Lucifer - Legacy

Prologue

Everyone has a path.

The one that was drawn before he was born. Before me. Before all of us.

Line. Straight. Clear. No curves. No questions.

You have to follow it. Silently. In accordance. As it should be.

The Council of the First is watching.

They don't just observe—they are woven into this line. Their breath is law. Their gaze is a sentence. They say: "This is how it was intended. This is how it will always be."

But I ask:

Why is my destiny not mine?

Why should I be who I was determined to be before birth, and not who I want to become?

I'm not asking for chaos.

I ask for the right to choose.

To the mistake.

To turn where, in their opinion, it is not allowed to turn.

I want to love not because I am told to, but because my heart beats in time with someone else’s breathing.

I want to create not what the system needs, but what lights a light in me.

Even if this path is crooked. Even if it is full of shadows.

Isn't this what life is?

Not a template cut out according to a pattern, but a trembling in your hands when you take the first step where no one was expecting you?

What if your rules no longer hold the world together?

What if they are no longer harmony, but a cage?

What if your sword, with which you cut down deviations, actually defends not order... but fear?

Fear that someone will dare to say:

"I am different."

"I am not like that."

"I am myself."

And then the whole system will tremble.

Not from anger.

From just one question:

What if we were wrong from the start?

Lucifer

Chapter 1

My entire adult life, I've dreamed of interviewing some great figure. For example, the president of a country or a great figure like the Pope. But even in my wildest dreams, I couldn't have imagined that I'd be interviewing Lucifer himself. Just imagine—Lucifer himself! Yes, that very same one. The Lord of the Underworld himself.

It was an ordinary autumn day, and I was trudging to the bar after work, long since expecting nothing from him. The book I'd written was gathering dust on the publisher's shelves, and I'd given up hope that anyone would call with a publication offer. After a couple of glasses of whiskey at the bar, I was heading home. I was walking down the dimly lit street, lost in my thoughts, when suddenly my gaze caught a lone man on the other side of the road. He looked to be in his early thirties. Dressed entirely in black, he looked gloomy yet stylish. It felt like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And for some reason, I couldn't just glance at him, as I usually do when I'm walking down the street and don't care about the people passing by. But there was something enigmatic, even mystical, about him. Oh, if I'd known then who he really was, I might have passed by as quickly as possible—or even run away as fast as I could. But everything happened as it was supposed to.

I slowed my pace, continuing to watch the man in black. He was crouched at the edge of the road, the dim light of the lantern falling on him, creating a luminous aura around him. No one was asking for help, and, really, I should have been thinking about my own safety. But I couldn't pass him by—I was literally just a few steps away from turning the corner and losing him forever. Stopping and hesitating for a moment, I let a passing car pass and quickly crossed the road. The man was sitting a few meters away from me. He looked down and didn't even look up as I approached.

“Hello,” I said to him, trying to get his attention.

Raising his head, he looked at me calmly and piercingly, as if he had looked straight into my soul.

“Good night,” he replied coldly, turning his gaze back to the asphalt.

"Do you perhaps need some help?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the stranger.

"Are you really willing to help, meeting me for the first time and having no idea who I am?" the stranger asked without looking up.

These words made me feel a little uneasy. What if he's some kind of killer or maniac? I hadn't even considered that. It was stupid, but that's exactly what I thought at the time. How wrong I was... Or was I? I can't answer that question alone, but I'll try to tell you the craziest story of my life.

"I'll be with you tomorrow at midnight. Get some ink and paper ready," the stranger added, still not even looking up at me.

After these words, he pulled something out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. Picking it up, I realized it was a business card. It was completely black, and it had just one word on it. Trying to make out what it said, I turned it over in my hands, trying to catch the light from the nearest street lamp. Unable to believe my eyes, I read it again. Embossed in gold letters was the name: Lucifer .

Slowly turning my gaze away from the golden letters, I wanted to look at the person who had given me this business card. But there was no one in front of me.

"What the hell was that? Probably some psycho," I thought, shrugging.

Not understanding what had happened, I put the business card in my pocket and wandered home.

Morning.

The bright rays of the morning sun and that damned alarm clock jolted me awake. I had to meet with yet another publisher and present my new book. But first, strong coffee and a contrast shower. I needed to get myself together. Standing in the shower, I thought about last night's meeting: "Okay, Lucifer, let's say." While I was thinking about it, my thoughts stubbornly wandered off: "I'll think about that later."

The day passed quickly. Another publisher sent me packing. Returning home, I wondered what to do with my book. I needed to find a new publisher. After sitting at the computer all day, I didn't notice how night had fallen. Hungry, I went into the kitchen. It was a quarter to twelve. I thought again about that strange man: "He said he'd come to see me at midnight? Should I get paper and ink ready? This is all very strange, of course, but I wasn't planning on sleeping just yet. We'll see what happens."

At exactly midnight there was a knock on the door. To be honest, I was a little taken aback.

At that moment, I knew perfectly well who was standing behind the door—the same stranger I'd met that night. I had no doubt about it. I opened the door. There he stood—a tall, dark-haired man with dark-brown eyes, strong features, and a small beard . His broad shoulders and lean build matched his height, just over 180 centimeters. He was dressed entirely in a black suit, a shirt with the top button undone, and shiny patent leather shoes. But the most important thing about him was his gaze. His eyes seemed to pierce right through you. If you were to experience this for yourself, you would immediately understand what I mean.

“Good night, Klim,” the stranger greeted me in a calm and cold tone.

I seemed petrified, silently staring at the night visitor. My first thought: "How does he know my name?"

"Perhaps you'd like to invite me in?" he asked with a slight grin, looking into my eyes.

“Of course, come in,” I answered, coming to my senses, pointing inside with my hand.

Can you imagine my surprise? To say I was shocked would be an understatement. A whole gamut of questions began to form in my head: “How did he know where I live? How does he know my name? And who is he really? Could he really be that Lucifer—the devil?”

“Don’t worry, it’s really me,” he answered calmly.

"Excuse me?" I asked, turning my gaze to the guest's face.

"You just thought, 'Is he really Lucifer?' Well, I tell you, yes, it is me," he replied, grinning in my face again.

"This simply can't be happening, this must be a dream," I thought. "I must have dozed off." At that moment, I decided so. But literally the moment this thought arose in my head, it was shattered by Lucifer's answer:

"I assure you, this is definitely not a dream. And everything that's happening now is as real as it gets."

“But you understand, this is simply absurd,” I answered, the first thing that came to mind.

"Not at all. You exist, right? Then why shouldn't I exist too?" he asked, walking into the living room.

I followed him. After looking around the room, his gaze settled on an old vintage armchair in the corner. Honestly, I'd long forgotten about it. I never liked it, but the landlady forbade me from touching her things, so I simply dragged it to the corner.

"Can I sit down?" Lucifer asked, turning to me and gesturing toward the chair.

“Yes, I’m sorry, of course,” I replied, confused that I hadn’t offered to sit down myself.

Against the backdrop of my apartment with its old furniture and yellowed wallpaper, Lucifer seemed like something alien, something that shouldn’t be there.

A tense silence fell over the room.

"I'm curious, what do you want from me?" I asked, turning my gaze to the guest.

“I think you’d better sit down,” he replied, looking at me intently.

Once I was seated, Lucifer continued:

“I think we have a lot in common,” he said, then fell silent.

"What could I possibly have in common with the devil himself?" I thought, but I didn't argue. I waited silently for him to say more.

"Yesterday, when you approached me and offered to help, I allowed myself to look into your past. Imagine how surprised I was to see how much we were alike," he concluded.

A subtle hint of surprise flashed in his eyes.

"But what could an ordinary, worthless writer-journalist have in common with Lucifer himself? Who are you? And who am I?" I blurted out, unable to contain myself.

"I suggest we switch to informal 'you,' if you don't mind?" he replied, interrupting the growing barrage of questions in my head.

“Yes, perhaps that would be easier,” I agreed, after which I fell silent.

"You, like me, are broken. You're searching for your place in this world. Isn't that right?" Lucifer asked, not taking his eyes off me.

"We have more in common than you can imagine. Be patient—you'll soon understand what I'm talking about," he added, rising from his chair.

I remained silent, listening attentively to his every word. Just imagine—I'm having a conversation with the devil himself. Impressive, right?

Oddly enough, I was completely calm. Anyone else would have at least started to worry. But it didn't even occur to me at the time. Now, looking back on that evening, I realize I had almost nothing to lose. I had a few written books, a laptop, a cell phone, an old car, and a couple of old rags.

"And yet, why do you need me? Sorry, we're already on first-name terms. How can I help you?" I asked, losing my composure again.

"In recent years, I've begun to think about what legacy I'll leave behind. And a few years ago, I had an idea—to tell people the truth," he replied, walking to the window.

Silence fell over the room again.

"I suggest you write a story about Lucifer. Not the one everyone knows, but the one I really am," he said, turning to me.

"But why me? I'm not as talented as other writers. I haven't even sold a single book," I asked, surprised by the answer.

Lucifer just chuckled.

"You know, I've made many mistakes in my long life. But I'm certain that you're the one who should write my story. As you people say, one hundred percent," he replied, taking a few steps toward me.

"But what will it cost me?" I asked, thinking that any deal with the devil usually doesn't bring anything good.

"Nothing for you. But I'll owe you a favor," he replied, holding out his hand in front of me.

A single favor from Lucifer himself in exchange for writing a story about him? You can't even imagine how many thoughts flashed through my head at that moment. And I believed him. After all, it wasn't me who asked for the favor—it was him. Lucifer himself would be indebted to me, a mere mortal. Even now, analyzing it, I find it hard to believe. But, looking ahead, I'll say this: he didn't lie. As it turns out, he never lied to anyone.

“I agree,” I replied, after which I stood up and shook his hand.

At that moment, something magical happened. No, there were no flashes of light or fire. But the feeling of a deal struck through us both, connecting us with an invisible thread. It was simply impossible to break.

“As I understand it, you’re not prepared,” Lucifer said, glancing at the desk.

“You, that is... You understand that it was difficult to believe that you were actually the one...” I began to justify myself, feeling more and more awkward.

"I understand everything. I'm just stating a fact. I wouldn't believe it either if I were you," he replied, smiling at me.

"You don't have to use ink and paper to write things down. You can type everything on your computer these days," I suggested, glancing at the laptop on the desk.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like it to be ink and paper,” he replied coldly.

I didn't argue—it was obvious it was important to him. I simply nodded silently.

“Well, that’s what we agreed on,” he added, smiling.

“When do you want to start?” I asked.

A question immediately popped into my head: "What if he says now? Where will I get ink at night?"

"There's no need to worry about that now. I think we'd better put it off until tomorrow," Lucifer replied, apparently reading my thoughts again.

"Excellent. I'll be ready tomorrow," I replied with relief, as if a weight had been lifted from my soul.

“Then see you later,” he said, extending his hand to me again.

“See you later,” I replied, shaking his hand.

Then he disappeared, and I was alone again, with only a few specks of dust swirling around the dimly glowing table lamp.

I didn't even offer him tea; it felt really awkward. I definitely need to be better prepared for the next meeting, I thought then.

For about another hour, looking at the ceiling, I thought about what had happened, until I fell asleep.

Chapter 2

I woke up early in the morning. As always, my sleep was interrupted by the annoying alarm clock, which has been waking me up at the same time for several years now. Even though I was an unemployed loser at the time, I still stuck to my self-created rules: getting up at the same time, maintaining hygiene, eating breakfast. I always keep everything organized and have its place. For example, my keys or watch always lie on the same shelf, and even the place on the shelf is always specific. The same goes for other things. Some might say this is silly, but for me it's always been important. In my defense, I can say that even if you woke me up at three in the morning, I'll always tell you where this or that thing is. Did my own pedantry irritate me? Of course. But I could never do otherwise.

In those days, money was tight, so I took any part-time job I could get. Sometimes I worked as a loader, sometimes I repaired computers. I never shied away from work, no matter what, as long as it paid. In those days, I worked unofficially at a small computer repair shop on the outskirts of town, where every morning began not only with repairing equipment but also with a quiet exchange of stories with customers. This place, filled with the soft light from the screens and the quiet hum of the fans, became a refuge for me, and each order a small challenge, requiring not only technical skill but also the soul invested in the work.

Working amidst the dust and wires, I felt like a kind of mechanic of small hopes. Clients came here with problems that seemed to reflect their own personal struggles: weariness from endless failures or the unexpected joy of unexpected success. And although many of them were far from ideal, their stories, told in short fragments, gave my existence some meaning.

Every repair—whether reviving a long-forgotten computer or replacing a burned-out processor—was perceived as a quiet victory over the chaos that confronted my outer and inner worlds. Paradoxically, it was precisely in this apparent chaos of technology that I found order, akin to a morning ritual: no matter how unpredictable the events outside, an unshakable system always remained within me. I'd been on first-name terms with computers since childhood. While my peers played games, I studied them inside and out. Especially since it came easily to me, as if an invisible thread led me to the solution of the problem. Apparently, this is how a person's predisposition or talent for something works.

Okay, what was I talking about?

Having made breakfast, if I remember correctly, it was fried bacon and eggs, and of course, coffee with milk and two teaspoons of sugar. Some might think it wasn't so bad, and they'd be right. But let me clarify – that day, the fridge contained only one slice of bacon, two eggs, and half a bottle of milk. True, it could have been worse. But you always want more, no matter what you have at the moment.

Fifteen minutes after breakfast, I started the engine of my old beige Citroen CX, a 1985 model. I still love this old wreck. So much is tied to this car—we've been through ups and downs together, but it's always remained faithful. Even if something broke down, this old fastback always got me where I needed to go. In a word, it's a legend.

I was driving to work, thinking about yesterday's meeting. I absolutely had to remember to buy ink and paper. It was strange that he insisted on it. But apparently it was important to him. And anyway, I didn't imagine him like this at all. Where was the merciless gaze, in which one could discern only hatred for all that exists? Where were the horns? The hooves? Or maybe he simply transformed himself so that I wouldn't be frightened by his true appearance? The questions in my head multiplied at the speed of light. I didn't even notice how I arrived.

That day, the first customer was a regular, Maria Nikolaevna. She was a history teacher at one of our city's secondary schools. Not a single person had a negative word to say about her. She was a true teacher—a person who truly taught children. She always looked at problems from both sides, trying to understand both sides of a conflict and get to the root of the problem.

“Good morning, Klim,” she greeted as soon as she entered the service center.

“Hello, Maria Nikolaevna,” I answered with a smile, looking at her.

I was always glad to see her. After all, there are very few kind and honest people like her left in our time.

"What happened to you this time?" I asked, already anticipating her answer.

"Oh, Klim, I'm stuck with this newfangled technology again. The kids gave me a tablet, but they didn't really explain how to use it. Maybe you could tell me how to install the necessary programs?" she began, reaching for something from her large purse.

“Well, show me what you have there,” I answered, smiling.

Within moments I had all the necessary applications installed.

"How are you? How are your books?" asked Maria Nikolaevna, sitting down in an empty chair.

We've always had a warm relationship, ever since my school days. She was always interested in how I was doing and what was going on in my life. You know, not just for show, but genuinely. This woman always worried about me, even though she had three children of her own and five grandchildren.

"Yes, it's the same as always. No one needs them but me. Another publisher turned me down. I guess I'm not much of a writer," I replied, continuing to set up my tablet.

"Well, there's no need to be so self-critical. I've read a lot of books. And believe me, people will talk about you. Your books have soul. And that's the most important thing. By the way, you're one of my favorite authors," she replied, smiling at me.

"Thank you, Maria Nikolaevna. You've always been kind to me," I replied, a little embarrassed.

“Let’s have some tea instead,” I added after him, wanting to change the subject.

"Thank you, Klim. It would be my pleasure," the woman replied, then began rummaging through her bag. "I just happen to have some pastries with me," she added, pulling out a plastic bag containing eclairs.

These were my favorite pastries. I've loved éclairs since childhood, but what about Maria Nikolaevna's choux pastries? Believe me—not every renowned chef can make something like this. A few minutes later, we were drinking tea, devouring what were arguably the best éclairs in the world. The tablet was ready.

After we finished our tea and said goodbye to Maria Nikolaevna, there was a brief pause—a moment of silence, when nothing in the room could be heard except the steady hum of the old system unit's cooler . I sat at my desk, sorting through my tools, thinking about her words: "Your books have soul." It was warm. Very warm. For too long, I'd heard the same things: "Irrelevant," "Uninteresting," "We don't see commercial potential." And then, someone who seemed to have no need to support me at all was saying something completely different. And it stung.

Maybe it's not me? Maybe the market has become too flat to accept anything real? I looked at the monitor, where a client's laptop diagnostic was unfinished, and suddenly realized I was tired—not physically, but emotionally. That's what happens when everything around you starts to feel like a vicious cycle: money, work, rejections, more work. And there's no light at the end of the tunnel—only a faint flicker of hope that you keep alive yourself, like a candle in a window.

My thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the door. It swung open, admitting a tall figure in a suit. A man. About forty, maybe a little older. His face was pale, almost gray, as if he hadn't seen the sun in a long time. His eyes were attentive, cold, but not malicious. More like those of a man who had already made up his mind about you before you even spoke.

“Are you a master?” he asked.

I nodded, automatically switching into customer service mode.

— What do you have?

He pulled an old laptop out of his bag—it must have been at least ten years old. Its gray case, scuffed at the corners, bore the barely noticeable logo of a long-forgotten brand on the lid.

"I need to recover data. Important files—documents," he said, pausing between each word, as if checking to see if he understood.

"It's possible if the hard drive isn't physically damaged. I'll try to restore it. But I'll warn you right away—there's no guarantee."

He nodded, not taking his eyes off me.

"Do your best. I'll be in your debt," the man added in a calm tone.

As soon as I picked up the laptop, I felt something strange—not physical, but an internal tension. Like touching something wrong. As if this laptop held more than just information.

“Is it yours?” I asked, pointing to the laptop.

“Yes,” he replied, taking an envelope from his inside pocket and placing it on the table.

"There will be a separate fee for the results. A high one," he added, looking me in the eye again.

I didn't rush to open the envelope. Rather, I studied the client himself. He was different from the others. Not anxious, not desperate. He was confident. As if he knew I would agree. As if he knew I would do it even if I wasn't paid for it.

“How much time do I have?” I asked, putting the laptop aside.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, at the same time,” the stranger answered calmly, after which he turned around and left as suddenly as he had appeared.

The door creaked, a little dust rose from the threshold, and I was alone again. Glancing at the envelope, I picked it up. It felt like there was definitely more than one bill in it. Opening it, I saw about a dozen bills with Uncle Franklin's portrait. At that moment, I caught my breath. Just a moment ago, I hadn't known if I'd even have dinner today—I only had a few coins left in my pocket. That would probably buy me a mediocre bun at some subway diner.

I counted the money—ten hundred-dollar bills. Neatly folded, with a faint scent of old paper and something else… Perfume, maybe? I'm not sure.

Hundreds of thoughts flashed through my head: "Is this a joke? A mistake? Maybe I'll wake up now?" But no—everything was real, even the warmth of the bills in my palms—everything was too real.