The melancholy of Blitz

The office of Immediate Murder Professionals was uncharacteristically quiet. The crimson sun of the Pride Ring bled through the grime-streaked windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Loona sat at the front desk, her boots propped up next to a half-eaten bowl of cereal, her eyes glued to her phone as she scrolled through Hell-stagram with a look of practiced indifference.

In the breakroom, Millie was sharpening her favorite combat knife, the rhythmic *shink-shink* of the whetstone the only sound filling the space. Moxxie sat across from her, meticulously cleaning the barrel of a sniper rifle, though his eyes occasionally darted toward the empty boss’s office.

"It’s weird when he’s not here to scream about something," Moxxie muttered, breaking the silence. "Quiet. Too quiet. It makes me feel like I should be bracing for an explosion."

Millie chuckled, testing the blade’s edge with her thumb. "Enjoy the peace while it lasts, sweetie. B is probably just out stalking Stolas or trying to buy another cursed horse statue."

Suddenly, the wall-mounted television in the corner—an old model that usually only played static or intrusive ads for VoxTech—flickered to life with a violent burst of blue light. The screen didn't show the news or a soap opera. Instead, it displayed a grainy, vintage-style recording of a circus tent.

"The hell?" Loona grunted, finally looking up from her phone. She rolled her eyes, her tail twitching in annoyance. "Did Blitz butt-dial the broadcast system again?"

Moxxie and Millie stepped out into the main lobby, drawn by the sudden noise. On the screen, a much younger, smaller Imp was visible. He was wearing a tattered clown outfit that was several sizes too large, his horns barely stubs, and his eyes wide with a desperate, frantic sort of hope. He was practicing a juggling routine with three mismatched balls, his tongue poking out in concentration.

"Is that... Blitz?" Millie whispered, her grip tightening on her knife. "He looks so tiny."

"Probably some embarrassing home movie he forgot to delete," Loona said, though she didn't look away.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly as a shadow fell over the young Blitzø on the screen. A massive, towering figure stepped into the frame. It was Cash Buckzo. He didn't look like a father; he looked like a predator.

"You're dropping them again, you worthless little prick!"

The voice was thunderous, vibrating through the TV speakers and making the floorboards of the I.M.P. office tremble. The young Blitzø on the screen flinched so violently he tripped over his own oversized shoes, the juggling balls scattering into the dirt. He began to shiver, a deep, full-body tremor of absolute, paralyzing fear.

"I-I'm sorry, Daddy," the child stammered, his voice thin and cracking. "I can do it, I promise, I just—"

"Shut up!" Cash roared. He stepped closer, his hand raised. "You’re a waste of makeup and air! Do you know how much you’re costing me? Do you?"

The crew in the office froze. The anger in Cash's voice wasn't just parental frustration; it was pure, unadulterated malice. On the screen, the elder Imp grabbed the boy by the collar of his costume and dragged him toward a darkened corner of the tent.

The screams started then. They weren't the comedic screams they were used to hearing from their boss when he fell off a roof or got stabbed. These were screams of absolute terror—high-pitched, raw, and ending in wet, choking gasps.

"Oh, big dick Blitzo, turn it off," Loona snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. Her ears were pinned flat against her skull. "This isn't funny."

"I can't!" Moxxie scrambled for the remote, jamming the power button. "It’s not responding! It’s like it’s being fed directly into the grid!"

Across the city, the scene was playing on every screen. In the opulent balcony of his palace, Stolas Goetia stood paralyzed, a tea saucer shattering at his feet. His breath hitched in his throat as he watched the man he loved—or the child he would become—being broken on national television. The Prince of Hell felt a cold, murderous rage bubbling beneath his feathers, but it was eclipsed by a crushing sense of grief.

In a messy apartment elsewhere, Verosika Mayday sat on her sofa, a bottle of expensive booze halfway to her lips. She stared at the screen, her pink eyes widening. She had spent years hating Blitzø for how he had treated her, for the way he had left her. But seeing the light being systematically snuffed out of him by the man who was supposed to protect him... she felt a sickening pang of empathy.

"Dammit, Blitzo," she whispered to the empty room, her hand trembling. "So that’s where it started."

Back at the I.M.P. office, the montage accelerated. The video skipped through the years like a dying heartbeat. They saw Blitzø as a teenager, his face covered in bruises he tried to hide with poorly applied white paint. They saw him standing over the charred remains of the circus, his expression a mask of hollow shock.

The most haunting part was the eyes. As the years progressed on the screen, the vibrant, gold-flecked spark in Blitzø’s eyes began to dim. By the time the footage reached his early adult years, the light was gone entirely, replaced by a cynical, jagged wall of humor and hostility. It was the face of a man who had decided that if he couldn't be loved, he would at least be untouchable.

Millie had tears streaming down her cheeks. "He never told us. He never said a word about any of this."

"How could he?" Moxxie asked softly, his anger giving way to a profound sadness. "He spends every waking moment trying to convince us—and himself—that he doesn't care about anything. If he admitted this happened, he’d have to admit he’s hurt."

Loona stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor. She walked over to the TV and placed a hand on the glass, right over the image of the teenage Blitzø who was currently staring blankly into a mirror, wiping blood from his lip.

"He’s such an idiot," she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. "He thinks he has to be the one who takes care of everyone because no one took care of him."

The screen flickered one last time, showing a recent image of Blitzø standing on the balcony of the office, looking out at the city with that familiar, lonely slouch. Then, the screen went black.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. No one moved. The air in the office felt thick with the weight of a thousand secrets they were never meant to know.

"Where is he?" Millie asked, her voice small. "Where is he right now?"

"He said he was going for a drive," Moxxie replied, checking his watch. "To clear his head. He’s been gone for three hours."

Loona grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. "We’re finding him."

"Loona, he might want to be alone," Moxxie cautioned, though he was already reaching for his own coat.

"I don't care what he wants," Loona growled, her eyes flashing with a protective fire. "He’s my dad. And he’s not going to sit in the dark by himself after everyone in this shitty circle just watched his soul get ripped out."

As they hurried toward the door, the elevator dinked. The doors slid open to reveal Blitzø.

He looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, and his usual flamboyant energy was nowhere to be found. He was holding a greasy bag of burgers, staring at the floor as he stepped into the room.

"Hey, guys," he said, his voice forced and raspy. "Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch, and I had to—"

He stopped. He looked up and saw their faces. He saw Millie’s tear-stained cheeks, Moxxie’s uncharacteristic lack of annoyance, and Loona’s fierce, trembling stare. His gaze drifted to the blank TV screen, and then back to them.

The bag of burgers slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The mask didn't just slip; it shattered.

"Oh," Blitzø whispered, the word barely audible. "You saw."

He took a step back, his back hitting the elevator door. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an exit, for a joke to tell, for a way to make them stop looking at him with that awful, soul-crushing pity.

"Boss," Moxxie started, stepping forward. "Blitz, we—"

"Don't," Blitzø snapped, though there was no heat behind it, only a desperate plea. "Don't do the 'it’s not your fault' speech. I don't want to hear it. I’m fine. It was a long time ago. My old man was a prick, big deal. Half the people in this city have daddy issues. It’s practically a requirement for entry."

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken, jagged sound that died in his throat.

Millie didn't say a word. She simply walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. Blitzø froze, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides.

"Get off, Mills," he muttered, though he didn't push her away. "You’re getting blood or tears or something on my coat. This is silk. Well, polyester-silk blend."

Moxxie joined them, placing a firm, supportive hand on Blitzø’s shoulder. "We’re not going anywhere, sir. Whether you like it or not."

Blitzø looked over at Loona. She was standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, looking like she wanted to punch something and cry at the same time.

"Loonie?" he asked, his voice trembling.

She walked over, grumbling under her breath about how "this was so stupid and dramatic," before pulling him into a rough, tight hug. She was taller than him, and she tucked her head against the top of his, hiding her face.

"If you ever let that deadbeat prick into your head again, I’ll kill you myself," she hissed into his ear.

Blitzø stood there, surrounded by the only people in the three rings who actually gave a damn if he lived or died. The wall he had spent decades building didn't fall all at once, but for the first time, a brick loosened.

His hands finally moved, gripping Loona’s jacket and leaning into Millie’s embrace. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing tight as a single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek, cutting through the grime of the day.

"He really was a piece of work, wasn't he?" Blitzø choked out, a small, genuine piece of himself finally showing through the cracks.

"The worst," Moxxie agreed.

"But you're not him," Millie said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "You're better. You're our boss. You're our friend."

"And a shitty dad," Loona added, her voice cracking. "But you're *my* shitty dad."

Outside, the city of Hell continued its chaotic, violent existence. The screens shifted back to news reports and advertisements for products no one needed. The world moved on, indifferent to the trauma of one Imp. But inside the cramped, messy office of I.M.P., the silence was no longer heavy. It was full.

Blitzø took a shaky breath and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying to reclaim some semblance of his usual bravado. "Alright, alright. Enough of the mushy crap. We have targets to hit and a business to run. And someone needs to pick up those burgers before the floor ants get to 'em."

He reached down to pick up the bag, but his hand was still shaking. Loona reached down and grabbed it first.

"I’ll get the food," she said, heading toward the breakroom. "Moxxie, go get the good whiskey from the back. The stuff Blitz hides in the fake fire extinguisher."

"Hey! That’s for emergencies!" Blitzø protested, though a small, weak smile touched his lips.

"This is an emergency, sir," Moxxie said with a faint smile of his own, heading for the back.

Millie stayed by his side, hooking her arm through his. "Come on, B. Let's sit down."

As they walked toward the couch, Blitzø glanced one last time at the TV. The screen was dark, reflecting the four of them standing together. The light in his eyes hadn't fully returned—maybe it never would be as bright as it was when he was a child—but for the first time in a very long time, the darkness didn't feel quite so absolute.

He wasn't that shivering boy in the circus tent anymore. He was something else. He was loved, even if he didn't know how to handle it yet. And in the heart of the Pride Ring, that was the greatest rebellion of all.