Devil's voice

I walked down the stairs, my gaze landing on the people seated around the dining table.

The kind woman stood at the end, her warm eyes fixed on me, following every step I took as if she was afraid to blink.

Three others were seated, but my focus drifted to one man sitting with his back to me.

Broad shoulders stretched against a black turtleneck layered under a crisp black shirt. Though I could only see his back, an inexplicable weight seemed to press down on me just from his presence.

I moved toward the woman, her gaze unwavering.

There was something in her eyes—kindness I had never seen before.

Being an orphan raised in an orphanage, I never knew what a parent's love felt like. There's a saying: You can't miss what you've never had. But that's a lie. I always did.

Whenever I saw little girls riding on their fathers' shoulders, laughing and pointing at everything they wanted, it burned something deep inside me. Later, I would buy the same food they had and eat it alone in my cold apartment. My eyes always filled with tears, though I never understood why.

The empty nights in that silent apartment, with no one sitting on the other side of the table, screamed louder than my loneliness ever could.

I was still lost in those memories when the sharp scrape of a chair being dragged jolted me back to reality.

I blinked and realized I was now standing beside the man whose broad back had caught my attention earlier.

Up close, he seemed more focused on the empty plate in front of him than on my presence. My chest tightened with unease. Did we have a bad relationship?

Or worse... was he my brother?

My heart sank at the realization. What if I was crushing on my own brother? Sorrow hit me like a wave, but I forced myself to keep calm.

The kind woman broke my spiral of thoughts, gently holding the chair she had pulled out, her eyes pleading for me to sit.

I hesitated before lowering myself into the seat. Her face lit up, the lines of age softening as she smiled.

I glanced around. The dining hall was lavish, the long table overflowing with dishes I had never seen before.

The amount of food seemed excessive for the few people present. Was a guest expected? Or was it some special occasion?

The luxurious surroundings felt suffocating for someone like me, who had survived on cup noodles three times a day.

The woman began serving food, her movements hurried but full of excitement. As the meal began, she smiled at me often.

The food—oh, the food—tasted like it had been delivered straight from heaven. Each bite melted on my tongue, and while I kept my expression neutral, I was crying on the inside.

But then, I felt it. A cold gaze pierced through me. I hesitated, my fork hovering mid-air, before daring to lift my eyes.

My heart skipped a beat when I met the stare of the man seated across from me, leaving two empty chairs between us.

His gaze was sharp, predatory, like a cat watching a trapped rat. I gulped down the bite in my mouth, forcing myself to appear calm despite the tremor building inside.

"What?" I asked, keeping my voice cold.

I wanted to ask his name, but the risk of being discovered was too high. I couldn't afford to be kicked out, not when I had barely begun tasting this life of luxury.

He raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with mockery. "What? Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"

"Am I not allowed to eat here—"

He cut me off with an irritated scoff. "No, you have more than enough authority to eat here. I'm just surprised you haven't made the dishes fly through the air yet."

Dishes? Flying? Oh no. I was doomed, wasn't I?

I clenched my jaw, trying to piece together the situation. My eyes darted to him, then to the table. Analyze, analyze, I urged my frazzled brain.

He was seated two chairs away from the main seat, where the handsome man was eating silently, undisturbed by the drama. This man couldn't be a family member—his tone was too disrespectful.

The other man seated beside him had a pen tucked into his shirt pocket, signaling he was likely an assistant. That left only one conclusion: they worked for the man who radiated authority—the one whose presence made my heart race.

"Well?" the man snapped, dragging me back to the present. His irritation was palpable, his brows furrowed in frustration.

I stabbed at a piece of salad, my hand moving almost mechanically as if my body were accustomed to this. "Am I obliged to answer your nonsense?" I replied, my tone icy.

His face darkened further, and for a moment, I thought he might explode. But instead, he stiffened, clearly thrown off by my calm retort. My invisible grin widened at this small victory, though a pang of sadness lingered beneath it. This wasn't the kind of interaction I had ever wanted.

The tension broke when the silent man—the one eating with unshakable elegance—finally spoke. "That's enough, Lucifer."

Lucifer. So that was his name.

The sharp-tongued man—Lucifer—fumed but didn't argue further. He pressed his lips into a thin line and sank back into his chair.

The kind woman looked disheartened by our exchange. She had wanted a happy meal, and I had ruined it. My appetite soured as guilt clawed at me.

Just as I tightened my grip on the fork, the rich baritone of a voice sent a chill down my spine.

"I'm going."

My head snapped up, wide eyes locking onto the handsome man as he placed his fork and knife neatly on the table. His words resonated, deep and commanding, like the voice of the devil himself.