Devereux Tower looked different up close.
From a distance, it was just another arrogant line in the skyline, a mirrored blade cutting the clouds. Standing on the sidewalk in front of it, Selena felt small enough to fit between the cracks in its marble steps. The glass façade rose and rose, reflecting a distorted Seraph City back at itself—lights stretched thin, people reduced to streaks of motion.
The revolving doors turned in steady, endless loops.
People in suits slipped in and out like the building was inhaling and exhaling them.
Selena wiped her damp palms on her jeans.
She did not belong here.
Her hoodie made that clear. So did the scuffed sneakers, the overstuffed backpack, the way her eyes kept counting polished tiles on the floor instead of looking like she knew where she was going.
Forty minutes, he'd said.
Her phone read 7:29 p.m.
Her landlord's deadline ticked closer with every second she spent staring at the doors. The urge to run back to the bus stop pressed behind her ribs, hot and panicky.
Instead, she stepped forward.
The revolving door swallowed her. For a heartbeat, she saw herself reflected in curved glass from three angles at once: girl, girl, girl, all of them out of place.
Then she was inside.
The lobby was too bright, the kind of white that felt expensive.
Light spilled down from a high, vaulted ceiling, catching on the metal ribs of an abstract sculpture in the center—interlocking silver lines that almost, if she squinted, looked like stylized wings. People crossed the wide floor in clean, purposeful paths, badge lanyards flipping against perfectly tailored clothes. Security cameras watched from the corners like bored, patient eyes.
The reception desk was an island of polished stone.
The woman behind it wore a headset and an expression that said her patience was rationed per day. Her lipstick matched the deep red of the Devereux logo.
"Good evening," she said, smile professional but not unkind. "Welcome to Devereux Holdings. Do you have an appointment?"
Selena approached, feeling every second scrape across her skin. "Um. Maybe?"
One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose. "Maybe?"
"I mean." Selena cleared her throat. "Lucian Devereux told me to come. He said reception would send me up."
The change was subtle, but she caught it—the receptionist's posture straightening a fraction, the focus of her gaze sharpening.
"Your name?"
"Selena Beer."
There was the faintest beat.
Then, with the smoothness of someone very good at her job, the woman typed something into her terminal.
"Ms. Beer." Her smile grew more precise. "You are expected. Mr. Devereux has cleared you for direct access. Please proceed to elevator A. It will take you to the forty-ninth floor."
"Right," Selena said. "Forty-nine. Because thirty-four would be too modest."
The receptionist's mouth curved, almost like she wanted to laugh but had signed a contract against it. "Take the middle elevator. It's already been called for you."
Selena followed the line of her gesture.
There were three elevators on the far wall, sleek and mirror-bright. The middle one stood open, empty, doors waiting. A man in a navy suit stepped toward it, then frowned at his phone as it buzzed. After a second, he veered away to the elevator on the right instead.
Of course he did.
"This is a horror movie," Selena muttered under her breath. "This is literally the opening fifteen minutes."
She stepped into the middle elevator anyway.
The doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
Cool instrumental music seeped from speakers she could not see. A discreet panel lit up, already showing 49 as the chosen floor. There were no other buttons pressed.
She backed into the corner and gripped the strap of her bag.
The elevator rose.
Her ears popped gently as numbers blinked past: 12, 23, 31. She counted them in her head to steady herself, the way she counted steps when the world tilted. At 40, her stomach shifted. At 47, the music faded.
At 49, the doors opened onto a different world.
This floor was quieter, the air colder.
The carpet muffled her footsteps, dark and thick underfoot. Glass walls divided sleek offices, the kind with minimalist furniture and art that looked expensive enough to insure. The city spread beneath the windows in a sprawl of light, rivers of traffic threading through it.
A woman stood waiting by the elevator, tablet in hand.
"Ms. Beer?" she asked.
Selena nodded, throat dry. "That obvious?"
"You're the only one who looks like she hasn't been here too many times already," the woman said. There was a faint sympathy in her eyes, but her voice stayed brisk. "I'm Hana. Mr. Devereux's floor coordinator. Please follow me."
Floor coordinator. Because "handler" would sound bad in a brochure.
Selena fell into step beside her.
"Busy night?" Selena asked, mostly to stop herself from thinking.
"Always," Hana said. "Devereux Holdings doesn't really have off hours. We just pretend for the cameras."
Her heels made no sound on the carpet.
They passed a glass conference room where three men in suits argued silently behind soundproof walls, gestures sharp and tight. Screens glowed with graphs and maps and numbers that meant someone, somewhere, was either being saved or swallowed.
"Has he been working here long?" Selena asked before she could stop herself. "Lucian, I mean. Mr. Devereux."
Hana glanced at her. "Long enough that everyone knows better than to call him by his first name on this floor."
"Right. Of course." Selena winced inwardly. "Just research. Criminology student. Occupational hazard."
"Criminology," Hana repeated, as if filing that away. "Unusual major for someone taking an assistant position."
"I wasn't exactly planning to," Selena said. "My rent had other ideas."
Hana's mouth twitched. "That sounds like him."
They stopped in front of a pair of dark wooden doors, taller than they needed to be. The frosted glass panels at eye level were etched with the Devereux wings.
Hana tapped on the door twice, crisp and efficient.
"Come in," a familiar voice called from inside.
Hana pushed the door open and stepped aside. "Good luck," she murmured, so low Selena almost thought she imagined it.
Selena walked into Lucian Devereux's office.
It was large, but not in the ostentatious way she'd expected.
One wall was pure glass, the city a living painting beyond it. Another held shelves of neatly arranged files and a few carefully chosen books. A long, dark desk dominated the center, clear except for a laptop, a couple of folders, and a glass of water.
Lucian sat behind the desk, removing a pair of thin-framed glasses as she entered.
The suit was different tonight—ink-black instead of charcoal, the tie a deep, unsettling blue close to midnight. His hair was looser, a stray strand falling over his forehead in a way that looked accidentally perfect.
Seeing him in full, under clean light, startled her.
The rain had turned him into an almost-myth. Here, he was just a man. A precise one, with expensive taste and a calm that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ms. Beer," he said, standing. "You made it."
"You stole my rent," she replied, because if she started with anything else, she might lose her footing.
He smiled, faint and sharp. "And good evening to you as well."
She stayed near the door, fingers locked around her bag strap.
"You're early," he noted, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I expected you to spend at least another ten minutes arguing with yourself on the sidewalk."
"I did," she said. "I just argue fast."
The corner of his mouth ticked. "That will be useful."
Selena's gaze darted to the desk. "So. How does this work? We sign a contract, you wire money, and I pretend this is a normal workplace?"
"There is nothing normal about this workplace," Lucian said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit."
She hesitated, then did. The chair was more comfortable than her bed.
Lucian picked up a folder from the neat stack and opened it.
"I've had my legal department draft the basic terms," he said. "Three months of employment as my personal assistant. In return, Devereux Holdings will assume your outstanding rent, your current utility debts, and your mother's immediate hospital expenses."
Hearing it laid out like that made her dizzy.
"How do you even know my mother's situation?" she demanded.
His eyes lifted from the document to her face. "You gave the hospital's name when you applied for your scholarship," he said, as if reciting a fact from a file. "The details were a phone call away."
"You… looked up my scholarship records?" That felt like a violation and a compliment, somehow.
"I do not make blind investments," he said simply.
Selena dug her nails into her knees to keep from fidgeting. "And what exactly am I supposed to do as your assistant? Fetch coffee? Shred evidence?"
"Mostly the first, not the second," Lucian said dryly. "Schedule management, document preparation, meeting coordination. A few… sensitive tasks, when needed."
"Define sensitive."
"Things that require discretion and a brain," he said. "Occasionally, someone who is not already entangled in internal politics."
"And why me?" she asked. "There are a million business students who'd kill for this job. I'm a first-year with a part-time café addiction."
"Because," he said, leaning back slightly, "you are inconveniently honest, you notice things you shouldn't, and you still believe in monsters with clear outlines. That makes you predictable in some ways and interesting in others."
Her pulse stuttered. "Interesting how?"
"Most people who call me already know the price," Lucian said. "You called because you were desperate—but you still bargained. You're terrified of me and still talking back. It suggests you might survive this floor."
"Or die very creatively," she muttered.
His mouth curved. "That, too."
He slid the contract across the desk toward her.
The pages were thick, the print dense. Lines of legal language marched down each sheet in tidy formation, clauses and subclauses marching like soldiers. Her stomach rolled at the thought of missing something important, of signing away something she didn't understand.
Lucian watched her over steepled fingers.
"Take your time," he said. "I don't mind waiting."
"You don't have another devil appointment?" she asked, flipping to the second page.
"You have my full attention," he replied.
That, somehow, was worse.
She read.
Some of it was straightforward: hours, responsibilities, salary. The number made her blink—a figure large enough that, even after rent and hospital transfers, she would be standing on solid ground for the first time in years.
Other lines were more pointed.
NON-DISCLOSURE of all internal dealings, under penalty of legal action.
NON-COMPETE clauses preventing her from working for direct competitors for a specified time.
A section on "special assignments," couched in neutral terms that boiled down to: if he asked, she went.
"This bit," she said, jabbing a finger at the relevant paragraph. "Special assignments. What does that actually mean?"
"It means," Lucian said, "that if I send you to deliver a document, you do not stop to read it on the way. If I ask you to sit in on a meeting, you do not record it and upload it to your student journalism group. It also means you may occasionally be asked to convey messages that people prefer not to commit to email."
"Threats," she translated. "Bribes."
"Warnings," he corrected. "Offers. Lines in the sand."
She met his gaze. "And if I say no to a 'special assignment'?"
"Then we discuss it," he said, unruffled. "I am not in the habit of forcing my employees into situations they cannot handle. It's bad for morale."
"Wow. You should get that printed on a mug."
"I have," he said. "HR made them."
Her lips twitched, despite everything. "Of course they did."
She moved to the final page.
At the bottom, two blank lines waited: Employee. Employer.
Her hand hovered over the pen he'd placed beside the file.
"This is where you tell me the hidden catch," she said. "The part where my soul is collateral or I end up chopping bodies in the basement."
Lucian's eyes cooled a fraction. "There is no basement," he said. "We own the whole building. And I am not interested in souls. They are intangible assets with unreliable return."
"You're very reassuring," she said.
"I'm being honest." He paused. "The catch, if you need to name one, is simple: once you step into my world, leaving it clean will be… difficult. People will see you sitting in this chair. They will assume things. Some of those things will be true, eventually."
"Eventually," she repeated.
"You cannot work closely with me and stay untouched," he said quietly. "By rumor, by responsibility, by choice. You will learn things. You will carry them. And you will have to decide where you stand."
Her throat went tight.
He wasn't threatening. That almost made it worse. He was describing the weather on a road she had already started walking.
"If I don't sign," she said, "you still keep my rent, and I still lose the apartment."
"Yes."
"But my conscience stays spotless."
Lucian considered that, then shook his head slightly. "No. You've already called me. Already come here. Already sat in that chair and read my terms. There is red on your hands either way now, Miss Beer. The difference is whether you use it to draw a line or to wash someone else's."
She hated that he was right.
She hated that part of her, under the fear and anger, wanted to see how deep the stain went.
Selena picked up the pen.
Her signature looked small next to the printed name.
She wrote it anyway.
The instant her pen left the paper, her phone buzzed on the desk.
She flinched. Lucian held up a hand. "Go ahead."
She checked the screen.
A message from her landlord: MONEY RECEIVED. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY.
Her chest heaved, something sharp and painful loosening inside.
"Happy?" Lucian's voice was mild.
"No," she said honestly. "Relieved. Terrified. Mildly nauseous."
"Good." He signed his own name with a smooth, practiced stroke. "Fear keeps you sharp. Nausea passes."
He tapped the contract, and somewhere in the building, invisible machinery of scanners and servers would already be eating it.
"Congratulations, Ms. Beer," he said. "You are now officially in my employ."
The words landed like a verdict.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now," he said, "we test your priorities."
He pressed a button on his desk phone. "Hana. Send in the ledger."
The door opened moments later. Hana entered, carrying a black, leather-bound ledger like a piece of evidence.
Selena's attention snagged on it immediately.
"What is that?" she asked.
"An experiment," Lucian said. "And your first task."
Hana set the ledger on the desk, nodded to both of them, and left, closing the door with a soft click.
Lucian flipped the book open.
Pages of names stared back at her, each with neat columns of dates, amounts, and notes. Some she recognized—small businesses from her neighborhood, charity organizations she'd seen on late-night TV appeals, even a family grocery store she'd used as a landmark her whole childhood.
"What is this?" she repeated, voice low.
"Debts," Lucian said. "And arrangements. Every favor Devereux Holdings has extended in the last fiscal year that falls… outside conventional channels."
"You mean the dirty deals," she said.
"I mean the unregistered ones," he countered. "Some of them saved lives. Some ruined them. None are simple."
Her heart pounded in her ears. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you want to expose the city's hidden criminals," he said. "And I am giving you the list most people would sell their teeth for."
She swallowed. "In exchange for what?"
"In exchange for work," Lucian said. "You'll audit these. Cross-check the entries. Flag any discrepancies. You will see exactly how my world operates. Then, when you're ready, you can decide whether your precious monsters are as obvious as you thought."
"That's not how assistants are supposed to start," she said weakly.
"Most assistants fetch coffee," he said. "You want to hunt devils, Ms. Beer. Time to see what their contracts look like."
She stared down at the ledger.
Names. Numbers. Lives.
Three hours ago, she'd been praying for enough to keep a roof over her head. Now she was holding a map of the city's veins.
Lucian watched her, expression unreadable.
"Welcome to your new job," he said softly. "Try not to lose yourself in the bookkeeping."
Selena ran her fingers along the edge of the page, feeling the slight roughness where ink had bled.
"I thought you said you weren't interested in souls," she murmured.
"I'm not," he said. "But I find it fascinating what people are willing to trade before they ever reach that point."
Their eyes met across the ledger.
For the first time, she saw past the charm and the polished suit to the sharp, lonely thing underneath—a man who had built a kingdom out of other people's desperation and was now watching to see what she would do with the key.
"Fine," she said, drawing the ledger closer. "Let's see what kind of devil you really are, Mr. Devereux."
His smile, this time, reached his eyes.
"I've been waiting," he said, "for someone brave enough to ask."