Changing jobs at the peak of her career isn't what Linda Martin pictured herself to be in five years after graduating college. It's just that one minor blip and she's fired from her cosy job. Okay, not exactly a small blip—apparently insulting her boss to stick his dick to his ass counted as ground of dismissal from the practice.

The only job opening available, Linda took the offer without reading the fine print.

Here she is now. Moved back to the hometown she avoided since getting out in high school. Stuck in a high school known for all the wrong things. Saddled with the title 'guidance counsellor' to play therapy with the students. Terrific.

Principal Valdez had five students involved with an attempted murder by a fellow student's stepdad to undergo mandatory therapy session. In order to satisfy the PTA Committee's demand to ensure the safety and mental health of their children. Or something along that line.

So far, she had interviewed the three out of the five students. They had varying degrees of issues Linda could help with. Decker isn't traumatized at all. Lopez is in mourning period for her wrecked car. Espinoza wouldn't admit that he has trouble with imagining people wanting to drive him off the road.

But the final two students?

They're putting up a unique challenge.

The student sits on the couch. Her spine straight. Shoulders squared. Her greyish eyes staring at Linda, unblinking. Her lips pressed into a flat line. Her face, an unreadable mask. Her hems of floral sundress splay across her thighs, arrange artfully like she's a portrait came to life.

Except there's a peculiar air to her stillness. A sense of detachment from everything—or anything, radiating from the unmoving student.

Linda dealt with problematic patients before. From disruptive behaviour down to uncooperative and questionable conducts, from teenagers to adults to the elderly. All sort of characters ever committed to getting therapy, either in accordance to their will or against it.

Mazikeen Smith is certainly different.

"So, Mazikeen. That's unusual name," Linda tries, staring at the student.

Mazikeen's brow slightly arches in response. Her lips are still sealed shut. Her expression blank.

"That's Jewish, am I right?" Linda suggests.

Again, no answer.

"So, that's a no-yes? I'll assume that's a yes," Linda says, answering her own question.

She's young—from the sundress on her lithe form, to the sensible black boots she has on, to the unlined and blemish-free face. But youth eludes Mazikeen in a way Linda has yet to pinpoint. She has a face that earns trust without her exerting an effort to secure it. Yet everything about her makes Linda flinch in fear, makes her skin crawl with distrust.

Her eyes trail after Linda, as Linda crosses the room, towards the huge filing cabinet lining the wall. Mazikeen's eyes are grey, like dark clouds before the coming of a thunderstorm. It's guarded but forceful. Those eyes reaffirm Linda's conflicted suspicion on Mazikeen.

Linda runs her fingers through the cabinet file, until she sees Smith, M. Taking the file out, she returns to her chair. Sitting across from the girl. Legs crossed, Linda glances down at her file, skimming through Mazikeen's background.

Single mother working abroad. Involved in a horrific car accident at a young age, and left side of her face suffered paralysis. Linda notes the plastic surgery restored symmetrical to her face—almost flawlessly. Linda wouldn't know of the paralysis, until she read it.

Currently she's living with another student whose parents are working overseas. Nothing to pinpoint an abusive childhood—or abnormal events that could shape her into psychologically damaged girl.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Still doesn't explain all these uneasy vibes Linda's getting from Mazikeen.

Her musing cut short by the sudden alarm blaring from her phone. Linda picks up the phone, silencing the alarm. She sets it back to her desk. One hour went by quickly despite the silence.

"Well, that concludes our session for today," Linda chirps, mustering a jovial tone. She finds being friendly thaws the walls erected by her patients faster than she could with a neutral expression.

Mazikeen gathers her things off from the floor. Slings the strap across her shoulder, she stands to her feet. Opens her pace towards the door, her hand hangs over the doorknob and she turns to face Linda.

"Am I cleared?" Mazikeen questions, her words coming out like distorted vowels. Her accent sounds as if Linda's listening to several continents talking, colliding at the same time, masking its actual origin.

"Not quite," is all Linda says, not 'I haven't figure your issue yet'.

"Same time, next week?"

"You can drop by anytime."

Mazikeen leaves her office, without any parting words.

Linda sighs.

[She loves her new job. She loves her new job. She has bills to pay. A temperamental cat to maintain and keep happy. She can't be fired after the last disaster. She needs money.]


LUX Club isn't in business during the weekdays. The school barely uses the gym for sports—unless it's that annual fitness examination. It provides a temporary reprieve for them. Rare solitude to be themselves.

Allows her to be Mazikeen of the Lilim. Mazikeen, the faithful servant. Mazikeen, the 'supposed' consort. Instead of Mazikeen Smith, student of Vertigo High.

She enters the gym—in time to catch the soft but fluttery tones of Franz Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, quickly building into rapid and energetic melody. It descends into an erratic movement of high pitches as Lucifer's hands fly over the keys and dwindling into sombre and manic tune.

The music dies as she reaches the stage. He slides off from the piano chair, walks down to the gym floor. He stops short at Mazikeen, tilting his head sideways. "So, I missed you during lunch," Lucifer says. His rosy lips softens to a convivial smile, his eyes linger on the mangled part of her face.

"I had to attend an appointment," Mazikeen simply replies, matching the smile on his with her own.

They stride, side by side, towards the office at the back of the gym. She opens the door, he enters and she closes it behind her.

Lucifer Morningstar breaks out two metallic flasks from the darkly varnished mahogany desk. He hands one over her and takes a sip from his drink. "They got us an actual therapist, I see. How was your therapy session then? Learnt anything useful about yourself?"

"Absolutely illuminating," she says, loaded with sarcasm. "You should try attending one." Mazikeen catches the strong whiff of tequila. She swallows several sips of tequila, then closes the flask.

"Wasting an hour to talk about feelings is not the reason we attend school," he scoffs, his forehead wrinkling in distaste. He leans back into the black swivel chair, stretches his legs over the desk. Folds his arms across his chest.

Mazikeen shrugs. "It's mandatory, after the debacle with Delilah's killer. We need to keep up with appearances," she states the obvious.

"There is nothing to talk about," Lucifer counters, his jaw muscles clench briefly and a smile slithers to his beautiful face, "I don't lie, Mazikeen. You know that already, don't you?" He wiggles his eyebrows seductively—in a way he's both playful and serious.

"Unfortunately, I do." She grins, lifts a brow at Lucifer. "Then don't talk. Just like I did."

"I'll think about it," he murmurs, steepling his fingers together.

In Lucifer's vocabulary, it hardly amounts to a definite 'yes'.

"As you say, My Lord."