Cameraman Never Dies

The luxurious hallway of the hotel's second floor was eerily empty, except for one solitary figure: Lucifer. His black frock coat swayed slightly as he pulled a mask from within its folds— a plain mask, utterly featureless, save for two unsettling dark spots where the eyes should be and a deeply creepy smile stretching across the bottom.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, eyeing the mask like it was a questionable dish at a fancy buffet. "Nothing says 'trustworthy' like dressing like a deranged mime."

After securing the mask over his face, he hesitated for a split second, then knocked lightly on the door. As if rehearsed, he took a step back, standing like he was posing for a sinister portrait.

From the other side, a steady, feminine voice rang out. "Who is it?"

Lucifer froze. His mind raced, not with ideas but with a big, fat nothing. Your master will guide you, he told himself, though said master was more of the "throw you into the deep end and see if you swim" type. Bracing himself, he decided to wing it.

"Your husband's contact," he said smoothly, surprising even himself with the lack of stuttering. Confidence: check. Truth: not so much.

After a tense moment, the door creaked open just a crack. A woman in a red and black dress stepped into view. Her expression was what one might call "aggressively unwelcoming." If her face could talk, it would say, "You're not welcome, but if you have cash— or illegal substances— I might reconsider."

Lucifer, unbothered, slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. He gave a slight bow, a move that probably belonged in a ballroom rather than this tense encounter. "Good evening, Ma'am Rivet," he said, straightening up. "I am Lucifer."

Isadora stepped aside with a huff, as if to say, Sure, do your little theater act, stranger. She plopped onto the edge of the bed, her posture radiating exhaustion and suspicion. "Lucifer," she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's… original."

"It's my codename," Lucifer said, settling himself into a nearby chair with the ease of a man who owned the place. "A title bestowed upon me by my lord— Lucifer, the sin of pride."

Isadora raised an eyebrow so high it practically left her face. "Uh-huh. And your real name?"

Lucifer paused dramatically. "I don't think you have the qualifications to hear that," he said, folding his hands as if he were discussing stock prices.

This was the verbal equivalent of pouring oil onto an already raging fire. Isadora's face turned a shade of red that perfectly matched her dress. "You smug little— !" She punched the bed with enough force to make it creak. "First my husband keeps secrets from me, and now you? What is this? The secretive boys' club of Eldris? I'm his wife, not some random nosy neighbor!"

"I don't serve Noel Rivet," Lucifer said, his voice calm, like he was discussing the weather. "My master has other concerns. But yes, Noel instructed me to ensure your safety. Nothing more, nothing less."@@novelbin@@

"Safety!" Isadora shot to her feet, her voice cracking with frustration. Tears welled up in her eyes, though whether from anger or sadness, even she couldn't tell. "Why do all of you act like I'm some fragile vase that'll shatter if someone so much as sneezes near me? I'm not a liability! I can help! Just tell me what's going on!"

Lucifer sat in silence, letting her rant echo around the room. Finally, when the storm of words subsided, he spoke. "You're free to think whatever you like," he said with the emotional detachment of a brick wall. "But I'm afraid you won't be leaving this room until your husband returns. Or until the two-day protection period is over."

Isadora glared at him, her frustration boiling over. But deep down, she knew arguing with him was as productive as yelling at a locked door. She sank back onto the bed, her mind racing.

Why here? Why this hotel room? she wondered, biting her lip. Noel could've just kept me at the house if it's about safety. And what's with this guy— Lucifer? He's not even pretending to care. Is this some twisted game?

She tried to piece it all together. A shapeshifter, Noel had said. But if that were true, how could he trust this guy? Could he be the shapeshifter? What if—

Her thoughts spiraled further into suspicion and doubt until she shook her head violently. Stop overthinking. He wouldn't do this to me. Would he?

After a few moments of silence, Lucifer tilted his head. "Say," he asked, his tone light as if they were chatting about dinner plans, "you calmed down a bit?"

Isadora shot him a glare that could've melted steel. "Barely," she snapped, but her tone lacked bite. She was exhausted from her own internal monologue.

Lucifer nodded sagely. "Good. Want a cigar?" He pulled out a sleek case and popped it open, revealing neatly lined cigars that smelled faintly of expensive spices.

Isadora blinked, caught off guard. "A… cigar?"

"Yeah," Lucifer said casually. "They're great for stress. Or so I've heard. Personally, I just like looking sophisticated."

"You're unbelievable," she muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

Lucifer grinned— well, his mask did the grinning for him. "That's what they all say."

Isadora sighed, leaning back on the bed. "Fine. Hand it over. If I'm stuck here with you, I might as well smoke."

"Now we're talking." Lucifer tossed her a cigar and lit it with a flick of his lighter. He leaned back, puffing his own cigar like he was at a rooftop party. "So, how's life?"

Isadora nearly choked on her first puff. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Why not? We've got time to kill. And you seem like someone with a lot on her mind."

"You don't say," she muttered, rolling her eyes. But before she realized it, she was ranting again. "Life's been… frustrating, okay? Noel used to tell me everything. Now it's all 'classified' this and 'don't worry about it' that. I swear, if I hear 'it's for your safety' one more time, I'll scream."

Lucifer nodded, his mask's permanent smile somehow looking smug. "Classic husband behavior. Keep the wife in the dark, then act surprised when she's mad."

"Exactly!" Isadora said, pointing her cigar at him. "Wait— why am I agreeing with you?"

"Because I'm right," Lucifer said with a shrug. "Also, because deep down, you know he's just trying to protect you. Even if he's going about it like a complete idiot."

Isadora stared at him, her frustration slowly giving way to a grudging smirk. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," Lucifer said, taking another puff.

For a moment, the two sat in relative silence, the tension in the room easing slightly. Read new chapters at My Virtual Library Empire

"You know," Lucifer said after a while, "if it makes you feel better, I'm not exactly thrilled about this gig either."

"Really?" Isadora said, raising an eyebrow. "Babysitting not your thing?"

"Not when the 'baby' punches beds and yells about being a liability," Lucifer quipped.

Isadora snorted, despite herself. "Fair point. But don't think this means I like you."

Lucifer placed a hand over his chest dramatically. "Perish the thought, ma'am."

———

Hawthorne: "Perish the thought, ma'am," Judge wrote on the scroll, pausing to nod in approval at the tone. Beneath it, he added, Isadora: "Could you stop calling me that? It's getting uncomfortable. Call me Isadora; that's more comfortable."

Judge leaned back, eyeing the parchment like a chef inspecting a dish. "Not bad, not bad. Prideful but not overbearing. The man's practically glowing with self-love here. Clio would be proud. Or maybe not, considering I'm turning her gift into the world's weirdest puppet show."

He sighed and picked up his pen again. The skill of Scriptwriting was a blessing and a curse. Sure, it let him steer reality with a few well-chosen words, but it also meant hours of perfecting dialogue. It wasn't enough to write the scene— every line had to resonate with the characters' personalities. And Lucifer? He was prideful with a capital P. If Lucifer walked into a room and tripped, he'd blame the floor for not bowing to his presence.

"Alright, prideful and smooth. No groveling allowed," Judge muttered as he scribbled the next line. Hawthorne: "Your discomfort pains me, Isadora, but who am I to deny a lady her preferences?" He grinned. "Now that's the kind of guy who probably admires his reflection before saving someone."

The truth was, this script had to be flawless, and this was not cutting it. Lucifer and Isadora's interactions needed to feel natural, even though every word was Judge's design. If the plan worked, Isadora would start to trust Lucifer, and Lucifer's pride would make him play along without even realizing it. A two-for-one deal.

Reworking the dialogue, Judge spoke aloud to test the flow. "Hawthorne: I've been told I'm overly formal. You're lucky— I'm making an exception."

"Isadora: Lucky? Oh, please." He paused, considering. "Yeah, that works. Let's add a smirk for good measure."

By the time he finished, the script was polished, and Lucifer's pride practically oozed from every word. Judge leaned back with a satisfied grin. "Not bad. All I need now is for the real Lucifer to not trip over his own ego while delivering these lines, not that he can."

He returned his attention to the drama that was unfolding as per his script.