The blast door hissed.
Pressure seals unlocked one by one with deep, mechanical clanks.
Then silence.
Then—
Bang.
The door didn't open.
It caved inward.
Bent like paper.
A single palm-print dented the steel, glowing faint red, still smoking.
On the other side… was him.
Lucifer.
The Progenitor.
The source.
And behind Malakov—eight of his bastard clones.
The clones turned in unison, reacting to that presence. Even the twitching ones paused, shoulders straightening like beasts sensing their alpha nearby. Muscles tightened. Crimson aura licked the corners of their spines like hungry flame.
Malakov stood calm, voice low. "Remember your purpose."
One of the perfect ones stepped forward.
His eyes burned bright—no sclera, just molten red.
He opened his mouth—and his voice was Lucifer's, almost perfect.
"We are not copies."
Malakov smiled. "Good."
"We are weapons."
He nodded. "Then earn it."
The clone launched.
So fast the air cracked.