The Don: Cult of Diablo

The sky over Greenwood Cemetery hung low and heavy, a bruised veil of gray that refused to weep. Beneath it, the mortal remains of Dr. Jerome Puerta lay sealed in polished wood and the red-black-green of the Pan-African flag, as if even in death the ancestors demanded their colors be honored.

Donald Jerome Puerta stood at the edge of the open grave, twelve years old and already too tall for his grief. His small hands rested on the casket like a penitent at an altar. The black Gucci suit—chosen by his mother because “your father would have laughed at anything less”—clung to his frame with the weight of borrowed armor.

Thick black frames sat on his face, lenses already streaked with silent tears that refused to fall in front of the cameras. Behind him, honor guards in dress blues stood rigid, rifles gleaming under the reluctant sun. To the world they buried a veteran physician, a brilliant mind, a quiet guardian of the streets.

To Donald, they buried the only anchor the universe had ever given him.

Astar Donith—Esther D. Puerta to the cameras and whispering tongues—stood beside her son like a monument carved from obsidian and sorrow. Her black dress hugged a figure that seemed too perfect, too commanding for this mortal soil. Pearls rested against her throat like captured stars. Her face remained a flawless mask of grief, eyes hidden behind dark shades, but those who dared look too long felt something ancient staring back. Something that had walked battlefields before Brooklyn was even a name.

The preacher’s voice rolled like distant thunder, quoting scripture in that familiar, cadenced way of old Black churches:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

But Donald’s mind was elsewhere, drifting toward names older than this world. Yah Kothardon, the Architect and the Word. Do’on Hada, Rider of Storms. Dot Doner, the Silent Maw that swallows all things. Names his father had whispered to him in quiet moments, stories of Ankhara and the Donohim that felt like half-remembered dreams even then.

A sharp whisper cut through the holy air behind him.

“…always knew she was trouble. That woman ain’t never been right. Pretty as sin and twice as dangerous.”

Another voice, lower, venomous: “Heard she was fucking around the whole marriage. Poor Jerome. Too smart for his own good. That boy probably ain’t even his—”

Donald’s fingers tightened on the casket. The whispers were not new. They had followed his mother like perfume for years. What the speakers didn’t know—what they couldn’t know—was that Jerome Puerta had known. Had understood. Had loved her anyway, because love, to Jerome, was the most radical form of intellect. The ultimate equation.

Still, the words sank into Donald’s chest like hooks.

His mother’s hand found his shoulder. Her touch was warm, almost too warm, as if fire moved beneath the skin. She did not look at the whisperers. She did not need to.

The honor guard fired their salute. The cracks of the rifles split the air like judgment. Each shot landed inside Donald’s skull, echoing louder than it should have. Something stirred in the deep wells of his mind—a slow, ancient shifting, like a beast turning over in its sleep.

Not yet. Not here.

When the casket began its descent into the dirt of Brooklyn, Donald felt the first true fracture inside himself. Not a break. Not yet. Just the hairline crack through which something vast and red and hungry peered out for the briefest moment.

That night, in the quiet brownstone that still carried his father’s scent—old books, antiseptic, and the faint ozone of a mind that had burned too brightly—Donald lay in his bed and dreamed.

In the dream, the streets of Brooklyn were drowned in ash and blood. A figure walked ahead of him wearing his own face, but taller, broader, crowned in horns of blackened gold. The thing turned, smiled with too many teeth, and spoke in a voice like grinding worlds:

“Soon, little anchor. Soon the skin will split.”

Donald woke gasping, sheets soaked, heart hammering against the fragile walls of his mortal chest. Across the hall, he could hear his mother moving—soft footsteps, ancient and patient. Waiting.

The Cadillac Escalade growled along the I-95 like a beast harnessed to divine purpose, black paint drinking in the southern sun as Esther guided it south from the graves of Brooklyn. Donald sat in the passenger seat, still in the black suit from the funeral, now rumpled from days on the road. His thick glasses caught the passing blur of highway signs promising palm trees and saltwater redemption.

Esther drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing his knee—a touch both maternal and something older, like a goddess checking the tether on her half-mortal son. “You haven’t said much since we crossed into Virginia, my heart,” she murmured, her voice velvet over steel. “Your father would tell you to speak what weighs on you. He always did.”

Donald stared at the horizon, where the land flattened into endless green. “They kept whispering at the grave. About you. About us.” His words came quiet, but edged with the sharp paranoia of a boy whose mind had begun to echo with things vast and uninvited. “Said that I weren’t his. That you wasn’t… right.”

Esther’s laugh was low, warm, edged with ancient amusement. “Mortals always invent stories when they glimpse what they cannot hold. Your father knew me entire, Donald. Knew the fire and the storm and still chose the anchor of his love. That is the inheritance he left you—not their tongues.” She reached over, adjusting his collar with fingers that left faint warmth on his skin. “We are each other’s now. In this skin, in this place. The Wayward Inn will be our new fortress. You will see.”

The miles slipped by in that rhythm only mothers and sons who have survived apocalypse together can share—small comforts, shared silences, the occasional burst of her singing old Alkebulan hymns under her breath while he nodded along, rapping fragments of verses he’d scribbled on a notepad to cage the growing static in his head. She teased him about growing too tall too fast; he asked her if the new hotel would have a studio where he could spit bars without neighbors calling the law. Their bond was codependent steel wrapped in genuine affection, a half-god boy clinging to the only constant in a fracturing cosmos, and a goddess in mortal guise finding fragile peace in the child who carried both her light and her coming darkness.

As the Florida line approached, the air thickened with salt and coming rain. Vice Bay opened before them like a glittering wound—neon veins pulsing against decaying art deco bones, swamps pressing at the edges of man-made paradise. Esther turned off the main drag, the Cadillac climbing a private road lined with ancient banyans that looked as if they had waited centuries for their arrival.

The Wayward Inn rose first: sleek, luxurious, its modern wings curving like welcoming arms around a grand entrance of glass and gold-veined marble. Guests in designer resort wear drifted through the lobby visible from the drive. But Donald’s gaze slid past it, locking onto the structure behind—the gothic mansion, half-swallowed by moss and shadow, its spires clawing at the stormy sky, stained glass windows flickering with inner light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

“This is it,” Esther said softly, killing the engine. “Our home behind the facade. The Inn pays the bills and hides us in plain sight. But that house… that house remembers bloodlines older than this dirt.”

Donald stepped out, sneakers crunching on shell-laced gravel. The mansion loomed, beautiful and wrong in the best way—tall windows like watchful eyes, ironwork gates etched with subtle symbols of Yah Kothardon’s hammer and Do’on Hada’s lightning. He felt drawn to it, a pull deeper than liking. The hotel was fine, a mortal shield. But the mansion whispered of thrones and fractures, of divine skin waiting to split.

Inside the grand foyer, dust motes danced in shafts of dying light. Esther set down their bags, watching him with quiet pride and something sharper—calculation, perhaps, or maternal dread. “Claim your room, Don. The one overlooking the bay. We begin again here.”

Donald pushed open the heavy oak door to the room overlooking the bay, the gothic mansion’s walls seeming to exhale centuries of salt-stained secrets around him. Moonlight sliced through tall arched windows, painting the floorboards in silver that felt alive. He dropped his bag and began unpacking with mechanical precision—folded clothes into the antique dresser, his father’s old medical journals stacked like sacred texts on the nightstand, a small framed photo of Jerome in uniform placed facing the bed.

The weight of the day clung to him. He plugged in his headphones, scrolling until Brent Faiyaz’s track filled the quiet. The beat rolled in slow, hazy waves, smooth yet laced with urban melancholy that wrapped around his fracturing thoughts like smoke from a dying pyre.

He sat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, elbows on knees, letting the sound pull him under. The rhythm mirrored the ache in his chest—a polished surface over rot, the kind of everyday grind that masked deeper voids. His mind drifted to his father’s casket descending into Brooklyn dirt, that finality wrapped in flags and salutes. Jerome had been the one pure anchor, a mortal intellect sharp enough to steady a goddess and her volatile son. Now gone, murdered by shadows in suits, leaving Donald to wonder if brilliance alone could ever outrun betrayal. The music’s undertow made the loss feel both intimate and absurdly small against the cosmos, like dying in fine clothes while the universe yawned indifferent.

Thoughts of his mother surfaced next, tangled in fierce loyalty. Esther—Astar Donith—moved through this new palace with effortless command, her beauty a veil over storms that had toppled empires before men built Vice Bay. Their bond felt sacred and suffocating, a half-god child curled against the divine breast that birthed him. She understood the whispers, the rumors of her ancient appetites, yet shielded him with a love fierce enough to warp reality. Still, in the haze of the track, doubt gnawed: was her protection another layer of illusion, or the only truth holding his mind together?

The world beyond the mansion’s gothic bones pressed in—Vice Bay’s glittering decay, where neon promised paradise but delivered the same hollow scramble. People chasing designer illusions, islands of comfort built on sinking sand, friendships and loyalties as fragile as morning mist. The song’s pulse exposed it raw: the pretense of care, the way mortals (and even gods in flesh) turned away when the abyss stared back. Donald’s own bloodline loomed in his thoughts, those unseen siblings born of his past divine dalliances, psychotic echoes waiting in the hierarchy of mothers’ lineages. He felt the pull of something vaster scratching behind his eyes, a beast stirring not in rage but in weary dominion, whispering that all this striving ended in ash anyway.

Yet beneath the disillusion, a spark flickered—his father’s voice in memory, urging him to rap the chaos into order, to channel the fracture into bars that might wake sleeping kin without unleashing hell. The music carried him there, a temporary cage for the infinite soul rattling his twelve-year-old skull. He reached for a notebook, pen moving as the track looped, words forming like scripture forged in street fire: observations of a boy-god adrift, mourning the only human who ever made divinity feel survivable.

Downstairs, Esther’s footsteps echoed faintly through the old halls, a reminder that whatever cracked inside him tonight, she would be there—mother, goddess, co-conspirator in this new exile.

Donald closed the notebook, the final lines still burning behind his eyes. The mansion’s silence pressed heavier now, the bay winds rattling the gothic windows like impatient spirits. He grabbed his laptop, set it on the ornate desk facing the water, and fired up a livestream on a fledgling platform locals in Vice Bay used for underground cyphers. No title, no preamble—just a twelve-year-old boy in a dim room, thick glasses reflecting the screen glow, camera framing his face and the shadowed opulence behind him.

He adjusted the mic, exhaled, and let the beat drop low and hazy in his headphones. The words poured out raw, unfiltered, his voice already carrying that magnetic gravity that would one day command stages and cults alike.

First World Problems by Don

Through all the money and diamonds

I only cherish the silence

The times with my mother where we can be honest

Just be ourselves through the violence

No holding back who we’re trying

To be in this age of mystery

Where murder and sex is a constant must see

I look to the gods for answers

But the misinformation in this nation is like a cancer

The good die young

And the evil live lavish

Why must I resort to being savage to experience happiness

Look around, take in every sound

Even the emptiness

Look at all that you have in this town

Who really asks for this?

We just find it to comfort our inner loneliness

Or maybe that’s my projection on how I deal with shit

If I were to tell you what I truly miss?

It would be the times where we would live in bliss

All my mother would give was a forehead kiss

And warm chocolates

That’s all I needed to feel heaven sent

All my life she would tell me I’m meant for this

For the stages and all the limelight

Sometimes I question if fame is on my bucket list

Or is it really the crime, right

I want more than money, women & fancy linens

Or days burdened by reckless spending

Why can’t families enjoy themselves without technology ending

Relationships over needless distance

My feelings drifting towards pain the more I speak of existence

Because my brain is feeling like a cage or a prison

Meanwhile my only salvation is the woman pacing in this kitchen

She’s the wisdom, that understands the world that we live in

A black goddess

I’ll praise her every chance I’m gettin’

The last word hung in the air. He ended the stream without fanfare, heart hammering harder than the beat. Down the hall, Esther’s presence lingered like a watchful flame.

Comments flooded in within minutes, the livestream clipping already spreading through Vice Bay’s late-night corners and beyond.

@BayTrapLord: “Lil homie spittin’ truth at 12? That flow cold. Lost his pops and already soundin’ ancient. Respect.”

@ViceAfterDark: “The way he talks about his moms… y’all heard the rumors from Brooklyn? This some Bates Motel type energy but make it luxury. Still fire tho.”

@AlkebulanEcho: “He name-dropped gods without sayin’ names. This ain’t regular kid rap. Feels like prophecy. Who is this Don kid?”

@MiamiShadeRoom: “Deep for a shorty. Praising his mama like that while the streets talkin’ mess about her? Bold. Or crazy. Either way, I’m following.”

@ShadowWatcherFL: “Something off about his eyes in the thumbnail. Like he seen shit. Good shit tho—reminds me of old Brooklyn cyphers before the feds moved in.”

A few skeptical voices mixed in—doubting a kid could write with such weight, joking about ghostwriters or clout-chasing—but the majority vibe shifted curious, intrigued by the raw grief wrapped in cosmic undertones. Shares multiplied. The algorithm, indifferent as Dot Doner’s maw, pushed it further into the night.

Donald rode the faint digital high like a fragile raft on turbulent waters, the livestream numbers still climbing in his mind as faint validation against the void. Yet beneath it, a deeper stirring uncoiled in his chest—Diablo’s ancient awareness pricking awake, drawn by some unseen approach.

He turned toward the tall gothic window. There, perched on the sill amid the storm-lashed night, sat the cat: black as void between stars, with three luminous eyes and four twitching ears, meowing insistently for entry. Its form defied any earthly breed, yet its gaze held an intelligence that pulled at him.

Caught off guard, Donald cracked the window. The feline slipped inside with liquid grace, leaping onto the crimson bed where it stretched across the dragon-embroidered silk. A calming aura radiated from its small body, easing the fractures in his thoughts like cool balm on fevered skin. Diablo, however, perceived raw magic threading through the creature’s veins—powerful, familiar, laced with old celestial pacts. “Magic,” the beast rumbled inside his skull, a voice like grinding obsidian. But the cat’s deep, resonant purring softened the edge, and Donald convinced himself it was merely an odd stray drawn to the mansion’s gothic pull.

Then the cat spoke, voice smooth and feminine, cutting through the air like a revealed blade: “You have your father’s eyes, little anchor.”

Donald jolted back, heart slamming against his ribs in raw terror.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Esther burst into the room, divine grace wrapped in maternal urgency. “Donald? What’s wrong?”

The cat glanced at her, then back to him, before curling possessively into his lap. Esther’s gaze sharpened on the supernatural feline, her expression flickering with ancient recognition beneath the concern. “Where did this one come from?”

“She was meowing at the window,” Donald managed, stroking the cat’s fur on instinct. “So I let her in. She seems to like me.”

Esther studied them both a moment longer, then offered a knowing smile that carried depths beyond mortal warmth. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s sweet. Wash your hands—dinner’s almost ready. I’ll even make a plate for our new friend.” Her hips swayed with natural, hypnotic rhythm as she sauntered out, closing the door behind her.

To Donald she remained simply his mother, the steady flame in their fractured world. To Diablo, she appeared a vision of devastating allure, curves and power that stirred older hungers.

The moment her footsteps faded downstairs, Donald whispered fiercely to the cat, “Okay, what the fuck are you?! No regular cat has three eyes, four ears and knows perfect English!”

The feline lifted her head, heterochromatic eyes gleaming—all three eyes a shade of deep purple. “How astute. I’m Christina. Welcome to Vice Bay. We have a lot to talk about, little monster.”

Donald washed his hands in the marble bathroom sink, the cool water grounding him as Christina padded silently behind, tail high like any ordinary pet. She trailed him down the grand staircase into the mansion’s warmly lit dining room.

Esther had changed into comfortable black silk lounge wear that clung to her form with effortless elegance. She moved between kitchen and table with divine poise, setting out plates of fragrant jerk chicken, coconut rice, plantains caramelized to perfection, and spiced callaloo greens—dishes rich with Alkebulan soul and her own celestial touch.

She placed Donald’s plate before him with a smooth kiss atop his head. “Eat, my heart. You need your strength.” Then she set a smaller dish of shredded chicken and rice near the table’s edge for the cat.

As Donald chewed, Esther asked, “Have you named our new friend yet?”

He swallowed. “Christina.”

The feline’s tail swished in evident delight, her three eyes half-closing in satisfaction as she ate with refined precision.

Diablo’s gaze lingered heavily on Esther’s swaying figure as she moved about the room, ancient lust and possessive hunger rising like storm tides from Ankhara’s divine ecosystem. Enough, Donald thought fiercely inward. The beast ignored him, as was its nature—raw dominion and carnal appetite woven into its apocalyptic essence.

Mid-meal, the television flickered with the evening news. The anchor’s voice filled the room: “Mayor Christina Delacroix is hosting tonight’s exclusive gala at the Vice Bay Civic Center, celebrating the city’s renewal initiative. The event brings together business leaders, celebrities, and influencers for an evening of opulence and political maneuvering, with rumors of major corporate announcements expected before midnight.”

On screen appeared the mayor—stunning in a tailored black ensemble, dark wavy hair framing sharp features, striking purple eyes gleaming with calculated charm and hidden power.

Donald finished his plate just as Christina the cat leaped down and trotted to the front door, meowing insistently. He rose, opened it, and stood watching as she slipped into the night. The gothic mansion’s shadows swallowed her small form, but he lingered at the threshold a moment longer, scanning the driveway and banyan-lined path as if ensuring her safety.

Donald lingered at the threshold until the bay winds turned sharper, the absence of the cat gnawing at him. Minutes stretched. No sign of her return. At 6:15pm, with Vice Bay’s neon haze bleeding into the sky, he slipped out the back of the gothic mansion and ventured into the dense forest behind their property—ancient banyans and mangroves twisting like guardians of forgotten pacts.

He pushed deeper, flashlight from his phone cutting feeble beams through the gloom. A three-eyed, four-eared feline should have stood out even in this murk, yet nothing. The realization settled uneasily: whatever Christina was, ordinary cat logic no longer applied.

The trees thinned abruptly. He emerged into the manicured backyard of another sprawling estate, grander and colder, its modern lines fused with old money arrogance. As he approached the rear entrance, the glass door glided open on its own, silent invitation humming with unseen force.

“Magic,” Diablo growled low in his skull, the word laced with recognition. The same subtle warp his mother wielded when making keys vanish or candles ignite without flame.

Donald froze. From inside drifted a voice identical to the one that had called him little monster—smooth, feminine, laced with amusement. Footsteps descended a grand staircase.

She appeared at the threshold: Mayor Christina Delacroix, draped in a stunning purple and gold Prada evening gown that flowed like liquid starlight over her curves, the fabric catching the low lights with every step. Her dark wavy hair framed a face of predatory elegance, those striking purple eyes locking onto him with knowing intensity. She adjusted a delicate gold chain at her throat, the panther pendant gleaming.

Donald’s breath caught hard. At twelve, the world narrowed to her presence—beauty so commanding it punched through his grief and fractures like divine revelation. Heart racing, cheeks burning, he stood utterly simp-struck, every mortal inch of him drawn into helpless orbit around this vision heading to the gala.

Diablo observed with colder appraisal, ancient instincts weighing her power, her scent of old pacts and hidden thrones, interest sharpening but held in strategic reserve.

Christina’s lips curved into a slow, feline smile, one brow arching as she took in the boy-god on her threshold. “Lost already, little monster? The night has only just begun.”

Donald stared, words tumbling out in stunned awe. “My cat can turn into a baddie…”

Reality crashed back in. “Wait, are you even really a cat?! How can you do that? Are you Donohim? Like, my mom?”

Christina’s purple eyes softened with ancient patience. “No, little monster. I am not one of the gods. Merely an ancient witch who has walked this world far longer than most care to remember. I have been watching you and your mother since word reached the old circles that Vice Bay would be your refuge after your father’s funeral.” She inclined her head with genuine respect. “My condolences. Jerome Puerta was a rare soul.”

She studied him then, the same calculating intensity Diablo had turned on her earlier. Her gaze pierced deeper, catching the dark red aura pulsing around Donald’s frame—volatile, apocalyptic, invisible to ordinary eyes but unmistakable to those fluent in the old ways of magic that humanity had largely dismissed.

“Would you like to come to a party with me?” she asked.

“You… want me to come with you?”

Her expression warmed, stepping closer. “My only intention is to cheer you up after everything you’ve endured. You don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

Donald weighed it—his mother’s worry, the pull of the gothic mansion—yet the magnetic pull of her presence won. “I’ll go.”

Christina snapped her fingers. Purple smoke swirled around him in fragrant coils. When it dissipated, he wore a sleek black and gold Versace hoodie, tailored black jeans, and fresh sneakers that felt impossibly light.

He looked down in open awe, unaccustomed to magic beyond his mother’s subtle domestic flickers.

“You’ve already had to wear a suit once as of late,” Christina said. “Tonight is a celebration. No need to overdress.”

Donald’s eyes drifted back to her stunning gown. “Then aren’t you overdressing?”

She smiled darkly, leaning down until their faces were close, purple eyes locking onto his with regal command. “I’m the queen. Royalty wears what they want, my dear.”

Donald stepped out of the mansion beside Christina, the night air thick with Vice Bay’s salt and distant bass. She led him to a sleek black and purple Mercedes Benz parked in the circular drive, its custom interior glowing under soft lights. The ceiling displayed an intricate cosmic design—stars, moons, and smoky nebulae inspired by Pop Smoke’s album—pulling his gaze upward as he settled into the passenger seat.

“This is crazy,” he murmured, admiring the detail. “You’ve got serious style.”

Christina slid behind the wheel, the engine purring to life as the boy continued talking to her. “I didn’t know you were a Pop Smoke fan. You listen to hip hop?”

She smiled, pulling smoothly onto the road. “I do. One of my favorites is Lil Kim—it’s the way she commanded the mic. Straight unapologetic queen energy. It changed the game for women in the culture.”

They eased into easy conversation as the city lights blurred past. Donald opened up about growing up on Brooklyn cyphers and his father’s old playlists, while Christina shared stories of underground scenes she’d witnessed across decades, from Harlem Renaissance echoes to raw Miami bass eras. She asked about his influences; he countered with questions about her favorite tracks and what made a verse timeless.

Laughter slipped in naturally, the ancient witch and the boy-god bonding over bars and beats, the weight of his fractured mind momentarily lighter. “I want to be a rapper when I grow up,” he confessed.

Christina’s purple eyes flicked toward him, genuinely surprised. “Then spit something for me. Right now.”

Donald took a breath, the Versace hoodie suddenly feeling like armor. The words flowed off the top, raw and unrehearsed:

Me and Slater just hit a curb

That’s my bike, I never learned

To ride, I just stunt for nerds

I know it’s absurd

My vinyls are filled with N.E.R.D.

A little Prince and Michael Jack

Some Whitney, and some Janet maxed

I ain’t ask for fame

I was just born in it

Everybody knows my mom

My pops is even more vivid

All of this is off the top

My mind sizzlin like western

Some people don’t think I rap

They think some ghosts put this together

I don’t care to convince ‘em

Like really, it’s whatever

My words I don’t mince

They’re covered up like sweaters

It takes an army to keep my shit together

Before Diablo starts bombing

Shooting with shit berettas

Christina listened without interruption, her expression shifting from attentive to impressed as the final lines landed. She let the silence breathe for a beat, then let out a low, appreciative laugh. “Damn, little monster. That was real. Off the dome, no hesitation—and that Diablo bar? You’re carrying heavier weight than most grown men I’ve known. You’ve got the fire. Keep feeding it.” Her voice carried genuine respect, laced with the sharp insight of someone who had seen empires rise and fall on the strength of words.

Donald and Christina cruised along the elevated highway cutting through central Vice Bay, city lights streaking past like fallen stars. The Mercedes hummed smoothly beneath them.

“If you weren’t mayor,” Donald asked, glancing over, “what would you actually want to do? It’s hard for me to picture you stuck in offices all day.”

Christina’s purple eyes sparkled with amusement. “You might laugh, little monster, but I’ve always wanted to do music.”

He retorted back. “Why don’t you? You’re the queen, right? You can do whatever you want.”

She smiled with genuine admiration for his earnest heart. “Sometimes it’s not that easy. Even I don’t run the world. I just run a small corner of it.”

Donald pressed gently. “If you were to do music right now, what would it be? Rapping? Singing? Instruments?”

“I’d love to rap,” she said, voice warm. “Maybe sing on the side. I’d do it all if I had things my way.” He flipped the script with a grin. “Then rap and sing for me.”

Christina’s smile turned playful. She launched into it, her voice filling the car with commanding rhythm:

It don’t take nothing for you to love me

That much is true

Even in this life of luxury

What would you do?

If you’ve lived through, what I’ve lived through

Like once or twice

Been through the hell I’ve seen my whole fuckin life

I’m not the same girl I’ve used to be

This woman has changed

Stuck in purple and gold Prada frames

Trapped in this game

The people call me La Reina

And some call me Christ

They worship me as I’ve saved them

Or maybe I

Know how to survive

Stay alive by any means

I’ve seen niggas and bitches die by plotting schemes

I’ve seen sabotaging cause the fall of kings and queens

But never me

I could never see my end be by heresy

I’ve seen the way you look at me

I think that’s enough

I understand, but listen closely, I’m not the bitch to love

If you’ve seen what I’ve done

You might be terrified

Many sentenced to death, I was the one

They couldn’t identify

So many people lie

Just to survive the day

It would make me cry

To see you end that way

Don’t be like me

Be better than I ever could

Because I can tell that you’ve been through more than you’ve ever should

Then her voice shifted, smooth and melodic:

It don’t take nothing for you to love me

It won’t take nothing for you to think of me

If you feel me like you do

Then I know you want me too

But it’ll take more than for you to spend a little dough

Donald had been filming the entire time on his phone, mesmerized by the sight of this regal woman spitting fire and melody with effortless power. As she finished, still caught in awe, his thumb brushed the screen—accidentally hitting share. The clip uploaded instantly to his budding platform, captionless and raw.

His eyes widened in panic as notifications began pinging. “Oh shit—I didn’t mean to post that.”

Christina let out a rich, unbothered laugh just as the Mercedes glided up to the Vice Bay Civic Center. Valets in crisp uniforms rushed forward under blazing lights as the gala’s opulent entrance loomed ahead, red carpet and camera flashes already swallowing them into the night’s glittering chaos.

Donald and Christina stepped out into the blaze of camera flashes and shouting paparazzi crowding the Vice Bay Civic Center entrance. The ancient witch kept a protective hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the sea of lenses and questions with regal composure. Donald kept his head down, pulling out his phone to escape the overwhelming glare.

The clip had exploded on Optic. Comments poured in fast—praise for her flow, shock at the raw delivery, speculation about the mysterious woman rapping in a moving car. Some called it the hottest freestyle of the year; others dug into her mayoral identity with hungry curiosity.

A text from Esther lit up the screen: I want a word with the mayor when she brings you home. “Have fun tonight, my heart. Enjoy yourself.”

He replied quickly: “I will. Can’t wait to tell you everything.”

Inside the grand ballroom, chandeliers dripped golden light over marble floors and powerful guests in designer armor. Donald pulled up the reactions and showed Christina. She scrolled with a pleased smirk, purple eyes gleaming at the surge of attention.

Her expression shifted as she spotted a towering figure gliding toward them through the crowd—Mrs. Jolene Claus, radiant in a deep red velvet gown trimmed in white fur, blonde waves cascading dramatically, her generous curves commanding every nearby gaze. The matriarch of Christmas moved with southern sweetness wrapped around something sharper.

Donald’s mouth went dry. At twelve, the sight hit him like a freight train—she was a full-blown baddie, and he was utterly down bad, eyes locked low.

Christina leaned in close, voice low and urgent. “Stay away from her, little monster. Something has always felt off about that bitch.”

Jolene arrived with a bright, honeyed drawl thick as Georgia peach cobbler. “Well, Christina, darlin’, don’t you look like royalty tonight. That gown is servin’ absolute fire.” Her eyes dropped to Donald with warm curiosity. “And who is this handsome little man accompanyin’ you?”

“This is Donald Puerta,” Christina said smoothly. “A very special guest of mine tonight.”

“Hello,” Donald managed, voice cracking slightly as he continued staring straight at her prominent chest, barely able to see her face from his height.

Jolene noticed immediately but offered only a gentle, knowing smile, tilting her head so her cleavage remained prominently in his line of sight. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing. It’s mighty fine to meet you, Donald.” She extended a gloved hand, her accent dripping charm while the air around her carried faint, unplaceable winter static. “You two enjoyin’ the evenin’ so far? The mayor sure knows how to throw a party.”

Donald shook Jolene’s gloved hand, his smaller one nearly swallowed by the soft fabric. “It’s nice to meet you too, Miss…” He trailed off, realizing he had no idea who she was, then asked with pure innocence, “What’s your name?”

Jolene’s smile widened, radiant and southern-sweet. “Why, bless your heart. I’m Mrs. Jolene Claus, darlin’—Santa’s wife and the matriarch of Christmas herself. Keeper of the North Pole traditions and all that magical holiday cheer.”

Donald blinked rapidly, processing. “I’m sorry… Mrs. Claus? As in Santa’s wife? They weren’t lyin’? Santa’s real?”

Christina interjected smoothly, “Humans refused to let the Christmas legend die, so the old powers eventually found someone fitting to fill the role and keep the belief alive.”

Jolene’s tone turned snide beneath the honey. “Now, now, Madame Mayor. Don’t go stickin’ your nose into business that don’t concern ya’.”

She leaned down gracefully, offering a warm, closed-mouth smile that radiated festive charm. “Take this card, sugar. I’d love for you to be my little elf one day. Gosh, you’re so cute—like a little doll baby brought to life.”

As Donald accepted the elegant ivory business card, Jolene walked away to converse with more of the partygoers. He looked deeper into the card, It featured embossed gold snowflakes framing elegant crimson script: Mrs. Jolene Claus – Matriarch of Christmas – North Pole Enterprises – “Making Spirits Bright Since Forever” with a subtle embossed reindeer sigil and contact runes that shimmered faintly under the gala lights.

Christina promptly plucked it from his fingers, considering tearing it for a split second before slipping it into her purse instead.

“Why’d you take it?” Donald asked.

Christina’s voice dropped low and serious. “There are some things too dangerous for you right now, little monster. You’ll understand when you’re older. You’ll need a lot of training before you’re ready for a woman like that.”

Donald’s eyes lit with determination. “Well, why don’t you train me? If Santa of all people is real, then I want to know what’s out there! Why hide in the shadows when I can bring bad people down? Like dad used to do! My dad was a superhero, Captain Chronos. You saw the news, right? I want to be like him one day. Save the world from evil, do what’s right! If she’s so bad, then someone needs to stop her, right?”

Christina paused, truly considering his words. Her mind drifted to the headlines from Jerome Puerta’s era—Captain Chronos, the Pan-African sentinel whose hyper-evolved intellect made him seem like a time traveler to the public. A vigilante genius who dismantled corruption across the UCA with precision strikes and unbreakable moral code, his enhancements entirely cerebral, outthinking entire agencies until they finally outmaneuvered and killed him. A mortal anchor who had somehow steadied a goddess and her volatile son.

She weighed the risks, the boy’s fracturing divinity, and the larger storm brewing. Then she nodded slowly.

“I’ll mentor you,” she said. “But I’ll need to speak with your mother first. Esther Puerta is a woman even I don’t want to cross.”

Thirty minutes into the gala, the ballroom thrummed with champagne flutes and orchestrated small talk. Donald had drifted into full stealth mode, phone camera discreetly angled as he captured shots of the night’s most striking women.

He first zoomed in on Jolene Claus again, her red velvet gown hugging every curve as she laughed with a cluster of donors. Click.

Then came Lady Seraphina Voss, a statuesque Alkebulan diplomat in emerald silk that shimmered like living jungle canopy, her golden locs crowned with subtle ancestral jewels. Click. Next was Valentina “Vesper” Moreau, a Kuro-Kami tech heiress draped in midnight blue latex and diamonds, sharp cheekbones and fox-like eyes cutting through the crowd. Click. He caught Madame Elara Nyx, a mysterious UCA shadow lobbyist in sheer black lace that left little to the imagination, her silver-streaked hair flowing like liquid moonlight. Click. Even the elegant Dr. Amara Kweku, a celebrated Pan-African neuroscientist in fiery orange Ankara print, earned a quick snap as she commanded a circle of admirers.

Christina watched the entire operation with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation, her purple eyes tracking every sneaky angle.

“Time to go home, little monster,” she said finally, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Donald waved goodbye to the women with awkward enthusiasm—“Nice meeting y’all!”—before following Christina out to the Mercedes. The drive back through Vice Bay’s glittering streets was quieter, the city lights reflecting off the bay as they climbed the private road to the gothic mansion behind the Wayward Inn.

Inside, Esther waited in the grand foyer, still in her black silk lounge wear, radiating that calm yet unmistakable divine presence. Christina greeted her with careful respect.

“Esther,” she began, “Donald expressed interest in me mentoring him—teaching him about the hidden world, training him to face its dangers the way his father did as Captain Chronos. I told him I wouldn’t move forward without your blessing. You’re not a woman I intend to cross.”

Esther’s gaze shifted between them, ancient calculation flickering behind her eyes as she absorbed the proposal and its implications for her fracturing son.

Esther’s gaze sharpened on Christina, arms crossed with divine authority. “Why should I let a homicidal maniac train my son? I know who you are, Christina. Or do you prefer.. La Reina?”

Christina met her stare evenly. “Either works just fine… and because out of every being walking this earth, you understand best how cruel and treacherous humans truly are. How dangerous this world has become. You are Donohim—one of those who helped shape Ankhara’s current order. Your own parents, El Dhonos and Donnasherah, the high king and queen of the pantheon, forged humanity itself. At least you can trust someone that still believes in the divine to lead him towards the proper direction.”

Esther inclined her head, confirming the truth without pride. “I do know. But look closer.” She pointed not at Donald, but inward toward his chest. “You can sense it, can’t you? The beast inside him.”

Her voice dropped, laced with ancient sorrow. “Humans have demonized the Donohim since the beginning. It only worsened when Donald was born. The fear once aimed at my parents, at me and my siblings, has now fixed entirely on him. Since Jerome was taken from us, I’ve felt a distinct fracture in his energy. His mortal mind has split under the weight. The other half… has become the very Satan their scriptures and nightmares invented.”

Christina absorbed the revelation in heavy silence, purple eyes narrowing as she truly looked at the boy. Seeing the pieces she’d almost ignored before.

Donald’s eyes suddenly ignited—entire eyeballs transforming into raging fireballs that cast hellish light across the gothic foyer. In a voice far deeper and older than his twelve years, Diablo rumbled through his throat: “She’s right.”