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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.

Chapter Text

The morning in Pentagram City never came with light—only with a dull shift in the crimson haze that passed for a sky. Within the bones of the abandoned warehouse, Loona stirred.

Her eyes opened slowly, not with weariness, but with the cold precision of someone who no longer dreamed.

She sat up from the mattress, the springs groaning beneath her weight. The concrete floor beneath her was still cold, even in Hell’s heat. Dust motes drifted in the stale air. With methodical silence, she stood, her lean figure moving through the dark like a shadow returning to form.

In a far corner of the warehouse, behind a draped curtain of worn tarpaulin, hung a single black steel mask—angular, expressionless, with glowing white slits for eyes. The mark of the White Phantom.

No one knew who she was beneath it. Not Beelzebub. Not Asmodeus. Not Stolas. The assassin with no name, no rules, no mercy.

She pulled the mask over her face. A quiet click echoed in the room as it locked in place. The world narrowed, sharpened through the white slits.

She was Loona no longer.

She crossed the warehouse floor to a reinforced steel chair that faced a rusted door—one she kept bolted from the inside at all times. Behind her, broken shelves held blades, ammunition, spare armor plates, and maps etched with blood and marker. The Phantom’s war room.

Then… silence.

She waited.

Minutes passed like centuries, until she heard it: the sound of old chains rattling loose, the floor creaking not under weight—but under presence.

The rusted door didn’t open in a bang. It didn’t creak dramatically. It simply wasn’t closed anymore.

Lucifer Morningstar stood in the doorway.

Tall, elegant, and far too clean for the world he ruled, he stepped in with the grace of an angel and the gaze of a devil who had seen eternity blink. His red suit shimmered in the dim light, his golden crown flickering with motes of pure infernal fire.

He held a single briefcase in his left hand.

“White Phantom,” he said, his voice smooth, confident. “You don’t disappoint.”

She didn’t respond. She never did.

Lucifer walked forward and placed the briefcase at her feet with the elegance of a king placing a jewel on a pedestal.

“Sloth’s Duke never saw it coming,” he continued. “Clean kill. No collateral. I’m impressed.” He paused, studying the mask, perhaps wondering who—or what—lurked behind it. “But I know better than to ask questions.” Plus not everyone gets to Be my favorite assassin and get my good graces.

Loona tilted her head ever so slightly. A motion that might have meant get out.

Lucifer grinned. “No conversation? A shame. But… expected.” He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back.

“Until next time, White Phantom.”

And just like that, he turned and vanished into the shadows beyond the door. No flare, no flash. Just gone—like he had never been there.

Loona didn’t move for several seconds. Her eyes locked on the briefcase. Then, slowly, she reached down, popped it open. Stacks of blood-red hell currency gleamed in the flickering light.

She closed it without counting.

The money didn’t matter.

The fear did.

The legend did.

The vengeance still burned. And one day, it would find its way to the ones who had taken everything from her.

One mask. One kill. One step closer.

Chapter Text

The lights of Ozzie’s club still pulsed with lust and laughter, a constant rhythm of hedonistic joy that defined the Lust Ring. Bodies danced in synchronized ecstasy, laughter echoed through the velvet-lined halls, and the air always smelled of perfume, smoke, and desire.

But Asmodeus wasn’t feeling it tonight.

He sat alone in his private booth, a tall glass of dark liquor untouched in front of him. Fizzarolli’s show was just wrapping up on stage—acrobatic, flamboyant, explosive like always—but even that didn’t bring a smile to his face.

Years had passed since that day in the Court of the Seven Deadly Sins. The day Blitzo—chaotic, reckless, loud Blitzo—had been executed. Asmodeus still remembered the way Satan loomed behind the judge’s podium, the fury in his voice, the absolute finality in his sentence. Asmodeus had tried. Gods, he had tried.

He had begged.

Spoke out, in front of the entire court. Told Satan that it was excessive, that Blitzo didn’t deserve death. That he had done nothing more than survive in a system built to crush Imps.

But Satan wouldn’t budge.

And no one else joined him.

Not Beelzebub, who looked away. Not The other sins that wanted a show , . Not the rest of the Goetia, who saw a spectacle, not a tragedy. And when the gavel fell and Blitzo said his last words , Asmodeus felt something inside him go cold.

Moxxie and Millie had somehow found a path to healing. Therapy. Closure. Maybe even forgiveness.

But Loona…

Dear Lucifer, Loona…

No one had seen her since the execution. Not at I.M.P., not in any of the rings. Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Stolas, even Octavia had joined the search. Moxxie and Millie, desperate to find the only other piece of their broken family, scoured the city.

But Loona had vanished.

Like a shadow swallowed by Hell itself.

“Babe?” Fizzarolli’s voice cut into his thoughts, soft for once, cautious. “You’re doing the thing again. The brooding thing.”

Asmodeus blinked, looking over at his boyfriend. Fizz stood beside the booth, still in costume, one eyebrow raised in concern. “You haven’t touched your drink. You never not touch your drink.”

“I’m fine, Fizz,” Asmodeus said quietly, the booming charm he wore like a mask now stripped away.

Fizzarolli slipped into the booth beside him, placing a mechanical hand on his. “No, you’re not. This is about him again, isn’t it?”

Asmodeus didn’t answer.

Fizz didn’t need him to. “You did what you could. You tried to stop it.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Asmodeus muttered. “I’m a prince. One of the Seven. And I still couldn’t stop it.”

Fizzarolli looked down, quiet for a moment. “And Loona?”

“She’s out there. Somewhere. But she doesn’t want to be found.” Asmodeus stared into his glass. “I think… I think she blames all of us.”

Fizz nodded. “Maybe she does.”

“Maybe she should.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The music continued thumping through the club, the sounds of laughter and moans echoing like mockery in the air.

Fizz leaned in close. “Do you ever think… maybe she didn’t disappear? Maybe she became something else?”

Asmodeus turned to him. “What do you mean?”

Fizz’s eyes narrowed a little, his voice lower now. “There’s been whispers. A killer. Deadly. Precise. The White Phantom. No one’s seen her face. No one even knows if it’s a her.”

Asmodeus froze.

Fizz continued, “They say she’s kills anyone and works for anyone willing to pay her and she does have a tendency of targeting corrupt nobles. Traffickers. Abusers. Anyone who profited from that trial… or stood by and watched.”

A long silence stretched between them. Asmodeus’s thoughts spun.

No. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

“She’s out there,” he said at last. “And if that’s really her… I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive us.”

Fizzarolli looked into his lover’s eyes and said gently, “Maybe she doesn’t have to.”

Chapter Text

The warehouse was quiet—dead quiet, as always. The only sound was the faint humming of the old refrigerator struggling to stay alive, like everything else in Loona’s crumbling sanctuary. She sat in a chair near her weapons table, disassembling the Pit Viper—her custom semi-auto hand cannon, sleek and matte black with a long compensator and hollow-point rounds etched with a red dot .

Then her burner phone buzzed. No name, just a number traced back to the higher circles of Hell. The Goetia.

She narrowed her eyes.

With a flick of her claw, she answered.

A sniveling, nasally voice crackled through the line. “White Phantom. I was given this contact by a… mutual associate. I—I represent a minor branch of the Goetia. We’re hosting a gala two nights from now—nobility, politics, media—and we’ve received threats. Real ones. High-level demonic cartel types.”

Loona leaned back in her chair, spinning her Pit Viper’s slide slowly in one hand. “So?” she said, voice masked and distorted by a subtle vox modulator built into her phone.

“We need protection,” the voice said. “You come highly recommended. Name your price.”

Loona hated working for the Goetia.

They wore masks of civility while walking on the broken backs of lesser demons. They clinked glasses and laughed in circles that had decided Blitzo’s fate like it was a dinner course.

But she also knew something else.

They paid very well.

And every credit they gave her brought her closer to funding the long game. The slow revenge.

“Double my standard rate,” she said flatly.

There was a pause. Then: “Accepted. We’ll wire it immediately. Meet us at the Thornspire Tower—northern district, Lust Ring. Tonight. Midnight.”

Click.

Loona stood.

The transformation began.

She crossed the warehouse to her gear rack. Her suit hung on reinforced hooks: matte-black, lightweight armor-plated tactical weave with reinforced joints and a high collar. Her mask—a cold, expressionless white face with twin eye slits that glowed faintly—went on last.

She holstered her Pit Viper at her hip and strapped two short blades to the small of her back.

The White Phantom was ready.

Outside, her bike growled to life. It was a 2024 Ducati Panigale V4 Superbike, and twice as mean as her . Crimson headlights pierced the night as she roared out of the warehouse and into the endless neon dusk of the Pride Ring.

She weaved through traffic like a ghost, splitting lanes, ignoring screams and horns. Pentagram City blurred around her, a hive of sin and secrets.

By the time she reached Thornspire Tower, the skyline had turned cruel. The building was tall, obsidian, jagged like a blade stabbed into the heart of Lust. Her contact would be waiting inside—another Goetia noble too arrogant to realize that they were dancing with a wolf in a room full of sheep.

And if this gala was a trap?

Then it would become a massacre.

But for now, the Phantom rode in silence. The mission was clear. The pay was good.

And no one—not a single soul—knew that the monster under the mask was Loona.

The abandoned daughter of a murdered Imp.

Chapter Text

The soft flicker of candlelight danced across the towering mirror in Octavia’s room, casting long shadows across satin and bone-white porcelain. She sat at her vanity, silent, her reflection staring back with distant eyes. Her dark dress—midnight black, elegant, minimal—hung from her shoulders like mourning clothes. Not that anyone in the Goetia noticed the symbolism.

They never did.

Her fingers hesitated over her eyeliner pencil. It trembled slightly.

Blitzo had always annoyed her.

He was loud, reckless, ridiculous.

But he loved her father in a way no one else ever had. And despite all the yelling and chaos, he had always tried to make her laugh. She didn’t hate him—not really. And Loona…

Loona had been a friend when Octavia didn’t have any.

They had bonded over silence. Anger. Misunderstanding. Their friendship was rare and sharp and real.

Until the Court.

Until her uncle.

Octavia’s hand clenched into a fist.

Uncle Andrealphus—the walking blizzard of smug cruelty—summoned the Seven. Claimed it was to restore “order” after Stolas’s scandal. But it wasn’t about order. It was about humiliation. About control. About punishing Stolas for loving an Imp.

Blitzo had died in chains.

Loona vanished into the shadows.

And Octavia—sweet, quiet, observant Octavia—snapped.

She still remembered the look on Andrealphus’s face when she lunged at him in the family atrium, talons bared, screaming. The way she tore into him, breaking a centuries-old table as his guards pulled her off. Her mother tried to stop her, too—only to be shoved against a wall.

For once, Octavia had let the screams come.

It took her running away and staying with Beelzebub—of all demons—for three years before she could even breathe in the same room as a Goetia again.

And now… a gala. Another parade of masks. Of lies.

And the White Phantom would be there.

The infamous mercenary. A ghost in the underworld. Deadly. Silent. Untouchable. Everyone whispered about her.

Octavia’s stomach twisted at the name.

Loona?

No. It couldn’t be.

But deep down, she hoped.

Because if it was Loona, maybe there was something left worth believing in. Maybe someone hadn’t given up like the rest of them did.

She stood, smoothing down her dress. A servant knocked on the door.

“My lady, the car is ready.”

She didn’t respond at first. Then: “Tell them I’ll be down.”

She walked past her mirror, ignoring the reflection now. Her wings twitched, her claws flexed. As she stepped into the hallway of Thornspire Tower, her mind sharpened like a blade.

If Loona—if the White Phantom—was here tonight, Octavia wouldn’t stop her.

No.

She might even help her.