Chapter Text
In the shadowed heart of Pentagram City, deep within the Pride Ring, an old warehouse sat forgotten—weather-worn and broken down by time and Hell’s eternal rot. But inside, a legend stirred.
Loona, once just a receptionist for I.M.P., now moved like a ghost through the underbelly of Hell’s elite. The warehouse she called home was a decaying testament to her refusal to let go of the past. Rusted beams creaked in the night wind, cracked windows let in the glow of sin-neon from the city beyond, and the air always carried a slight stench of oil, blood, and regret.
Her bed was an old stained mattress, thrown over cracked concrete. Her kitchen appliances looked like they were relics from the First Fall—fridges with doors that barely closed, burners that groaned before sparking to life. Her washer and dryer screeched like tortured souls, yet somehow kept spinning. The bathroom’s tiles were chipped and grime-covered, the mirror long since cracked, reflecting only fractured versions of herself.
But none of that mattered to Loona.
She was the White Phantom now—Hell’s deadliest bodyguard and assassin. Her name was whispered in clubs, in back alleys, and in boardrooms. Clients paid a fortune for her services. Rivals learned to fear the glint of her blade and the silence that followed.
Yet no money, no job, no spilled blood could dull the grief or the rage.
It had been years since Blitzo was taken. Publicly executed in the grand Court of the Seven Deadly Sins. She could still hear the mockery of the crowd, the laughter of the powerful. But above all, it was the silence of those who could’ve helped that echoed the loudest.
Beelzebub, her so-called friend, had smiled at her in public, danced at parties with her, toasted to hellborn rights. But when it mattered? She looked away.
Asmodeus, who screamed for justice in club speeches and funded campaigns, had bowed his head and said nothing.
And Stolas… Stolas had come too late to do anything , eyes solemn, but still. Always still. Not even a whisper of protest. Not even a flick of defiance. The prince with power who did nothing.
Loona hated him the most.
Each time she saw his face on those opulent posters in Lust or Wrath, she imagined his throat beneath her claws. She imagined the pain. The fear. And she wanted to give it all back to him, tenfold.
Now, as she lay on the old mattress, arms behind her head, one leg lazily thrown over the other, her crimson eyes stared at the rotted ceiling above. Her body ached, not from wounds—she barely felt those anymore—but from the weight of survival.
Tomorrow, Lucifer Morningstar himself was coming. Not just any client—the Morningstar. He wanted to meet her in person, to pay her for the last hit: a corrupted Duke of Sloth who had stepped too far out of line.
She didn’t care about the fame. Let the circles whisper her name. Let them wonder how an abandoned, half feral forgotten hellound had become the apex predator of the assassin world.
They didn’t know what loss did to someone like her.
They didn’t know the cold drive of vengeance.
But they would. Soon enough.