shook it firmly, smirking as he crossed his arms. "Are you seriously still living in this scrapyard?"
"Of course! Apartments are ridiculously expensive. Here, I get quality metal and parts without having to buy-or steal-anything. That means I can actually save my money for better stuff. Plus, I live here for free. All I have to do is clean the place once a week. It's perfect."
"You must be the only demon who lives in a junkyard by choice."
"And I'm very happy with that, thank you," Rash replied with a smug grin.
Lenian rolled his eyes. "So... what groundbreaking weapon-world innovation are you dying to show me?"
"Just a second," Rash said, turning his back to Lenian. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "RB!"
After a moment, the scrapyard echoed with the sound of mechanical footsteps. Emerging from behind a pile of scrap was a Hellhound-shaped robot, sleek and sturdy, carrying a massive lever-action rifle.
The weapon was striking in both size and design. Its stock was a deep, glossy purple, with Rash's initials carefully carved into the surface. The rebated barrel, measuring an impressive 76 centimeters, gave the rifle a menacing silhouette. The base was constructed from matching purple wood, and above the barrel, a Picatinny rail gleamed under the dim scrapyard light.
Close to the rifle's trigger, a black magazine box capable of holding up to ten projectiles added a touch of modernity to its otherwise classic design. To complete its intimidating appearance, a sharp 9-centimeter bayonet was mounted at the front.
"The Hellgore rifle-is that your big reveal? Wow, Rash, truly groundbreaking. It's not like you carry that thing around all the time," Lenian quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Rash, unbothered by the comment, took the rifle from the robot's hands. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a single 7x62 bullet, loading it directly into the rifle's chamber with care.
"Come on, baby, sing for me," Rash murmured, almost reverently.
He positioned himself expertly, shoulders squared, rifle snug against his shoulder socket, and feet firmly planted. His stance was that of a professional marksman. Carefully, he aimed at a shattered television perched atop a nearby pile of scrap.
Meanwhile, Lenian continued his tirade. "But no, you drag me out of my room this early just to show me something I've already seen-"
His complaint was cut short by the deafening crack of a gunshot.
The bullet rocketed out of the barrel at incredible speed, reaching the target in less than a second. Upon impact, the television didn't just shatter-it exploded into a shower of sparks and debris.
Lenian's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. But what caught his attention even more was the eerie red smoke curling out of the rifle's barrel.
"What the hell... What was that?" Lenian asked, his confusion evident.
"The future of weapons in Hell," Rash declared with a grin. "Explosive-tip ammunition that'll be as standard as your run-of-the-mill bullets. This baby packs absurd penetration power and leaves behind almost no visible muzzle flash. What you just saw was a standard 7x62 round, but the magic lies in my invention-red gunpowder. Made in Hell, for Hell. Although I only have half a dozen of these," He stops, and a Machiavellian smile appears on his face before continuing. "This thing is highly unstable, it interacts with the sulfur in the hell air upon impact. The explosion occurs due to a controlled combustion that turns ordinary ammunition into an explosive nightmare."
Rash paused, tapping the side of his head smugly. "But don't even think about asking for the recipe. I won't tell you, or anyone, no exceptions."
"The Soviet Union really didn't do you any favors, man," Lenian said, glancing at the remains of the obliterated television.
"A lot of things shaped me, Lenian. Where I was born isn't one of them," Rash replied calmly.
The spider demon worked the rifle's lever, ejecting the spent casing. Before it hit the ground, one of his extra arms shot out and caught it mid-air.
"Most of the casings I use are handmade. Can't afford to waste them-I've got a reloading machine for that," Rash explained, inspecting the casing.
"Your meticulousness is going to be the death of you someday," Lenian remarked with a smirk.
"I'm already dead. And besides, other people's weapons are prone to failure," Rash countered confidently.
"How much confidence, " Lenian quipped, rolling his eyes.
"It's not confidence. It's faith in my craftsmanship," Rash said, brushing off the sarcasm. He then turned toward Lenian, adding, "Now let's head to the record company before we're late. RB, come here."
"I'll just fly. See you there-" Lenian began, but Rash stopped him, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder.
"RB," Rash called again.
"Yes, sir," replied the robot in its usual monotone voice.
"Lock up the place and meet us at the docks," Rash instructed, handing over control to his mechanical assistant.
"Yes, sir," the robot replied before turning to lock up the junkyard.
"We'll go on my boat, a chance to catch up." Said Rash.
Rash and Lenian began walking toward the gate, leaving behind the mountains of scrap.
"So," Lenian started, trying to make conversation, "that heavy metal band is coming back to Veildark Records. Got anything to say about that?"
Rash's expression darkened immediately. "All I have to say is if that fire-breathing lizard, sparks up in my studio again, I'm scalping him alive and turning him into the world's crappiest leather purse." He clenched his right hand into a fist while the others adjusted the rifle sling, securing it across his back.
"Your studio?" Lenian asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, my studio. I've renovated it three times and even helped build the damn place. It's practically mine-just missing my name on the deed."
"Right," Lenian shot back, smirking. "Except you didn't buy the cement, the equipment, the cables, the paint, or even the electricity. That all came out of Kain's pocket."
"Okay, fine, you've got a point," Rash admitted with a shrug, his irritation softening.
"Wait, you woke up early just to fire a single shot?" Lenian asked, turning his gaze to the spider.
"Yes."
"Idiot."
Meanwhile, a few hours later, Kain sat in his office at Veildark Records. His expression was tense, his mind clearly burdened, while Greasy snoozed peacefully in his cage which was on a hook on the ceiling of the room.
"Fuck.... Fuck.... Fuck.... Fuck.... Fuck." Kain repeated in his chair, stamping his feet on the floor tirelessly.
He brought his hands to his face.
"Seventy years... seventy years... After all this time, I've been cursed, haven't I? Hell speaks to me," Kain muttered.
For a few minutes, the room was silent, save for Kain's inner dialogue with himself. Then, the office door creaked open, and Ronnie peeked in with a cheerful expression.
"Did you call me?" he asked, grinning.
"Yes, yes, come in," Kain replied, reclining in his chair.
Ronnie stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He carried a stack of papers.
"Good timing! I brought some papers you need to sign," he said.
"For what?" Kain asked, arching an eyebrow.
"I need your legal approval to use your image for the museum. And don't even think about refusing-I've already cleared a space for it. We're turning that storage room downstairs into an exhibit. It's huge, and we never use it. We'll renovate it, fill it with memorabilia from your career. It'll be amazing!"
"You mean the room where I caught you and Claude having-"
"Yeah, yeah, that one," Ronnie interrupted quickly. "Anyway, I could be the guide at first, but eventually, we'll need to hire someone. This is going to need publicity. Your fan club will be at the door in no time. Oh, and I need to talk to Lumière. Speaking of which, can you donate your suit for the exhibit?"
"No."
"Figured you'd say that," Ronnie said with a shrug, setting the papers on the desk.
"Look, we can discuss this later. There's something more important I need to tell you," Kain said, his tone growing serious.
"Is it something that happened to one of our artists? Something I missed?" Ronnie asked, tilting his head.
"I wish it were that simple. But no, it's more complicated," Kain replied.
"Is it about the Eye Collector? Apparently, she hasn't spent a single cent of the money we gave her to leave you alone."
"It's not about that crazy woman," Kain said dismissively.
"Oh... then is it about the melody of our sins?"
"It is."
Ronnie's expression darkened as he quickly locked the door behind him. "Do you really want to talk about this with your crow here?"
"Relax, he's sleeping," Kain assured him.
"If you say so. So, what's new about it?"
"Have you seen the news? The incident yesterday at the Sea of Pride?"
"Yeah, I saw it. As far as I know, there were no survivors, and no one has any idea what caused it. Do you think the melody is connected?"
"I don't think so. I'm sure of it," Kain said, rising from his chair with a serious expression.
"This is starting to get good," Ronnie said, leaning casually against the door.
"This morning... I heard the recording on the news. They were talking about the incident," Kain said, his tone heavy.
"So, you heard that recording on TV? I didn't hear a damn thing."
"You know exactly how this sinful melody works," Kain replied, narrowing his eyes. "It can't be transmitted it's practically alive. But I heard it."
Ronnie smirked, his amusement laced with unease. "So this is how hell chose to get to you? Through a massacre on a boat? Hehehe... What are you going to do with this information?"
"I need to know more about this incident. I have to go there."
"What!?" Ronnie straightened up, alarm flashing in his eyes. "Go there? Come on, Kain, we both know that's impossible. First of all, you're famous for your voice. Even if you managed to get close to the barge-which is under the control of the gate operators-you'd be recognized instantly, even with a mask. Second, you're blind, which makes navigating the Sea of Pride almost impossible. And third... well, you're good at a lot of things, but infiltrating places? That's definitely not one of them."
"Caw..." Greasy croaked groggily, stirred awake by Ronnie's outburst.
"Look what you did-you woke up my crow," Kain said, walking over to the cage and gently cradling the bird in his arms.
"What are you guys talking about...?" Greasy mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Nothing important," Kain replied softly, stroking the bird's feathers. "Sorry for waking you up. You can go back to sleep."
"Are you sure...?" Greasy asked, his voice fading as sleep tried to claim him again.
Kain smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to the bird's forehead. "Sure."
Satisfied, Greasy lowered his head, letting his drowsiness take over. Kain carefully placed him back in the cage, hearing as the bird drifted back into slumber.
"That was really cute," Ronnie remarked with a smirk. "You treat that crow like he's your son. I've seen pet parents before, but you're on a whole different level."
"Greasy is not a pet," Kain replied, settling back into his chair. "He's a guide. Although what we really need right now is someone with the drive-and skill-to get into places, something like an investigator or an excellent journali-."
A few moments before in front of the Veildark Records label, Shadow Dusk stood in his usual attire with bandaged left arm, preparing to record a story. Next to him, his cameraman, a demon of similar height, adjusted the equipment with sluggish precision.
The cameraman's appearance was striking: his sleepy eyes hinted at exhaustion, and his form resembled that of a butterfly. His colorful wings, patterned in vibrant reds, whites, and yellows, would have been mesmerizing if not for the large hole in his left wing-reminiscent of a bullet wound. His antennas drooped down beneath a cap, and his reddish fur, speckled with white and yellow spots, seemed unkempt.
Adding to the oddity was his outfit: a faded grocery store cashier's uniform that contrasted with the vibrancy of his wings. Yet, despite his tired demeanor, his wings beat rapidly, keeping him afloat just inches off the ground, creating a gentle buzz in the air. Shadow glanced at him briefly, unbothered by the unusual sight, as he prepared to bring his latest story to life.
Shadow Dusk took a deep breath, his tail flicking nervously as he held the microphone and stood in front of the door of Veildark Records.
"Okay, I'm ready. How's the camera?" Shadow Dusk asked, holding the microphone close to his mouth.
"It's almost ready. Relax, this thing is heavier than it looks," Nezte replied, struggling as he adjusted the camera support. After a few minutes of fiddling, he hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and placed his left eye against the viewfinder. "Alright, ready. Can I start recording?"
"Just give me a second," Shadow Dusk replied, clearing his throat one last time. "Okay, you can go, Nezte."
"Recording in 3... 2... 1," Nezte announced, finally planting his feet on the ground. He pressed a button on the camera and confirmed, "Recording."
Shadow Dusk straightened his posture, his tone professional. "Good morning, everyone. My name is Shadow Dusk, and we're here in the heart of the working-class city of Hell's Gate. Today, for the first time ever, I will interview the demon known as Kain Longheart also know as the rhythm demon at his record label. And here we are, standing right in front of it. I'm confident that today will be a good day because I gave my all for this interview... Literally."
Shadow Dusk approached the door of Veildark Records, his fur catching the glow of the neon sign above, which proudly displayed the name of the label. He reached for the handle and slowly pushed the door open.
"Good morning, welcome to Veildark Recor-" Cinder Lune began to say in her usual routine, but froze mid-sentence when she realized the visitors weren't Luxuria Mundi or anyone else she was expecting. Instead, a Hellhound and a butterfly with a camera stepped inside. "What the hell..." she muttered, narrowing her eyes.
Oblivious to the receptionist's reaction, Shadow Dusk gazed around the room. "Look at this beautiful place, these red walls. And the Jazz playing in the background-really gives it a cool vibe," he said, taking in the ambiance.
His attention was soon drawn to a poster on the wall near the reception desk. "Oh, look at this!" he exclaimed, walking up to it. "This must be, what? Sixty years old? Film this, Nezte."
Nezte aimed the camera at the aged poster, practically flawless despite its age.
Shadow Dusk gestured toward it, adding, "This is the man we're interviewing today. Cool, right?"
"HEY! You can't just walk into a place and start recording without permission!" Cinder Lune snapped, glaring at the Hellhound.
"Oh, hello, I didn't see you there," Shadow Dusk replied smoothly, turning toward her with the microphone inches from his lips. "Tell me, do you work here?"
"Yes, I do," Cinder Lune said, crossing her arms. "And are you some new artist under contract that Kain forgot to mention?" she asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
"Well, I'm definitely an artist, but I'm not a musician," Shadow said with a grin. "I'm an independent journalist, and I'm here because I have an invitation to interview Kain Longheart. My name is Shadow Dusk. The one with the camera over there? That's Nezte, and he's recording us. Now," he leaned in slightly, holding the microphone closer to her, "tell me-what's it like working with a musician as famous as Kain Longheart?"
Cinder blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his forwardness, her eyes darting to the camera. "Uh... He didn't tell me about any interview. This is very suspicious."
"You can trust me, it's not a scam or anything like that, I even have a press badge." Shadow Dusk replied, taking a badge from his jacket, on which was displayed a picture of him smiling with some hellish journalist certificates.
"Okay... do you want me to let him know you're here?" Cinder Lune asked, still skeptical.
"Sure, but you still haven't answered my question," Shadow Dusk pressed.
"It's... good, I think," Cinder replied with a shrug, clearly uninterested in the conversation.
Before she could say more, Rash, the gunsmith spider demon, entered the reception area, his four arms balancing a stack of cardboard boxes. His face was completely obscured by the load, making it impossible for him to see where he was going.
All eyes turned to Rash as Nezte instinctively began filming him. Shadow Dusk's eyes widened in excitement, and he quickly strode toward the spider demon.
"Angel Dust!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing with enthusiasm as he stopped in front of Rash, whose face was still blocked by the boxes.
"What?" Rash muttered, struggling to keep the boxes steady.
"It wasn't mentioned anywhere that you'd be starting your singing career with the Rhythm Demon's record label!" Shadow said, his words tumbling out in excitement. "Tell me, what's it like working with someone like him? Is it hard to meet his vocal demands in the recording booth?" He eagerly held the microphone up to Rash's mouth.
"Angel who?" Rash replied, his tone both confused and annoyed. "Dude, you've got the wrong demon."
"How? These four arms don't fool anyone," Shadow Dusk said, squinting at Rash.
"My name is Rash," the spider demon replied with a huff. "I work here. I'm not this Angel... or whatever."
"Oh... I apologize for that. I didn't know," Shadow Dusk said, taking a step back, looking slightly sheepish.
"Whatever," Rash muttered, adjusting the boxes. "Are you some artist Kain forgot to mention?"
"He's a journalist, Rash," Cinder Lune interjected with an eye roll.
"A journalist?!" Rash's tone shifted to excitement. "Did you come to interview me because of my book?"
"No... Wait, you have a book?" Shadow asked, intrigued.
With that, Rash extended an extra arm from the stack of boxes, letting a few fall to the ground with a thud. He quickly stuffed them inside the large pockets of his engineer overalls, then used another arm to pull out a glossy hardcover book.
The cover featured Rash in an exaggeratedly sensual pose at a shooting range, his four arms holding various weapons. The title read, From Trash to Rash: The Ultimate Guide to Weaponsmithing in Hell.
Nezte adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cover for a close-up, capturing every absurd detail.
"Why are you posing sexy on the cover?" Shadow asked, tilting his head.
"Uh... well, we're in Hell, and everyone likes porn," Rash admitted with a shrug. "I figured it would sell more if I did that."
"And did it work?"
Rash hesitated, rubbing the back of his head. "It's... complicated. The book sold like crazy, but when demons realized it wasn't porn, they returned it." His voice carried a hint of embarrassment, but he quickly recovered, straightening up with pride. "But at least it's become indispensable for anyone wanting to pursue the honorable profession of gunsmithing in Hell!"
"ALL THREE OF THEM!" a voice suddenly shouted from the back of the record company.
"GO DRINK BLOOD, LENIAN!" Rash yelled back without missing a beat.
Cinder Lune picked up the phone at the reception desk, her eyes briefly flicking toward Shadow Dusk and Nezte before turning her attention to the call.
In Kain's office he is talking to Ronnie as always.
"Greasy is not a pet," Kain replied, settling back into his chair. "He's a guide. Although what we really need right now is someone with the drive-and skill-to get into places, something like an investigator or an excellent journali-."
The sharp ring of the telephone cut him off. With a sigh, Kain opened a drawer, retrieved the receiver, and placed it to his ear.
Across the room, Ronnie exhaled dramatically, stretching his arms behind his head. "Has Luxuria Mundi finally arrived? It's been a week since any musician under contract has stepped foot here... How boring."
Kain ignored him. "Cinder Lune? Oh, yes... Shadow Dusk?" His expression shifted slightly as he listened. "Let him come up." A pause, then a knowing smile tugged at his lips. "That's right. Yesterday, something happened, and he helped me a lot. Okay."
He hung up, placing the phone back on the cradle before hold his cane tightly with a wide sinister grin.
"Looks like we found our guy."
Ronnie let out a short chuckle, rubbing his temples. "And so it begins."