Chapter 28: An End is a New Beginning

The hairs on Ethan's body stood on end as if a cold wave had passed through the warehouse, the man's name echoing in his ears like a dark omen. "Lucifer Morningstar?" Ethan repeated, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He took a step back, his eyes fixed on the stranger sitting in the chair, the wineglass swirling between his fingers with a calm that seemed to mock the turmoil inside him. "Is that really your name?"

The man tilted his head, a playful smile curving his lips as he took another sip of his wine, the red liquid catching the dim light leaking through the holes in the ceiling. "Yes, my dear Ethan," he replied, his tone light and theatrical, as if he were amused by the boy's astonishment. "Lucifer Morningstar, in the flesh—or something close to it. It's not the kind of name I'd make up just to impress, you know? I like the original, it has more… charm." He blinked, the almost childish gesture at odds with the presence that made the air thicker.

Ethan froze, his heart hammering as he tried to process this. "Are you telling me you're… the devil?" he asked, the words sounding absurd, but instinct—perhaps the wolf blood he'd inherited from his father—screamed that it was real. He clenched his fists, muscles tensing, as the smell of wine and something metallic hung in the air.

Lucifer laughed, a low, melodious sound that reverberated off the rusted walls. "The devil, the fallen angel, the king of hell… take your pick of titles. But yes, that's me." He shrugged, the movement too elegant for the decadent surroundings. "Relax, kid, I didn't come to drag you into my warm corner. In fact…" He paused, his smile softening, something almost human crossing his dark eyes. "I came out of pity for you—and to settle a score with your father."

Ethan frowned, confusion mixing with the anger rising in his chest. "Pity me? What's this about?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "You said you know what happened to my father. Who was he? What do you mean by that?"

Lucifer placed the cup on the arm of the chair, his gaze fixed on Ethan with an unnerving calm. "Your father, Clark Fillesia—or Gabriel Silver, as he was born—was no ordinary man, boy. He was a mistake, a freak that my Father up there decided to create on a whim. A Brazilian named Gabriel Silver died at the age of 26, in a horrible car accident—a truck, an explosion, the whole package. But instead of letting him rest in the afterlife, my Father decided to give him a second chance. He sent him to this world, in the body of an orphaned teenager named Clark Oliver Fillesia, with a note signed by Him: 'Live fully, use your abilities beyond the ordinary.' And what abilities, huh? Werewolf with magic, then vampire too, an impossible hybrid that shouldn't exist. I saw it all on my big screen in hell—high definition, better than any human cinema. Clark was a spectacle, a born charmer, a guy who knew how to play the game. He crossed my path once, and I liked him—he had a charm that even I envied. But he was God's toy, and that irritated me."

Ethan stepped forward, shock mixed with anger in his heterochromia eyes—icy blue and savage green. "So my father was… what? God's experiment? And what does that have to do with me?" he asked, his voice shaking as he tried to understand.

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, his smile returning, but with a hint of cynicism. "Exactly, kid. Clark, or Gabriel, was one of my father's favorites. He was given this new life, this power, this chance to shine—and shine he did, I must say. He built a fortune, conquered women like Tory and Samantha, and even Hayley Marshall. Wow, I would like to spend some time with that woman. Well, he became a legend among the supernaturals. But then you came along, Ethan. You are his son, the fruit of this divine aberration, and your existence messed things up even more. Your existence alone, Clark's other two children, don't even come close to the amount of trouble you've caused so far, which is why. When you came in here, I sped up time—two months passed outside while we spoke. I adjusted everything, returned the world to the original, the way it was before you existed. It's not my job to erase people or mess with timelines, that's for the celestial minions. But I did it for a greater reason: revenge. My brother Miguel would show up if I I didn't want to fix this mess—he's a pain in the ass with a divine order obsession—but more than that, I wanted to erase you to get at my Father. He loves Clark, he loves what he's become, and you're living proof of that. So I took you out of the game. The outside world doesn't know you anymore—your mother, your sister, your friends, and your dear Hope, they've all forgotten about you."

Ethan felt the ground give way beneath his feet, his body shaking as Lucifer's words cut like knives. "You erased my father… and now me?" Rage exploded in his chest like a volcano, wolf blood roaring through his veins. His eyes blazed—the blue like sharp ice, the green like wildfire. "You destroyed everything I had because of your whim against God?!" he screamed, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Without thinking, he lunged forward, instinct taking over. "YOU BASTARD!" With a growl, Ethan threw a punch with all the supernatural strength he possessed, catching Lucifer square in the face. The impact echoed through the warehouse like thunder, the air vibrating with the force of the blow.

Lucifer didn't even flinch. The punch connected with a loud crack, but his head barely turned an inch. He stood there, untouched, the smirk still on his lips, as if Ethan had hit a steel wall. "Wow, that's impressive strength," he said sarcastically, rubbing his chin in mock interest. "You really get your dad's dramatic streak, huh?" Before Ethan could react, Lucifer reached up and flicked his forehead lightly—a gesture almost childish, but one filled with divine power. "Come on, kid, is that the best you've got?"

The blow hit Ethan like an invisible thunderclap. He flew backward, his body spinning through the air like a leaf in the wind, crashing through the rusted wall of the warehouse with a crash. He landed outside, rolling on the dry earth, his leather jacket ripping in several places, the holes opening like wounds as dirt clung to the fabric. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he lay there for a moment, panting, his chest heaving. He tried to stand, his body aching, his eyes wide with rage and helplessness, but when he looked at the warehouse, it was simply... gone. Where the dilapidated structure had been, there was now only an empty lot, as if the place had never existed. The air went silent, except for the sound of Lucifer's laughter echoing in his mind: "Pathetic, kid. A wolf cub barking at a god. Good luck out there!"

Ethan fell to his knees, his body shaking, anger and despair consuming him. He pounded the ground, the dirt cracking beneath his fists, his dirty, hole-ridden jacket hanging from his shoulders as a reminder of his defeat. " You... you will pay for this, I swear on my name that you will pay for all of this, " he whispered, his voice hoarse, almost animalistic, as he slowly stood up, adjusting the torn jacket over his body. There was no other option—it was all he had now. 

Ethan pushed himself up off the ground and sped his Harley down the road that led back to Mystic Falls, the roar of the engine cutting through the silence of the night as the wind whipped at his face. His leather jacket, now riddled with holes and covered in dry dirt, swayed with the movement, a reminder of the confrontation with Lucifer that still echoed in his mind. Two months , he thought, the weight of the devil's words pressing against his chest. He gripped the handlebars tighter, his heterochromia eyes—icy blue and wild green—fixed on the road ahead. He needed a plan, a place to start over, even if it was with the ashes of what was left.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Mystic Falls, the sky was already darkening, the city lights twinkling like shy stars. Ethan slowed down, the bike's tires squealing against the asphalt as he pulled up in front of a modest hotel, the kind of place that didn't ask questions. He got off his bike, taking off his helmet and letting his messy black hair fall over his forehead. He ran a hand over his torn jacket, feeling for the inside pocket where he always kept extra money—a habit from before, back when things made sense. He opened his wallet and counted: two thousand dollars in crumpled bills. Not much for me , he thought with a bitter smile. But enough for today. He adjusted his jacket on his shoulders and walked into the hotel.

The receptionist, a middle-aged man with crooked glasses, barely looked up from his phone as Ethan tossed a few bills onto the counter. "One night," he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. The man grunted incoherently, handing over a key with a worn number: 12. Ethan climbed the creaky stairs to his room, a small space with a single bed, an old TV, and a faint musty smell. He tossed his helmet in the corner, left his jacket hanging on the chair, and threw himself onto the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. He didn't really sleep—the weight of everything he'd lost kept him awake—but he closed his eyes for a few hours, letting his body rest.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the thin curtains, casting shadows on the floor. Ethan stood up, his body still sore from the impact of Lucifer's flick. He put on his torn jacket—it was all he had now—and grabbed the key, determined to explore Mystic Falls. He wanted to see what had changed, what was left of the world he knew before Lucifer erased his existence. He parked his bike in the hotel parking lot and set off on foot, his boots echoing on the asphalt as he walked through the familiar but strangely distant streets.

He decided to head to Mystic Falls High School first, the town's public school. He wasn't sure why—maybe it was just curiosity, or an instinct he couldn't explain. As he entered the courtyard, the sound of students surrounded him—laughter, chatter, the sound of backpacks being dropped on the ground. His appearance caught his attention immediately. His torn and dirty jacket, his messy hair, his posture firm despite everything—but it was his eyes that turned heads. A cold blue, sharp as ice, and a vibrant green, wild as a forest, they shone in the sunlight. "Look at that guy," a girl whispered to her friend, her eyes wide. "What are those eyes?" A group of boys stopped playing basketball, staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Ethan ignored their stares, but their weight followed him as he walked.

Then he stopped. A scent hit him like a punch to the chest—sweet, familiar, unmistakable. Hope. His werewolf instincts kicked in, his heart racing as he took a deep breath, his heterochromia eyes sweeping the courtyard. She wasn't there—he didn't see her anywhere—but her scent hung in the air, fresh and alive. She was here , he thought, his body tense like a stalker tracking its prey. Great, now I'm a stalker. But knowing she was nearby, that she was okay, was enough for now. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting relief wash over him. If she's here, she's alive. That's all that matters.

But then he opened his eyes, reality coming back like a cold wave. It's not time yet , he told himself, confusion swirling through his head like a tornado. He wanted to find her, hold her, kiss her, do all sorts of things to her—things that made his blood boil just thinking about it. But if what Lucifer had said was true, this Hope…she wasn't his. Not the real one, not the one who remembered him, not the one who loved him. He laughed softly to himself, a dry, bitter sound. I walked in here and I'm already leaving? What an idiot. His mind was a mess, but he turned and walked out of the school, his boots echoing on the ground as he left the courtyard behind.

Aimlessly, Ethan wandered the streets of Mystic Falls. He passed a thrift store on the corner of the square, and his eyes fell on a plain black leather jacket hanging in the window. It was nothing special, but he couldn't live without a good jacket—it was part of who he was, even if he shouldn't be spending any money on it right now. Screw it , he thought as he walked into the store. He spent sixty dollars on the item, tossing his old, torn jacket in a trash can outside. The new one didn't weigh as much, but at least he didn't look like he'd been in a fight with a tractor.

Later, he stopped in an alley near the Grill, where a group of drunks were huddled around a makeshift campfire in a trash can. "Hey, weird-eyed boy!" one of them shouted, a bearded man with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. "Come here, share a shot with us!" Ethan hesitated, but something in him gave in. He walked over, took the offered bottle and took a long pull. The alcohol burned his throat, and for a few minutes—thanks to the slow metabolism of a normal human that he did not have—his head felt dizzy. "You know," he drawled as he sat on a crate, his heterochromia eyes shining in the firelight, "I had everything. A family, a girl… and now? Nothing. Some bastard took it all away from me, and I don't even know how to fix it." The drunks stared at him, some laughing, others nodding as if they understood. "You sound like the devil himself is screwing you, kid," the bearded man said, chuckling hoarsely. Ethan looked at him, the smile dying on his lips. "Yeah, something like that."

The effect wore off quickly, his supernatural body burning off the alcohol within minutes. He stood up, tossing the bottle back to the man. "Thanks for the drink," he muttered, his voice thick with a pain he could no longer hide, and walked out of the alley, the weight of the words still echoing in his head.

Back on the streets, Ethan wandered aimlessly until his feet led him to the Mystic Grill. He entered the bar, the smell of beer and fried food filling the air, and decided to get drunk—or at least try. He sat at the bar, ordering one whiskey after another, tossing the crumpled bills onto the wood. The problem was, he was a werewolf, a supernatural being who healed too quickly. Each sip burned, but the numbness never came. Impossible to get drunk , he thought bitterly as he stared at his empty glass. He left a generous tip—more out of pity for the bartender than anything—and left, a bottle of vodka in his hand that he picked up on the way.

It was already night when Ethan found himself in the central square, the half-empty bottle swinging in his hand as he thought about the life he lost. His mother, his sister Chloe, his other mother/aunt Samantha, Hope, the love of his life, a girl who perhaps in his entire life he will never find equal to what he feels inside for her, those names that spun in his mind like ghosts. He staggered to a bench, his heart heavy, when something made him stop. A girl was sitting there, alone, her brown hair falling over her shoulders. Hope. His heart jumped in his chest, his heterochrome eyes filling with tears. Shit , he thought, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his new jacket. I almost never cry, but today... today everything is wrong. He took a deep breath, wiping away the tears angrily, and walked towards her, the sound of his boots against the ground echoing in the silent square.

Hope was lost in her own thoughts, her eyes fixed on the floor as she reflected on her life—a life no one remembered. No one knew who she was, and the emptiness of it consumed her. She was holding back tears, her eyes burning as she bit her lip, but when she felt a presence approaching, something gave way. Tears escaped, rolling silently down her face, and she couldn't stop them. Someone sat down next to her, and she turned her head slightly, her heart beating faster inexplicably.

Ethan didn't look at her directly. He stared up at the starry sky, the bottle of vodka resting on his lap, and let the words fall out like wind. "You know, sometimes you think you have it all together—family, love, a place to call your own. Then someone comes along and rips it away from you like it never existed. And you're left staring into space, trying to remember what it was like to actually feel something." His voice was low, husky, filled with a raw pain he couldn't hide.

Ethan said these words without knowing the weight they carried, not only for him, but for Hope. 

Hope was silent, the tears falling faster now. She didn't know him—this strange boy with the leather jacket and the bottle in his hand—but his words hit her like a blow to the chest. They touched something so deep, so hard to forget, that she felt the ground beneath her shake. She wanted to say something, anything, but the tears choked her voice. All that came out were silent sobs, her face wet as she tried to compose herself.

Ethan noticed the soft sound of her sobs, the corner of his eye catching the movement of her tears. He frowned, confused. Why is she crying? he thought, his heart clenching. Does she recognize me? No, impossible. Lucifer has erased everything. Maybe it's something else... He had no idea what was happening to her, but the silence between them grew too heavy. Taking a deep breath, he decided to break it, still keeping his eyes on the sky. "I'm Ethan," he said, his voice firm but soft, almost as if he were testing the words. "I don't know what's going on with you, but... I think we're in the same boat today."

Hope froze, tears still falling as his name echoed in her mind. Ethan. She didn't know who he was, but his presence, his words, the way he seemed to carry the same emptiness she did—it all made her heart race even faster. A thunderclap rumbled in her soul, a feeling she couldn't explain. The tears continued, but she took a deep breath, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Finally, her voice shaky and barely audible, she whispered, "Hope."

Ethan turned his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on the sky, but the sound of her name pierced through him like a blade, she really didn't know him....