Mr. Edwards was the devil.

    He moved through life with sly smiles and cutting glances. Just a flutter of his lashes, or a quirk of his lips. A soft brush of his hand, or a lie that slid off the tip of his tongue.

    Things came easy. Served on a silver platter.

    Life bowed around Dark like he was its maker, and anything that stepped in his path shriveled out of the way—stamped out like it was nothing. Fires sucked out into smoke, death decayed into soil.

    People never swooned when they met Dark, but his presence and his flair illuminated those around him. Sharp red eyes, hollow features, deep black hair. Body always adorned in a suit that would make any man's wallet weep.

He would walk into a room, and it would go quiet.

    Business never played fair, especially when it came to Dark. Money, power, and greed came easiest under the guise of fairness, but in order to climb the ranks, he had to get his hands dirty.

    A little blood never hurt anyone. Certainly not him.

    A swipe of a signature, and a man dies—hell, maybe even forty of them.

A small smile, or a nod, or a deal accepted—and a family is torn apart.

Sympathy came rarely for the devil, proving only as an obstacle. Sympathy meant weakness. It meant reconsiderations, second opinions—and the secondary selections, in Dark's mind, were never the best.

It was always solutions above all—money, status, power above all—that mattered.

Owning and running corporations was easy. Sympathy wasn't. Dealing with other billionaires was easy. Close relationships weren't.

    From a distance, the devil was on Cloud Nine, soaked in glittering riches and fame.

    Up close, he suffered under the weight of it all.

———

Wilford Warfstache was a man who could charm the devil.

    He had no silver platters, or blinding riches, or extravagant skyscrapers and fast cars. He had the taste of the dirt on the street, the musk of sweat, the heat of blood.

    A man learned the way of the world quickly, when it chewed him up and spit him out.

    Arguments became negotiations, negotiations turned into manipulations. Commands hidden under the light air of a tease or a joke.

    Wilford learned the privileges of a silver tongue, a dazzling grin, and a simpering laugh—a light touch here and there, or a croon of a name.

    People swooned under the right circumstances.

    Other times, a gun worked much more efficiently.

    A bullet could kill a man so cleanly—just a shot through the head, a quick spurt of blood, a body crumpled on the floor. No evidence, no trace of who did it.

    A bullet could also kill a man so messily—a warning shot to the leg, maybe the stomach... hell, seven more shots, keep the man alive, and in addition to the bloodbath would be a symphony.

    The most rewarding part of the kill were the cries of agony. The way people begged for their lives—either to be spared or to be taken. The way the fear flooded in their eyes, which was more entrancing than their blood spilling on the floor.

    It was amazing, how easily people would obey in response to death.

    Death could make or break a man.

    Death could help carve a new life.

    Wilford took pride in painting the city red, and anyone that opposed him contributed to his mural.

    From a distance, Warfstache was a psychopath. A cold-blooded killer, a monster that had no other goal than to take and destroy.

    Up close, he was all of those things and more.

* * *

Welcome, my friends... to a new fic. I've rewritten this three times, so bear with me if the story is rough LmaO

This is just the introduction! (Hence the number zero). The first chapter will be posted next Sunday!!

This fic is also being uploaded on AO3, so if you prefer that format, head on over there ;)

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Victor xoxo