Sylvia

Facing you, Matt Murdock was standing by the window.

He did not move. Half of his face was masked behind those dark red, round framed glasses, casting a sightless gaze into the smog filled void of the avenue outside. His metal white cane leaned casually against the side of the steel filing cabinet, shuddering slightly every time a heavy truck rumbled past below.

"You're not taking this case." Matt's voice was low, quiet, and completely devoid of inflection. It was terrifyingly flat, like a frozen lake right before a massive storm.

You let out a long breath, trying to keep your chest from rising and falling too heavily. You knew Matt. He was not just hearing your words; he was listening to the fluttering of your heart valves, the tightening of your shoulder muscles from exhaustion, and probably the rush of blood beneath the skin of your neck under the pressure. In front of a blind man like Matt, trying to hide behind facial expressions was utterly useless.

​"The Southern District Federal Court sent a CJA appointment, Matt." You heard your own voice say. "Our office is on the mandatory rotation list this month. If we turn down a Sixth Amendment representation without a documented, legitimate conflict of interest on paper, the court will revoke our panel funding. You know our financial situation right now."

​Matt shifted his weight slightly. His hands, which had been buried in his trousers pockets, slowly slid out. You stared intently at his knuckles, as they bore calluses far too thick for a lawyer who did nothing but flip through law books all year, and there were faint, partially healed scars peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his white dress shirt.

​"Conflict of interest?" Matt turned around, though his blind eyes behind the red lenses never quite locked onto you. "I will sign a formal withdrawal as partner. You can use my personal history with that former FBI agent as the conflict. Just write down that the firm cannot guarantee objectivity."

​Matt shifted his weight slightly. His hands, which had been buried in his trousers pockets, slowly slid out. You stared intently at his knuckles, as they bore calluses far too thick for a lawyer who did nothing but flip through law books all year, and there were faint, partially healed scars peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his white shirt.

​"What are you running from, Matt?" You stood up abruptly, your wooden chair scraping backward with a harsh screech against the worn, frayed carpet. "Ever since the name of Poindexter appeared on that list, you have been acting paranoid. He's a dangerous criminal, yes, and he's in solitary at the ESH. He is handcuffed twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to a steel table that is two inches thick. He can not exactly walk out of there and slit our throats!"

Matt said nothing. The silence stretched so long that you could hear the mechanical ticking of your own wristwatch, mark by mark.

You saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. Matt was listening. But he was not listening to you. He was listening to sounds blocks away, or perhaps, he was listening to the horrific memories he had never shared with you about the killer they called Bullseye.

​"You don't understand the nature of what he is." Matt said, his voice dropping, sounding more like a quiet confession to himself than a reply to you. He took a single, short step toward the desk. His long fingers brushed the corner of the manila folder, tracing over the name Benjamin Poindexter as if touching white hot iron. "He's not a normal criminal in need of a lawyer. He's a black hole, and if you step into that cell trying to save him, he'll swallow you whole. He looks for a legal structure to latch onto, and then he'll use your own integrity to break you."

You watched the hand of Matt grip the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. His concern for you was real, the protective worry of a man who constantly carried the darkness of this entire city on his shoulders. But within you, the pride of a lawyer and the harsh reality of overdue New York rent bills won the fight.

​You reached out, decisively snatching the folder away from his grasp.

​"I'm going to the federal penitentiary tomorrow morning." You said. "As the legal counsel of Benjamin Poindexter. I'm going to follow due process, Matt. No more, no less."

​Matt did not stop you. He stood there, as still as a statue, as you brushed past him to grab your coat hanging from the back of the door.

​You quietly packed the files into your briefcase and slipped out of the office just as dusk fell. You were practically running to escape the suffocating air of DUMBO.

​But you could not escape yourself.

​The subway ride carrying you back from Brooklyn to your loft apartment in Hell’s Kitchen stretched on like a fever dream. As the train rumbled out of the dark tunnel and climbed onto the steel bridge, crossing the pitch black, freezing East River that divided the boroughs, you sat huddled in the corner of an empty subway car.

The federal solitary confinement facility, ESH, was located on the outskirts of New York, where grey concrete blocks swallowed the meager winter morning light. The air inside reeked of strong chlorine bleach mixed with the stale sweat of long damp walls.

You walked down a long, narrow corridor lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs that buzzed like dying insects.

To enter this special deposition room, you had to pass through three tiers of steel doors. Each time a door slammed shut behind you, a heavy metallic clang echoed, tearing through the space and serving as a reminder that the free world outside had just receded another mile. Your expensive fountain pen, your phone, and even your small metal tie clip were confiscated by the guards. However, because this was a federal petition that required a signature in blue ink for system archiving, the officer handed you a disposable plastic ball point pen from the prison.

"Thirty minutes." The escorting officer with a cold square face said, his voice muffled through his protective mask. He slotted a massive mechanical key into the lock, the sound of the gears turning sending a shiver through the quiet space. "Keep three paces away from him. Whatever happens, don't touch him."

The heavy iron door let out a long screech, slowly creaking open.

Inside, the cell was empty, without any windows. In the middle of the room stood a solid stainless steel table welded directly to the concrete floor. The opposite chair was also a cold block of iron.

Benjamin Poindexter was sitting there.

Dex sat with a completely rigid posture, his square shoulders locked in place. His bright orange prison jumpsuit seemed too loose for his coarse frame, yet the rippling muscles of his arms were still starkly visible. His wrists were cuffed tightly to a thick iron chain bar anchored directly to the center of the table. Whenever he shifted, even slightly, the chains clinked against the steel surface, producing a soft metallic ring.

He did not move as you entered. His head was slightly bowed, short strands of hair partially obscuring his forehead. Yet the atmosphere in the room condensed instantly. The invisible pressure radiating from the man sitting there tightened your chest, as if the oxygen in the room had just been completely drained.

You pulled out the opposite chair, the sound of the iron legs scraping against the concrete floor creating a screeching noise that shattered the silence. You sat down, placing the thin censored folder on the table.

Only then did Dex slowly raise his head.

He looked at you. Not at your eyes, but at the hollow of your throat, where the blood was pulsing rapidly under the pressure of fear.

​The room fell into an absolute, terrifying silence. You could hear the very faint breath of Dex through his nostrils, and the rumbling of your own stomach contracting because you had not yet eaten breakfast.

​Dex shifted his weight slightly. The clanking of the iron chains dragging against the steel table echoed sharply off the four concrete walls. He leaned his body forward, the distance between your faces suddenly narrowing, close enough for you to feel his freezing breath blowing against your tense facial muscles.

"Haven't you had breakfast yet?" His voice was low, flat, and mechanically monotonous.

"Mr. Poindexter, we are here to..."

"Your stomach." Dex cuts in, his voice locking into a terrifyingly flat, unyielding pitch. "It has contracted three times in the last two minutes. This room is well-insulated, but I can hear it perfectly. The speed at which you were just flipping through those files was fifteen percent faster than that of a clear-minded individual. There is a slight tremor in your right index finger, a two millimeter amplitude. Your blood sugar is crashing. And you are afraid of me."

That feeling of being completely exposed initially made the back of your neck run cold.

​The fear built up from the extreme warnings of Matt Murdock back at the office, the pressure of the overdue bills, and now the condescending words of this madman transformed into a sudden flare of anger.

​You did not back down. You also leaned forward, closing the fragile distance left between the two of you, looking directly into his lifeless pupils, and set the pen down on the table.

​"Yes, I haven't eaten breakfast." You raised your eyebrows, a mocking smile briefly playing on your lips. "Because I had to stay up all night reviewing sixty pages of your medical files and your previous transfer schedules. I'd to find a loophole in the detention order of the Department of Justice so that your head doesn't get crushed by the men of Fisk the moment you step into the general population area. So, Mr Poindexter, stop this ridiculous FBI detective act. It doesn't impress me."

​Dex did not blink. But you noticed a very subtle change. The sides of his temples twitched slightly, and his grey pupils, which were as still as a dead lake, suddenly contracted.

​With a decisive movement, you turned the folder around and pushed the document straight toward his handcuffed hands, the sound of the paper scraping against the steel table.

​"Murdock didn't send me here. The law of America and your Sixth Amendment right sent me here." You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back in your chair. "Cooperate with me, sign this transfer petition so I can save your miserable life. Or you can continue sitting here acting as my free heart rate monitor, and then wait for the men of Fisk to come in here and finish you off. Make your choice. I don't have all day to listen to you read my medical stats."

​He looked down at the ball point pen lying isolated on the steel table, and then slowly looked up. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, pulling into a thin smile.

"A lawyer with teeth." Dex's voice dropped, the iron handcuffs clinking softly as he slightly raised both cuffed hands, his index finger tapping rhythmically on the tabletop at a precise frequency. "Murdock likes people like you. Delusional fools who believe the law is a cage that can contain a wild beast. Do you really think this transfer petition will save me?"

​"It is the only thing keeping Fisk from turning you into a lifeless corpse in general population, Mr Poindexter." You fired back. "I have no illusions. I only work with reality. And the reality is, if you do not sign, tomorrow I'll be attending my client's funeral. That would be very bad for my track record."

​Dex let out a soft scoff through his nose. He tilted his head, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. He was looking into your eyes, trying to find the smallest crack of insincerity, but you stood your ground.

"You're not afraid of death." Dex remarked, his voice flat. "But you're afraid of failure. You're afraid you're not good enough to control everything. That's why you stayed up all night over a psychopath's file. What are you trying to prove? To me? Or to Murdock?"

"I don't need to prove anything to anyone. I only need you to pick up the pen, sign the defendant line, and let me do the rest of my job. My time is almost up, and the guards outside do not have the patience to listen to your lectures."

​Dex stared at you for three more seconds.

​Then, the iron chains suddenly let out a screeching sound as he decisively leaned forward, grabbing the ball point pen with his cuffed hands. The metal tip of the pen pressed hard against the federal petition form, making harsh scratching sounds. He signed his name, Benjamin Poindexter, with handwriting that was square, sharp, and straight to an extreme degree.

​To sign the federal document, he had to use both hands, which were cuffed tightly to the iron ring welded to the center of the steel table. His range of motion was extremely limited. Because of this, throughout his writing, you had to keep your fingertips pressed against the bottom edge of the manila folder to keep the paper from moving under the tugging of the iron chains.

​As his final stroke ended, Dex did not pull back immediately. In a movement that seemed like a mere mechanical accident, he let go of the pen. Because the short chain under the table jerked back when he pulled his shoulders back, the back of his rough hand, heavily calloused and as cold as stone, slid slowly, grazing lightly against the back of your hand. Under the gaze of the guards through the observation window, it was just a normal accidental contact of two people working in a narrow desk space.

​You did not pull your hand back.

​The coldness of his flesh touching yours was sudden and so real that it sent goosebumps down your skin, yet some invisible gravitational pull pinned your hand in place.

​The pupils of Dex suddenly contracted. A fiery light flared deep within his eyes. He no longer looked at your neck. He locked his gaze onto your eyes, motionless, desperate, and glassy, like a drowning man who had just spotted the single light of the North Star in a chaotic night sky.

​"I have signed." Dex whispered.

​He slowly pulled his hands back, leaving the pen on the table.

"I agree with your structure, counselor. But remember this well. If Fisk can still get to me, if this petition of yours fails... I will create my own structure with my own hands. And when that happens, the first person I come looking for to reclaim my breakfast... will be you." He let out a satisfied sigh, the iron chains lowering.

​The slam of the heavy steel door of the ESH prison echoed behind you, yet the cold from the fingers of Benjamin Poindexter still seemed to cling tightly to your skin.

​You carried the folder with the signature back to the law office in Brooklyn. You had to deposit it into the secure safe before the workday ended.

​When you pushed open the door and entered the office in DUMBO as dusk was falling, Matt Murdock was still standing in the exact same spot, right next to your desk.

​The moment you stepped over the threshold, he froze.

​His ears twitched slightly. With a sense of hearing and smell that went far beyond those of ordinary people, Matt did not just hear your rapidly beating, unusually agitated heartbeat. He smelled it. On the fabric of your coat, on the skin on the back of your hand, there was the scent of cheap chlorine soap from the prison, the rust of federal handcuffs, and the distinct scent of the breath of Benjamin Poindexter.

​"You met him."

​"Matt, I already told you, this is my job..."

​Matt took two short steps toward you, his guiding cane leaning loosely against the side of the desk. He stood at a distance that was typical for two colleagues, yet his hand reached out, finding your wrist with absolute precision. He held your wrist gently but firmly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, precisely where Dex had grazed it moments before.

​You could feel the hand of Matt trembling very slightly.

"Don't do this case anymore." He said, his voice dropping, like a silent plea full of helplessness. "He is not like other clients. He is looking for a structure to cling to, and when he finds you... He will drag you down with him. Let me take over this case on paper. Please."

Matt held your wrist tightly for another second, his thumb still pressing firmly against your skin, before letting go in utter helplessness.

Eleven in the evening. The sound of heavy rain pelting against the window of your loft apartment in Hell's Kitchen pattered, bringing a damp cold through the gap of the warped wooden door. You sat with your legs curled up on the sofa, the light from the desk lamp casting down on the open federal case files. Beside the cold cup of coffee was a brown administrative envelope sent from the Southern District Federal Prison. The corner of the envelope was stamped with a bright red seal. [ATTORNEY CLIENT PRIVILEGED: UNOPENED]. The guards had no right to touch it. It had gone straight from the hands of Benjamin Poindexter, through the secure mailbox, and onto your desk late this afternoon.

​You reached out, your fingertips hesitating slightly before peeling open the adhesive seal.

​Inside, there was not only the court response document. Falling out along with the stack of papers was a small yellow sticky note the size of a palm, hastily torn from the edge of an inmate notebook. The handwriting on the paper was square, sharp, pressed so hard that it left deep indentations on the back of the sheet. ​"You listened to me today. Your stomach is no longer rumbling. Your signing speed on the handover report also decreased by eight percent. The glucose was enough to keep you more alert."

​You gripped the edge of the sticky note tightly with your five fingers. Your chest tightened. A chilling sensation ran down your spine, just like the cold graze of his hand on the steel table yesterday. He did not have a camera. He was locked behind four concrete walls of the most secure solitary confinement unit in the state. How did he know?

​Bullshit... You flipped to the next page of the document to search for case information, but a second note fell out. This time, the black ink seemed to be written more hastily, the corners of the letters sharp like nail heads. ​"The guard standing at the door of the interrogation room today is named Thomas. He has an eagle tattoo on his left wrist. He stared at your hemline for three minutes. He is one of Fisk's men. I do not like the way he looked at you. Your structure has been compromised by an outsider, counselor. Be careful."

​Dex was not watching you from the outside. He was using the very system of eyes and ears that Wilson Fisk installed to monitor everything around you in reverse.

​Thunder rumbled outside, casting a flash of white light through the window glass, silhouetting you alone in the middle of the room.

The small diner located on the edge of Clinton was filled with the clattering of utensils and the smell of burnt grease. Outside, the rain continued to pour relentlessly, turning the window glass into a blurry screen that obscured the pale yellow street lights.

​You sat at a secluded corner table, the two notes written by hand by Benjamin Poindexter tucked securely in your inner coat pocket. Opposite you, Karen Page was using her slender fingers to gently rotate the porcelain cup of chamomile tea. Her face was gaunt, her eyes carrying a deep, lingering sorrow that had not faded since the day Foggy Nelson passed away. She had just flown back to New York from San Francisco this week to finalize the last estate procedures for Foggy and pack up his old apartment.

​You pushed the metal binder clip holding the stack of white documents toward her.

​"I need the entire record of the testimony of Dex from his federal trial three years ago, Karen. Especially the list of inmates associated with the crew of Fisk serving sentences in the general population of the ESH facility. I need to prove to the judge that transferring him next week is equivalent to an execution without a trial."

​Karen froze. Her fingers tightened around the rim of her tea cup to the point that her knuckles trembled. She raised her eyes to look at you, a gaze that held no anger, only an absolute shock and utter disgust spreading through her pupils.

"What the hell are you doing?" Karen's voice was a whisper, trembling but sharp. "Matt told me the Murdock & McDuffie office was assigned this case by the court, and I thought you were just going through the motions on paper. But look at you... Are you frantically trying to save that monster's life?" 

"I'm following proper criminal procedure, Karen." You refuse to back down. "Wilson Fisk is using his mayoral power to turn a federal prison into an auction house for human lives. He bribed the system to indirectly murder a defendant before the trial could even take place. If I let him do that, then the rule of law in this city is dead. I would rather protect a demon by the book than let Fisk stand above the law."

Karen let out a bitter chuckle through her nose. 

"Law?" Karen grated, her voice trembling but sharp. "Are you talking about rules to a psychopath who shot Foggy right in the chest right in front of my eyes? A man who turned the entire New York Bulletin newsroom into a slaughterhouse? You’ve never seen him when he goes mad, lawyer. He is not a client for you to show compassion to!"

She reached out and firmly grasped your wrist. 

"He is not like other clients." Karen whispered, her eyes piercing into me as if wanting to expose the two yellow pieces of paper hidden in my coat pocket. "Dex is a black hole. He is always looking for a clean woman, someone with principles to act as a moral anchor for his madness. Before, it was his psychiatrist, then Julie, the poor girl he shot dead and then kept her corpse in the house. And now, he is seeing that in you. He doesn't need a lawyer. He is turning you into his next Julie."

You freeze for a moment, feeling as if a bucket of ice water has been thrown in your face. Karen's words cruelly coincided with what Dex had written on the note. He was slowly, step by step, wrapping his invisible chains around your ideals. 

But your stubborn ideals would not allow you to back down. You resolutely pulled your hand away from Karen's grasp and took the stack of files. 

​"I am not Julie, Karen." You said as you stood up. "And I am not anyone's anchor either. I am the legal counsel of Benjamin Poindexter. Tomorrow morning, I'll still stand before the court to file this petition. Even if the opponent is Wilson Fisk... or your own paranoia."

Unsuccessful, you turned and walked away, leaving Karen Page sitting alone in the diner, while the darkness of Hell's Kitchen outside was churning, waiting for the emergency hearing tomorrow.

​In the following days, the decisive clicking of your keyboard echoed regularly in the office, mixed with the rustling of federal procedural law documents. You began to lose track of time, forgetting even the breakfasts that the former agent in that solitary confinement room had warned you about. You did not realize that you were forcing yourself into a perfect routine, allowing no mistakes, just to keep that emergency petition flawless before the mayoral office of Fisk.

​Matt Murdock often stood in the corner of the room, silent as a shadow. His dark red, round glasses were always turned toward you whenever you flipped through papers. He did not stop you anymore, nor did he use warnings.

​On some mornings, when you walked to your desk, a warm sandwich box and a cup of tea were always sitting ready in the corner of the table.

​The emergency hearing was postponed.

​The notice stamped with the blue seal of the Department of Justice that arrived at the office at three in the afternoon was like a direct slap to your face. Wilson Fisk had won a political chess move. The official transfer order was approved. At nine tomorrow morning, Benjamin Poindexter would step out of the ESH solitary confinement unit to transfer to general population. The place where dozens of inmates belonging to the crew of Fisk were already sharpening their shivs, waiting for him.

​You entered the cell to meet Dex one last time with a buzzing head and a chest tight with anger. You threw the stack of rejected motions onto the steel table, letting out a deafening crash that echoed off the four concrete walls.

​"They postponed the hearing..." You said. "Tomorrow you have to be transferred. Fisk has bought off the administration. My process... has been broken."

Dex sat there, the iron chains still locking his wrists tightly to the center of the table. But unlike the madness or panic in the face of imminent death that you anticipated, the former FBI agent was completely still. He looked at the scattered documents on the table, and then slowly shifted his gaze to the expression on your face.

He subtly shifted his handcuffed hands, his rough fingertips lightly touching the bottom edge of the stack of papers, slowly arranging them neatly and perfectly aligned with the steel table. He looked directly at you. His eyes, which had been empty, suddenly lit up with a dull yet profound light. 

"You didn't fail, counselor." His voice was flat. "Your structure is perfect. Your lines are straight. It's just this prison that Fisk has corrupted."

His gaze locks onto yours like a vow. "Tomorrow morning, I will step into that general population yard exactly as your transfer order dictates. I won't resist, I will follow the exact process you set up. I am putting my life in the hands of your law."

He pauses, a faint smile appearing on his lips. "But you must promise me one thing. Tomorrow morning, you must stand in the high observation room, watching me walk. Be the witness to our process. Don't let go, counselor."

This serial killer was not afraid of death; he was only afraid of losing the structure that you provided.

​Eight in the morning on the day of Benjamin Poindexter's transfer. You sat at your desk, your hands gripping the imitation leather briefcase containing the files, your eyes staring blankly into space. The promise Dex made last night still echoed in your mind.

​The wind chime at the main door rang.

​You raised your head. Heather Glenn stepped into the office, bringing a bright and warm breeze from the high society world outside. She wore an elegant cream colored wool coat, her voluminous blonde hair still holding a few drops of early morning dew, her gentle smile characteristic of a psychologist. Heather represented everything peaceful, clean, and full of light, a normal life that Matt Murdock always craved but never managed to touch.

​Matt immediately turned around from the sink. His face relaxed, a rare flash of warmth appearing behind his dark red lenses. But that peace did not last for three seconds.

​"Matt, I need to talk to you. This is urgent." Heather's voice dropped, full of anxiety. She glanced at you, then turned to Matt. "From the therapy files of the mayoral office this week... Wilson Fisk has approved a covert plan. The moment Benjamin Poindexter steps into general population tonight, Fisk's men will stage a riot. They will eliminate him right inside cell number four. The old man wants to completely erase that name."

​The briefcase in your hand fell onto the carpet, the metal clasp popping open and causing the stack of files to slide a long way across the floor. Your chest tightened, your breath catching. Dex would die. The structure you stayed up all night to protect, the legal process you used your entire honor to build, was about to be crushed into dust by Wilson Fisk with a single political snap of his fingers. Your usual decisive calmness vanished completely, replaced by a surging panic. You bent down to hurriedly gather the papers, your fingers trembling violently.

Matt stood motionless in the middle of the room. He heard your short, breathless gasps over a killer. The contrast at this moment appeared stark and cruel. Heather stood there, worrying for Matt with selfless innocence; meanwhile, you and Matt were tied fast, dragged deep into the dark mire of this city. He knew the mind of the girl in front of him was completely locked by the invisible chain of Dex. She was stepping into the trap of the devil herself, and he could not stand by and watch her be destroyed.

​Matt slowly turned toward Heather, his voice steady, gentle yet firm. "Thank you, Heather. I need to handle an urgent procedure with the court office right now. Please go home first, I will call you later."

​After Heather stepped out the door, taking the last bit of morning light away with her, the office immediately fell back into its inherent gloomy.

Matt took two short steps straight to your desk. He bent down, picked up the final petition form that had fallen at your feet, and gently placed it into your hand. His fingers touched your cold fingertips, transferring a steady, protective warmth. He did not blame you, nor did he question why you were panicking over Dex. He chose to lower his ego, choosing to step completely into the mire with you to pull you back before it was too late.

​"I will go with you into the ESH facility." Matt Murdock whispered, yet it carried the heavy weight of a desperate decision that had been thoroughly considered. "As Co-counsel. We will personally go into that cell block for an emergency intervention before the riot breaks out. You want to uphold due process, I will help you uphold it."

The smell of sterile alcohol and fresh blood mixed in the cramped space of the medical treatment room of the ESH Federal Prison.

​Benjamin Poindexter was sitting on the edge of the iron hospital bed. His head was wrapped in a layer of stark white gauze, but fresh blood had already soaked through the fabric, staining a patch near his temple red. That was the result of the ruthless head strike by Matt, driven by a sudden outburst of extreme anger when Dex mocked the death of Foggy right inside the interrogation room a few minutes ago. You bent the rules to follow them into the medical room to check on the condition of your client. Matt had used his super hearing to calculate the exact force of the impact, enough to create a serious fake injury to force the administration to postpone the transfer order and bring Dex to the medical unit, but not enough to cause damage to his brain.

​Dex raised his head. Strands of brown hair matted with blood hung over his forehead. He did not look at Matt. His glassy eyes scanned the void, locking onto your figure in the corner of the room. That creepy smile appeared on his bruised lips.

"You has arrived." Dex whispered, his voice hoarse, filled with reverence. "You stood in the surveillance room watching me. You followed the exact protocol. You didn't let go."

"Shut up, Poindexter." Matt interrupted in a low voice, stepping in front of you. "I created this wound to keep you alive and safe from Fisk's men. Now, answer my question. Did Fisk hire you to kill Foggy Nelson?"

Dex let out a soft scoff through his nose, the iron chains at his ankles scraping against the bed leg. He did not care about the question of Matt. To him, Matt was just a disruptor of the process. He tilted his head, trying to see past the shoulder of Matt to find his North Star again.

​"Murdock thinks he is saving me," Dex said, his gaze glued to your fingers. "But he just opened your cage with his own hands, counselor. He just created a new structure... for me."

​Suddenly, an escorting officer and two armed guards pushed the door open to prepare the procedure to escort Dex back to his solitary confinement cell after the bandaging was finished.

​"Interrogation time is up, counselors. Step back now," the officer ordered coldly, his hand resting loosely on the pistol holster at his hip.

​Everything happened in less than three quarters of a second.

​Dex suddenly opened his mouth. A sharp spitting sound echoed. He bared one of his own bloody incisors right inside his mouth, turning it into a razor sharp projectile, and launched it straight out.

​The tooth embedded itself exactly into the left pupil of the escorting officer with a terrifyingly precise force. Before the panicked scream of the guard could escape his throat, Dex lunged forward like an orange phantom. The iron chain between his wrists wrapped tightly around the neck of the officer, snapping it completely.

  The remaining two guards frantically drew their guns, but Dex was faster. He used the corpse of the officer as a shield against the bullets, while simultaneously snatching the metal signing pen pinned to the pocket of the nearby on duty doctor to stab directly into the throat of the second guard. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, staining the stack of documents in your hands red.

In the chaos, Matt Murdock decisively pushed you behind the emergency exit door, shielding you from shattered glass and stray bullets. Yet through the narrow crack of the door, you still saw everything.

​Dex stood in the middle of the pool of blood from the three corpses, his orange prison uniform drenched in red. He leisurely stripped the officer jacket from the guard, disguising himself as a member of the prison staff. Before stepping out into the corridor to make his escape, Dex stopped. He turned his head, his eyes looking at you through the glass pane of the emergency exit door. He raised the bloody ball point pen, pointing it toward you, flashing a fierce smile full of absolute satisfaction.

​He had successfully escaped prison, using the very medical loophole that Matt Murdock created, and using your own pen. The demon was officially out of its cage, and the first person he would look for... would undoubtedly be you.

The howling sirens of federal police cars echoed against the glass walls of the ESH Prison, tearing the rainy New York night into chaotic fragments of sound. Flashing red and blue lights swept across your face, casting cold streaks of illumination. You sat inside an NYPD patrol car, your hands gripping the grey wool blanket that a firefighter had just wrapped around your shoulders. Your clothes were still stained with the streaks of blood that had sprayed from the throat of the guard in the medical room. The entire detention facility was placed under complete lockdown. According to the security protocols of the United States Department of Justice, a lawyer who witnessed a level four federal massacre like you could not move about freely. You were immediately placed under emergency witness protection.

​However, the FBI and the Department of Justice task force would absolutely not release Matt immediately. Therefore, he had to sit in an interrogation room, pretending to tremble and panic under the guise of a blind lawyer suffering from psychological trauma after the massacre.

​"You only have five minutes to gather your clothes and essentials, counselor," the police officer sitting in the passenger seat said, his voice muffled through the rear view mirror. "After that, we will take you to a heavily guarded safe hotel in Midtown."

​The car stopped in front of your building in Hell's Kitchen. Two NYPD officers stepped down first, their hands resting loosely on their holsters, escorting you through the dark lobby and the ancient elevator. Arriving at the apartment door, one of them motioned for you to turn the key.

​"We'll wait in the hallway. Hurry up."

​Hurriedly unlocking the three mechanical locks, you pushed the door open and stepped inside. The heavy slam of the wooden door behind you brought a small, false sense of security. The room was pitch black, with only the occasional flash of lightning outside casting pale streaks across the floor. You did not turn on the ceiling lights, only reaching out to switch on the small desk lamp in the corner of the living room. The weak yellow light was just enough for you to see the path into the bedroom.

​You walked quickly toward the closet, but your footsteps suddenly froze mid step. Your sense of smell, already strained after a night of horror, suddenly caught an out of place scent. It was not the damp rain of New York, nor was it the rotting wood smell of the apartment. It was the pungent scent of chlorine bleach mixed with the metallic rust of iron handcuffs, the exact smell of the disinfectant from the solitary confinement unit.

​A soft clink of porcelain echoed from the pitch black corner of the kitchen. You slowly turned your head, your heart leaping straight into your throat.

​Benjamin Poindexter was sitting right there. He had stripped off the orange prison uniform and was wearing a dark black turtleneck sweater that he had obtained from somewhere. However, the two iron handcuff rings were still clamped around his wrists, and the sawed off chains dangled, clinking gently every time he moved.

​On the dining table, a butter omelet, perfect to an extreme degree, was steaming hot under the streetlights filtering through the window pane. It was a flawless standard American breakfast.

"Dex... you..." You trembled, lowering your voice to the softest whisper, your eyes constantly glancing towards the front door. "The police... they're in the hallway! They only gave me five minutes to pack!" 

​"The two cops out in the hallway... they are the men of Fisk." Dex said in a low voice, flat and mechanically even, without a single hint of breathlessness from a man who had just escaped prison. "I checked their name tags through the gap in the window when your car just parked. They have no intention of taking you to a safe hotel, counselor. Your protection process... Fisk is pulling the strings."

​He stood up. The iron cuffs dragged against the wooden floor as he took a short step toward you.

​"Your petition failed." Dex whispered, smiling faintly. He stopped right at the edge of the safe distance, his freezing breath blowing against your face. "Murdock broke your straight line. Therefore, I had to create my own structure to survive. And as we agreed... I came to claim my breakfast from you, counselor."

The plate of eggs sat there, pale yellow and greasy, oozing a buttery liquid that glistened like the cold sweat of a dying man. Beside it, the angular face of Dex remained as still as a statue.

​The legal system you once worshipped like a religion, the sacred ideal you spent your entire youth protecting, turned out to be nothing more than a rotting machine. It had betrayed you. It had cast you into the darkness without a shred of hesitation.

​A cold emptiness expanded in your chest. As it turned out, your faith was nothing but a farce.

​You dragged your cold toes toward the dining table. The sound of the metal spoon scraping against the porcelain plate shrieked with a piercing, razor sharp edge.

​You scooped a corner of the egg. It was soft, slimy, and trembling on the tip of the spoon.

​Under the unblinking stare of Dex, his deep eyes locking onto your throat like two gun barrels, you forced the gelatinous mass into your mouth.

​The warm, thick, liquid butter immediately flooded your oral cavity, clinging tightly to every taste bud like a persistent layer of dead grease. It carried the faint, pungent, sulfurous odor of an overcooked egg yolk, blending with an artificial, sickly sweet taste that made your entire body shudder. Instantly, a violent self-defense reflex surged within you; your throat contracted severely, your esophagus clamping shut, firmly refusing to tolerate this humiliating food granted by the enemy. You wanted to vomit, desperately craving to spit this disgusting, slimy mess straight into his mocking, chiseled face. But you could not. Under the pinning, nailing gaze of Dex, you were forced to strain your neck, using the last fading remnants of your will to force your throat muscles to contract, laboriously pushing the slimy mass down into your esophagus.

​Dex watched you swallow, the corner of his lips curling into a trace of absolute satisfaction. Balance had been established.

​Right then, the door handle of the apartment subtly moved.

Exactly three minutes and twenty seconds. They did not wait for the full five minutes. The two corrupt police officers outside the door were using a master key to pick the lock.

​"Stand still right there." Dex whispered.

​He glided through the darkness, as silent and swift as a ghost. The iron handcuffs on his wrists made absolutely no sound due to the way he flexed his knuckles to secure the chain.

​The apartment door cracked open. The two police officers slipped inside, their gun barrels already aimed.

​"Lawyer, time is o-"

​Before the leading officer could finish his sentence, Dex acted. With a terrifying reflex, he swung his arm and hurled the metal fork from the dining table. The fork embedded itself straight into the back of the first man's gun hand, piercing through flesh and bone, pinning his hand firmly to the wooden door.

​Before the second man could comprehend the situation, Dex closed the distance. The iron chain between his wrists wrapped tightly around the officer's neck, jerking it violently backward. Snap. The second man collapsed onto the floor like a sandbag.

​While the first officer was frantically trying to pull the fork out, Dex had already picked up the Glock from the floor, slamming its heavy butt straight into the man's temple.

​Everything ended within four seconds. Two corpses lay motionless on the floor, blood beginning to pool onto the carpet.

​Dex stood in the middle of the pool of blood, his breathing not rushed by a single beat. He leisurely used the white napkin on the table to meticulously wipe away the blood splatters on his hands, then turned back to look at you, who was now crouching in the corner of the wall, your hands trembling violently.

​He stepped over the two corpses, walked up to you, and bent down to look straight into your eyes, which were vacant with horror. He raised his hand, lightly pressing the backlight button on the wristwatch of the police officer who had just died on the floor.

​The green digital numbers lit up in the dark. 04:15.

​Dex looked up, flashing a bright smile that sent a chill down your spine.

​"You still have exactly forty five seconds of that 'five minutes', counselor. Finish the rest of the egg, and then we will leave."

​The metal fork clattered onto the porcelain plate, the tiny sound swallowed by the thunder that had just ripped across the Hell's Kitchen sky. You could not swallow any longer. The rich taste of butter was now bitterly stagnant.

​Time was up. Your clean lawyer facade had officially shattered along with the two NYPD corpses lying on the floor.

​Dex did not wait for you to stand up on your own. He stepped forward, his large, cold, and rough hand grabbing your wrist. His grip was so powerful that it felt as if it would break bone, resolute and unshakeable. He pulled you up, snatched the coat off the hanging rack, and draped it over your shoulders.

​"Go through the back door." Dex ordered, his voice as flat as a programmer reading code. "The patrol car driver on the outer perimeter will radio for a check in in thirty seconds. When there is no response, he will sound the alarm for the entire area."

​He pushed you toward the floor to ceiling window leading to the fire escape balcony. The sawed off iron cuff on his wrist clinked against the glass door frame.

​​You were pushed out first. The wind and rain of New York immediately battered your face, freezing and stinging. The torrential rain washed away the fresh blood stains still clinging to the hem of your coat, but it could not wash away the heavy guilt weighing down your chest. You were fleeing. You were complicit with Bullseye.

​The ancient, rusty fire escape stairs of the building were slippery under the downpour. You trembled as you descended each step, both hands gripping the freezing handrail. Right behind you, Dex moved with a strange rhythm. Due to his rigid steel spine after his injury, he could not bend his body flexibly; he walked with his entire upper torso kept absolutely straight, yet the speed and precision in every footstep of a former FBI assassin were still terrifyingly swift.

​He held the captured Glock in one hand, while his other hand constantly gripped the fabric of your coat, keeping you at a distance of no more than half a meter.

​"Watch the fourth step ahead." Dex whispered right against your neck, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain. "The iron bar has a loose bolt. Do not step on the center."

​You subconsciously complied. What else could you do now? He knew the structure of your building better than you did yourself.

​When both of you landed in the dark alley behind the building, the water was ankle-deep. The pale yellow streetlights at the end of the alley were fractured into blurry streaks of light by the curtain of rain. Right at that moment, the rapid blare of sirens echoed from afar. The local police had begun to surround the area.

​"Dex... where are we going?" You screamed into the howling wind, your entire body shivering violently from the cold and panic. "This entire city is Fisk's territory! The police, the FBI, every single corner..."

​"Fisk checks the main routes. He monitors the administrative camera systems." Dex stood shielding your body, his pale grey eyes scanning the darkness of the alley, searching for the blind spots of the security cameras. He curled his lips, a wild, maniacal smile appearing in the rain. "But he can not check the straight lines that I draw myself. Follow me."

​He pulled you into an underground passage leading down to the old technical piping system of Hell's Kitchen, a place abandoned by cable workers from the previous decade. The thick darkness swallowed both of you.

At the Special Investigation Room of the ESH Prison.

​Matt Murdock slammed both hands heavily onto the interrogation table, causing the paper coffee cup to topple over, the brown liquid staining across the stack of reports.

​"I told you! I am a fucking blind man!" Matt gasped, his voice cracking from extreme agitation and outrage, his eyes trembling behind the dark red lenses. "I heard the scuffle, the sound of iron chains, then the sound of spraying blood! You're the FBI, why did you let such a dangerous inmate access the medical room?! Where is my co-counsel? Has she been taken to a safe place?!"

​"Mr. Murdock, calm down. Two of our finest NYPD officers have taken her home to pack her things before heading to Midtown..." The federal agent sitting opposite said coldly.

​Matt did not listen to him anymore. He completely ignored the reality in this room.

​Daredevil's hearing was frantically pushing to its absolute maximum, despite the splitting headache caused by the sirens surrounding the prison. He filtered through the sound of the rain, filtered through the car engines, fixing the frequency onto your specific heartbeat, the heartbeat whose every rhythm he had memorized during those long days working together in DUMBO.

​And then, Matt caught it.

​Your heartbeat was racing at a frequency of 150 beats per minute, agitated, terrified, flooded with adrenaline. But it was not in a patrol car heading toward Midtown. It was moving underground. It was fleeing.

​And right beside your heartbeat was another entity. A heartbeat so monstrously flat, slow, and steady like a machine. The heartbeat of Benjamin Poindexter.

​Matt Murdock froze. His hands clenched tightly together under the table to the point that his knuckles cracked, blood from the old wound on the back of his hand oozing out, soaking his shirt. A terrifying sense of helplessness crashed down. He was being detained here under the guise of a poor blind lawyer, while the most vicious demon in New York had officially kidnapped his colleague, the one he had silently protected for so long, and plunged into the darkness.

​"Murdock? Do you hear what I am saying?" the agent asked.

Noxbert tried, at first, to keep your schedule humane, leaving that familiar hour of empty space between obligations, a quiet pocket he always insisted you needed to unwind, but you cut through those gaps without hesitation, instructing him to fill them, then fill the edges, then the margins too.

Petty matters you once dismissed with a wave of your hand suddenly demanded personal oversight. Minor reports that could have waited days - all of it became urgent, necessary, immediate.

Paperwork stacked like barricades. Meetings blurred into one another until time stopped feeling linear and instead became a long, continuous stretch of obligation, measured only by the dull ache behind your eyes and the stiffness settling into your shoulders.

It helped, in the blunt, numbing way of pressing ice to a bruise. If you were working, you weren’t thinking; if you were surrounded by tasks, you weren’t alone with memory.

More importantly, you didn’t see them.

Days passed, more than a few, fewer than you wanted to count; marked only by the growing disarray of your room and the way your reflection looked incrementally more worn each time you caught it in passing glass.

The hotel became a place you moved through like a ghost with an agenda, present in body but absent in every other sense.

And so the days folded into each other, indistinct and heavy, until nearly two weeks had slipped past, measured only by the deepening hollows beneath your eyes and the growing pile of unattended feelings.

There were evenings, if they could still be called, that in a place where time bent strangely when you returned from yet another failed attempt to negotiate your way back into the castle, pride swallowed and hope worn thin.

Satan had been immovable, almost amused in his refusal, insisting you were “more useful where you are,” as though exile were a management strategy and not a sentence. Those walks back always felt longer than they were, your steps heavy, thoughts grinding in tired circles.

You would enter through the hotel doors already half-turned toward the staircase, intent on disappearing before anyone could stop you, but Husk was persistent in the quiet, unspoken way of bartenders who have seen too much.

He’d already be watching, a glass in hand, posture casual but eyes sharp, and without a word he’d offer a drink like it was simply the next logical step in a routine neither of you had officially agreed to.

Every time, you meant to refuse. Every time, you didn’t. You would veer toward the bar instead, trading the promise of sleep for the burn of something amber and unforgiving sliding down your throat.

Sometimes Angel drifted over in a blur of perfume and forced brightness, laughter spilling too loudly, gestures too animated, the performance just a shade too polished to be real, and Cherri followed like a spark, all color and motion and restless energy; yet even together they never quite crossed the invisible boundary around you.

Their conversations bent away at the last second, curling around your space instead of entering it, like water diverting around a stone lodged stubbornly in the middle of a stream.

And sometimes he would join too.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the slow warmth sitting low in your stomach and softening the hard edges of the day. The stale layering of nicotine in your lungs. The sheer exhaustion that made everything feel a second too slow, a shade too heavy, like the world had dipped underwater and sound had to travel further to reach you.

Paperwork still clung to your mind in ghostly columns and signatures, Satan’s voice echoed in the back of your skull with that infuriatingly composed cadence, and some ridiculous Goetic rumor replayed in fragments… but all of it felt distant compared to the presence at your side.

Husk’s voice drifted in and out of focus across the bar, low and gravel-edged as he rambled about alcohol like it was an old friend he both respected and resented, polishing a glass with the kind of absent precision that came from years of repetition. You nodded at the right moments without really hearing him, because your intoxicated attention kept circling back, helpless and unashamed, to him.

Trying to define him felt like trying to pin down a live wire with bare hands; he was noise wrapped in polish, ego given sentience.

During the day, your interactions with him had always been a collision course, sharp words traded with surgical precision, each of you instinctively zeroing in on the other’s weakest seams just to watch the reaction spark.

But here… in the low amber glow of the bar, he seemed… like a version of himself running on an alternate setting, as if someone had reached behind the glass of his grin and flipped a hidden switch, or cut a cable that powered the louder, crueler parts of him.

The arrogance was still there, the self-importance threaded through every movement, but it was muted, redirected into something almost – dangerously - neighboring to consideration.

It didn’t make him less of a bastard; it just made him a different flavor of one. And that near-gentleness appearing, unsettled you more than the shouting ever had.

Your head rested on your folded arms against the bar, posture loose with fatigue, which left you with the perfect angle to look up through your lashes without moving anything else.

It was a quiet, indulgent vantage point, one that made observation feel almost secret, even though you were only inches away.

You tracked the subtle shifts in his posture when he leaned back, the way his shoulders rolled in a stretch, the faint flicker of expression across his screen when Husk said something dry enough to earn it.

Every detail felt amplified, like your senses had narrowed their focus down to just this - him, the smoke, the heat of the bar, the slow pulse in your own veins.

You should look away.

You knew that in the same detached, logical part of your mind that handled schedules and politics.

But your gaze lingered anyway, dipping, climbing, tracing, curiosity sliding into something heavier, warmer, a pull that had nothing to do with scheme and everything to do with the way proximity made your skin feel a size too small. There was something dangerous about how still you stayed, how openly you watched, like you were daring him to notice, to call you out – to snap.

Instead, you just breathed him in again, slow and quiet, letting the haze of smoke and heat and exhaustion blur the line between caution and want, aware on some instinctive level that you were inching closer to something that could burn - and not moving back in the slightest.

It felt like standing at the edge of something you knew had teeth and leaning forward regardless, compelled by the simple, fatal urge to understand what might happen if you reached out just a little further - because curiosity, as the saying went:

Killed the cat.

As much as you would have given to be anywhere but sunk into the living room sofa, you didn’t have a real alternative, and that helplessness sat heavier than your own body.

Noxbert had made an honest attempt to dig up some errand, some diplomatic nuisance, some meaningless stack of obligations that could justify your absence from the hotel, but the day had come up empty, and you had nothing resembling a hobby to serve as an excuse to wander off on your own. The other ways you might have distracted yourself… were off the table for now, leaving you stranded in the worst presence possible:

Charlie’s.

Her voice carried through the room, bright and animated as she stood near the center, gesturing with open hands like she was trying to physically shape hope out of the air, and you didn’t dare look at her for longer than a fraction of a second.

The scar was healed, technically - regeneration had done its job - but it remained etched across her like a memory that refused to fade, pale and unmistakable, and every time your gaze so much as brushed it, something in your chest seized.

It felt like thorns had taken root behind your ribs, twisting tighter - nausea rolled low in your stomach, sharp and humiliating, as though your body itself rejected the sight.

So you kept your head down and focused on your hands, on the small, controllable damage there.

The skin around your nails was raw and uneven, chewed and torn into tender crescents that stung in the open air, and you worried at them without thinking, picking and pulling until a fresh sting flared and a bead of red welled up.

The sight of it grounded you in a way nothing else in the room did, your pupils narrowing as your attention tunneled down to that single point of color, that simple, understandable pain. You brought your finger to your mouth on instinct, tasting iron as you sucked the spot clean, wincing at the metallic sharpness that should have been familiar by now but still made your jaw tighten.

The cycle repeated, quiet and compulsive, your world shrinking to skin and breath and the faint hum in your ears, until Charlie’s voice cut through the fog much closer than before.

“Are you listening to me?”

You startled hard enough that your shoulders jerked, your head snapping up before you could stop yourself, and there she was: head tilted, concern softening her expression as she said your name like it might break if she handled it wrong.

Your eyes betrayed you for a split second, flicking to the scar before you yanked them away, latching onto a crooked pattern in the rug as if it were suddenly fascinating.

You nodded quickly, a small, strained sound slipping from your throat in place of actual words, the gesture automatic, desperate to smooth over the moment, to make it seem like you were present, like you weren’t quietly unraveling just a few feet away.

“Might need to install some new ears for this one, ha!” Alastor chimed, his voice bright and syrup-smooth as ever, the joke tossed into the room like a coin he fully expected someone to scramble for.

No one did.

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic or shocked; it was the tired, collective quiet of people who had simply chosen not to engage, and that, more than any insult, seemed to needle him. The corners of his smile stretched a touch wider, too polished to be natural, as his gaze slid sideways and landed on Vox.

From the moment Vox had stepped into the room at Charlie’s request: gathering, as she called it.

Alastor had been circling him conversationally, prodding, poking, laying out little verbal traps disguised as pleasantries.

Yet the banter had been entirely one-sided, a performance without a partner. Vox hadn’t so much as glanced at him, hadn’t crackled with static or flashed a single barbed retort, which was strange enough to feel like a glitch in reality.

He stood there with his usual sharp posture, screen-face dimmer than normal, attention seemingly elsewhere, as though Alastor were nothing more than background noise. No sparks of irritation, no smug electrical twitch…

Nothing.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed into thin red slits, ears angling back just slightly as his smile held, brittle at the edges.

Something had shifted in Vox, and he could smell it the way a predator scented a change in the wind.

Before he could dig his claws in further, Charlie clapped her hands together in the middle of the room, the sound bright.

Everyone flinched anyway. It wasn’t surprise so much as the universal, reflexive response of ‘Oh Satan, what now…’

“Thank you everybody for coming!” she beamed, rocking slightly on her heels with barely contained excitement. “I’m so excited for this idea that Vaggi and Dad helped me put together. It’s going to be a really fun way for us to spend more time together!”

A low, theatrical groan slipped from somewhere near the couches, Angel, most likely, while Husk muttered into his drink, “Last time she said that, I ended up in a trust fall with a guy who has eight knives.”

Vaggi stepped forward and handed Charlie a box that looked like it had lost a fight with a craft store. It was wrapped in festival colors, glitter catching the light, little cutout butterflies and aggressively cheerful notes glued to every available surface. Something about it radiated forced bonding.

Charlie took it with reverence and gave it an eager shake, the sound of folded paper rattling inside drawing everyone’s attention whether they wanted it or not. “I’ll come to you, you will reach inside the box and pull out a piece of paper. Read the name that’s written for yourself.”

Charlie’s instruction lingered in the air and for a moment the only sound in the room was the faint rustle of paper being unfolded, the soft drag of claws, fingers, and talons creasing delicate slips.

Vox looked down first, ever efficient, the motion precise and economical as he opened his paper with two fingers like he was reviewing a contract rather than participating in a bonding exercise. The glow of his screen dimmed a notch as the name registered. His shoulders rolling back as if he’d just adjusted an invisible tie. When he looked up again, his expression was curated neutrality.

A few steps away, Alastor unfolded his slip with theatrical delicacy, grin already in place, but the moment his eyes scanned the name, something sharp and electric snapped behind them. One eye twitched - not enough to break the smile, but enough to strain it - his pupils narrowing into pinpricks.

Lucifer, by contrast, had been slouched in easy indifference, slip dangling between his fingers, until he actually bothered to read it. Then, almost unconsciously, he straightened. Subtle correction of posture, like a king reminded of a responsibility he couldn’t afford to treat like a joke.

And then there was you.

The paper felt wrong in your hand from the moment you unfolded it, the edges too sharp, the weight disproportionate to its size, as if the name written there carried gravity all its own.

When your eyes landed on it, your breath caught - not loud, not dramatic, just a small, stolen hitch that tightened your chest. Heat crawled up your neck as if someone had whispered a secret directly against your skin, and suddenly you were acutely aware of the room, of where he stood, of the faint ozone tang that always seemed to follow him like a signature.

Your fingers curled slightly around the slip, crinkling it before you forced them to loosen, smoothing the paper like you could smooth your expression along with it. Your pulse had picked up, an uneven rhythm that thudded behind your ribs, and you hated how your gaze tried to drift in his direction on instinct, like a compass needle pulled to magnetic north. You kept your head down a fraction too long, pretending to reread the name, committing every letter to memory even though it had already carved itself somewhere much deeper.

Across the room, blissfully unaware Charlie beamed at all of you, convinced this was working exactly as planned, while tension threaded through the group.

Vox spoke first, voice dry, edged with his usual electronic distortion. “And now what?”

Before Charlie could answer, Alastor leaned slightly into the space between them, grin stretched wide enough to show teeth. “Oh, don’t tell me the illustrious Vox requires further instruction. Should we fetch a diagram? Perhaps a tutorial program?” His tone was honeyed mockery, every word placed with surgical precision.

Vox didn’t even turn his head. No spark, no retort, not even the courtesy of eye contact; just a deliberate, infuriating lack of reaction, like Alastor had spoken into dead air.

Alastor’s smile twitched at the corner.

Lucifer, watching the exchange with open amusement, let out a soft chuckle and tilted his head toward Alastor. “Careful, Radio,” he drawled, voice smooth with lazy delight, “you keep trying that hard and someone might mistake it for effort.”

Alastor’s gaze slid to him, grin sharpening. “Perish the thought, Your Majesty. I would never compete with your natural talent for being effortlessly insufferable.”

Charlie clapped her hands once, the sound bright and sharp, slicing through the brewing tension. “Okay! So! That name you just read?” She held up her own slip like a prize. “That is the person you’ll be giving a Secret Satan to!”

You blinked, the words taking a second to land through the haze in your head. “Secret… Satan?” you echoed, the name feeling strange in your mouth.

Angel leaned sideways in his seat, four arms gesturing at once. “Is that, like, Christmas but make it trauma?”

“A what now?” Alastor repeated smoothly, though the glint in his eyes said he absolutely didn’t intend to enjoy whatever this turned into.

“It’s like Secret Santa! But, y’know- us. You’ll do something nice for that person. A gift, a gesture, something thoughtful.” She rocked slightly on her heels, then added with bright finality, “During the week we’ll have some group or team exercises to build up bonding and get to know each other more. I’ll make sure everybody will be available for it.”

Silence.

It fell so immediate and so complete it almost rang, the kind that didn’t mean agreement but the exact opposite; like the second after a bomb landed but before the sound caught up.

Husk was the one who broke.

He dragged a claw down his face, ears twitching in tired resignation, the paper already crumpling slightly between his fingers. “Fine,” he muttered, “I’ll do it. Don’t expect glitter and a damn musical number outta me, though.”

Angel perked up instantly, pointing at him. “Aww, c’mon, Whiskers, you’d look cute covered in glitter-”

“Finish that sentence,” Husk warned flatly. (a/n: I told you we needed more glitter.)

Vox adjusted the line of his sleeve with deliberate precision, screen casting a soft, “Of course I’ll participate,” he said smoothly, tone almost pleasantly neutral. “If the Princess believes it will improve morale, who am I to stand in the way of progress?” The faintest curl of something smug touched his mouth, polished cooperation wrapped so neatly it almost passed for sincerity. Charlie beamed at his enthusiasm.

Across the room, Lucifer watched with open amusement, while you could feel the tension humming like static along the edges of the space, everyone speaking over each other now.

Alastor didn’t raise his voice.

He simply laughed, soft and bright, a sound that didn’t match the way his eyes had gone sharp. “Oh, my dear,” he said, tipping his head toward Charlie with theatrical fondness, “I do adore enthusiasm. It’s such a charming substitute for feasibility.” His smile never faltered, but there was iron underneath it now. “However, I do believe I’ll abstain.”

Charlie blinked. “W-what? But it’s for-”

“-bonding, yes, yes, absolutely delightful,” he cut in, already turning on his heel, coat swaying with the motion. “Do enjoy your forced camaraderie. I’ll be cheering from a very comfortable distance.”

“Yeah, walk away Bambi!” Lucifer added, Alastor gritted his teeth even more.

“Alastor-!” Charlie called after him, but he was already walking, unhurried, cane tapping once against the floor as he exited, the door clicking shut behind him with a final, polite sound that somehow felt more defiant than a slam.

Charlie inhaled.

“Okay!” she chirped, clapping once, the sound a little too bright in the wake of that exit. “So, as I said… during the week we’re going to have some group and team exercises to build up more bonding and actually get to know each other. I’ll make sure everybody will be available for it.”

You shifted your weight, fingers curling slightly at your sides as you cleared your throat, already reaching for the safest shield you had. “Uh- I might have meetings and things, so-”

“You won’t,” Charlie said gently, almost apologetically, “I had it all sorted out.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Your head lifted, eyes narrowing a fraction. “What?”

She held your gaze, “I made sure you wouldn’t be able to keep avoiding me. Or… us. In general.”

It didn’t feel like an accusation. That almost made it worse.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the instinct to bolt. For a moment it looked like you might argue, might push back out of reflex alone - but the fight drained before it could fully form. Your shoulders sagged a fraction.

“You know what,” you muttered, a breath of air leaving you in something that almost resembled a humorless laugh, “fair play.” You tilted your head slightly, gaze dropping to the slip of paper still in your hand before lifting again. “I’ll indulge in this. For work reasons. To do my job.”

Your tone was flat, rehearsed.

“No other reason.”

But your eyes betrayed you.

They flickered, brief, involuntary; across the room to where Vox stood, posture composed as ever, screen glowing in that steady, unreadable way of his. The glance lasted less than a second, but it was enough to feel like you’d exposed something fragile, something you didn’t even have a name for.

“Great!” she said, brightness returning full force as she clapped her hands again, reclaiming the room inch by inch. “This is going to be good. You’ll see!”

By the time the first week bled into the second, Charlie’s “bonding exercises” had stopped sounding like a suggestion and started feeling like a scheduled inevitability, each evening carved out with the same relentless cheer that made refusal feel like kicking a puppy. One attempt after another unfolded in the lounge, all of them supposedly designed to help everyone “connect,” to find some scrap of common ground sturdy enough to build a thoughtful Secret Satan gift on, though in practice it felt more like controlled detonation in a velvet-lined room.

Monopoly night was where the illusion of control died completely.

The coffee table had been dragged to the center, the board spread out like a battlefield map, its cheerful colors a violent contrast to the personalities hunched around it. The overhead lights reflected off polished tokens and glossy cards, little plastic houses standing in neat rows that would not stay neat for long.

Charlie had insisted on teams at first; that lasted all of three minutes before territorial instincts overrode cooperation and everyone defaulted to personal battles.

Alastor, who had loudly declared he had “better ways to spend an evening than simulating capitalism,” had still somehow ended up seated at the table, cane hooked over the back of his chair, smile stretched just a little too wide.

The only reason he was there at all was because Lucifer had taken the empty seat beside him with a look of pointed innocence, and the competitive glint that sparked in Alastor’s eyes had been impossible to resist. If he was going to suffer, he was at least going to make it entertaining.

Vox, for his part, treated the game like a corporate acquisition.

Within the first circuit of the board, properties had begun disappearing under his control with quiet, methodical efficiency, hotels rising in ruthless little clusters while everyone else was still arguing about railroads.

You, meanwhile, had been handed the role of banker. Charlie’s attempt at “neutral responsibility”. Which in practice meant you were buried in pastel paper money, fingers thumbing through fake bills while real arguments detonated inches from your face. The irony of being the financial authority in a game built on fictional currency was not lost on you, but it did give you something to focus on besides the rising volume.

Husk had been sent to jail so many times it stopped being misfortune and started feeling personal, his token barely making it halfway around the board before getting slammed back behind bars.

Angel had promptly declared the jail square “not so bad, actually,” and made a theatrical show of joining him there whenever possible, draping himself across the edge of the board with exaggerated boredom and commentary that only made Husk grumble harder.

Cherri, true to form, had lost interest almost immediately and was sprawled sideways on the couch, chin in her hand, watching the chaos with the lazy amusement of someone attending a live-action soap opera.

At the center of the storm, Charlie and Vaggi hovered like overworked referees, sorting Chance and Community Chest cards with tight smiles, stepping in whenever voices rose too sharply or hands started gesturing a little too aggressively over the board. They weren’t preventing conflict so much as keeping it from turning physical.

Lucifer leaned forward in his chair, wings tense at his back, one gloved hand braced flat on the table as though physically grounding himself in reality. His other hand hovered over the board, finger stabbing toward a square with sharp, incredulous emphasis.

“I didn’t stand on your property!”

Alastor looked like he was having the time of his life.

“I beg to differ, my king,” he said smoothly, voice syrup-thick with false politeness. One clawed finger hovered just above the board, circling the space without touching it. “You are very clearly sitting on the Radio Demon’s spot.”

Lucifer stared at him, jaw tightening. “That is not your property.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Oh, but it is. Bought and paid for. Receipts available upon request.”

“You moved the token,” Lucifer shot back, wings giving a sharp, irritated twitch. “You absolutely moved it when I wasn’t looking.”

Alastor placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Sir, I am wounded. Accused of cheating at a wholesome family activity.”

“You are so fucking infuriating and to think I- ugh!” Lucifer dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose like he was physically restraining himself from flipping the board.

Meanwhile, Alastor’s grin only widened, eyes bright with predatory amusement as he tapped the edge of the disputed square with one claw.

“Rent, your highness,” he said pleasantly. “Or shall we discuss foreclosure?”

The argument on the other side of the table had risen to such a sustained, grating pitch that it no longer sounded like individual voices but a single, continuous wall of noise.

Vox sat beside you, posture unusually stiff, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before he stopped himself, the screen of his face flickering faintly with visual static that betrayed his thinning patience. His gaze stayed fixed forward, but his expression furrowing in a way that made it clear he was one more accusation away from short-circuiting.

“I wish I had earmuffs to drone this out,” he muttered, voice pitched low enough to be for you alone, though the irritation in it buzzed like a live wire.

You didn’t look away from the board, absently straightening a stack of pastel bills in front of you. “Can’t you, like, deafen?”

Vox turned his head a fraction, one brow lifting. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be able to play the game and know when it’s my turn.”

You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Can’t you put on, like, subtitles or some shit?”

His screen-face angled toward you fully now, disbelief flattening his tone. “Do I look like a telenovela to you?”

Your mouth twitched. “I mean, you look like the tele part.”

A quiet, surprised chuckle slipped out of him before he could stop it, the sound low and brief, like it had escaped through a crack in his usual composure.

You nudged the dice a little closer to your side of the table. “I’ll tell you when it is, and you can undeafen.”

He studied you for a second, then gave a small, conceding tilt of his head, like this was a business arrangement he could live with. “Alright…” A beat passed, his fingers tapping once against the table again close to yours. “Can I… ask for a loan?”

“No.”

The next attempt at “bonding” came with cheap canvases, and the faint chemical smell of paint clinging to the air, as Charlie announced that everyone would be painting each other’s portraits based on another round of blindly drawn names. Easels have been placed and jars of cloudy water set out beside mismatched palettes.

You sat hunched over your canvas, brush hovering midair as you squinted across the room at a very specific, infuriatingly distinctive deer-shaped silhouette. Translating Alastor’s sharp, theatrical angles and perpetual grin into something that didn’t look like a crime against anatomy was proving impossible; the longer you stared, the worse it got, until the figure on your canvas devolved into a vaguely antlered, aggressively red blob with an expression that looked less charmingly sinister and more like it had crawled out of a child’s nightmare.

Your tongue caught at the corner of your mouth in deep concentration as your gaze flicked from your subject to the canvas and back again. “I’m not the best at this…” you murmured under your breath, voice low and distracted, as if admitting it too loudly might make the painting worse out of spite.

“Hm. That looks fine to me.”

Vox had leaned in from the stool beside you, close enough that you could feel the faint, static-tinged hum of him at your side, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he angled his screen toward your canvas. One eye narrowed while the other widened, the expression oddly clinical, like he was running a visual scan to determine whether your abstract horror qualified as a recognizable likeness.

Your eyes widened slightly at his verdict, pupils dilating in surprise as you looked up at him. “Is… that a compliment?” The tentative smile that pulled at your mouth carried more disbelief than hope, as though you were testing the idea out loud.

Vox’s screen snapped toward you a second too late, as if only just realizing how close he’d drifted. He cleared his throat, a small, artificial sound then straightened abruptly on his stool, turning back to his own canvas with exaggerated focus. “No,” he said, the word slipping out through his teeth. “I said it was fine. Didn’t say it was nice.”

He dipped his brush into his palette with more force than necessary, dragging a few sharp strokes across his painting before his gaze flicked sideways again, catching you still watching him. The glow of his screen shifted, tinting a faint, telltale lighter blue.

“Just meant,” he added, voice lower now, almost defensive, “it captures the radio-headed slut perfectly.”

You leaned back on the stool until it balanced on two legs, tail curling loosely around the stool’s legs, your posture deceptively relaxed while your attention remained fixed across the room.

Lucifer and Alastor had migrated far from the painting stations, their “artistic differences” having devolved into open warfare near the far wall, bright smears of color marking the battlefield around them.

Your head tilted as you watched them, eyes narrowing in analytical curiosity rather than concern. “Why do you two carry enough tension to rupture tectonic plates,” you muttered, “Feels like I missed a chapter.”

A wet splat echoed faintly from across the room, followed by Lucifer’s indignant snarl and Alastor’s delighted, static-laced laughter. You didn’t look away, just grimaced slightly when a streak of violent yellow joined the red already matting into the Radio Demon’s hair.

“Guess you missed a part in your notes where it said about 70 years of rivalry.” Vox simply uttered.

“Not in my files,” you added, almost absently. “Hell’s.”

Beside you, Vox’s brush stopped moving.

“Hells?” he repeated, tone sharpening.

You finally shifted, one arm lifting as you gestured vaguely through the air, and a holographic book shimmered into existence between you.

“Everything that happens here gets logged,” you explained, voice casual, almost bored with the enormity of it. “Deals, wars, alliances, personal histories while you’re active. Hell keeps receipts.”

“When a sinner’s gone for good,” You snapped your fingers, the book shuddered, then burst apart in a silent flare of light, fragments dissolving into nothing. “their record goes with them.”

The room still sounded like a paint-based homicide in progress, but Vox had gone completely motionless beside you. His screen glow dimmed, then sharpened, attention locked squarely on you.

“You can access all of that…” he said quietly.

“I can access everything. Comes with the crown.”

His gaze dipped, unfocused for a second, in his hand replacing the brush was the unmistakable outline of a crown forming. His pupils widened, light intensifying, hunger bleeding through the polished surface he usually wore so well. A low, electronic chuckle slipped from his vents, distorted at the edges, threaded with something old and ambitious.

‘And when I look into your future,’A distant smoothing voice, something almost intimate, in Vox’s mind whispered, ‘…it’s the crown that I see!’

He lingered on the image, indulging the fantasy of weight in his hands, of metal and authority fitting where it always should have been, until your voice cut clean through it.

“Let me see yours.”

The crown shattered back into reality; brush, palette, canvas, just as your hand entered his field of vision.

Vox turned sharply, nearly knocking his stool off balance as he caught your wrist mid-motion, stopping you from rotating the easel toward yourself. His grip was firm, fingers cool and smooth against your warmer skin, and a faint flicker of static snapped between you on contact.

“No.” he said, flat and immediate.

Your eyelids lowered to a half-lidded, unimpressed stare. “Oh, come on. I won’t laugh-”

He arched a brow.

“-you probably have more artistic talent than me.”

“What makes you think that?” His tone was dry, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Instead of pulling away, you leaned in further, stubbornness settling into your posture as your fingers tried to tip the canvas anyway. “Don’t know. Gut feeling. Now let me see!”

“No.” His hand tightened just enough to be a warning, the word firmer this time.

You held his gaze, a silent standoff passing between you, tension coiling tight and quiet. Then the corner of your mouth lifted.

Vox’s eyes widened.

From the floor beside his stool, a thorned vine burst upward without a sound, coiling around the base of the easel and wrenching it sideways in one smooth, decisive motion, turning the canvas toward you before he could react.

“WAIT-”

The protest tore out of him too late.

You faced the painting, eyes widening as recognition hit, while Vox released your hand as though the contact had suddenly burned. He twisted his screen away, angling himself sharply, but not before you felt the faint heat radiating from his vents brush your skin.

The portrait was you.

Color softened every edge, bleeding gentle light into your features in a way reality never did. You looked almost celestial, something you decidedly were not.

The brushwork wasn’t perfect, some strokes hesitant, others uneven, colors blending where they shouldn’t; but the overall effect was unbearably tender. Your profile, caught mid-focus, eyes trained on your own canvas, lips parted just enough for the tip of your tongue to press against the corner in concentration.

So thats was why he had been looking at you.

He had captured the slight scrunch of your nose when you focused or unconsciously did after taking a swig of burning alchohol, the curve of your lashes from the side when you fell asleep at the bar, the quiet intensity you never noticed yourself wearing.

It was intimate in a way that felt accidental and deeply intentional all at once.

Like he’d seen something you never meant to show.

You didn’t speak at first. The room noise dulled, voices turning to a distant hum under the rush in your ears. The corner of your lip twitched.

“Is that me?”

Vox’s gaze shifted back a fraction, cautious, braced for mockery, but what he found stalled him.

Your gaze was already angled towards his.

Your eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide, something heated and unmistakably sinful pooling there, raw and unfiltered.

Sin lived in that look, bold and unapologetic, but it wasn’t empty hunger.

Beneath it, threading through the heat, was something disarming - softness, almost wonder, like you were seeing yourself through his eyes and didn’t know what to do with the gentleness of it.

Your smirk curved slow and dangerous, all sharp edges and promise, while the outer corners of your eyes creased with something quieter, warmer. It was contradiction made flesh; temptation and tenderness occupying the same breath, predator and something almost fragile sharing the same gaze.

For a brief, stuttering second, Vox’s screen flickered, systems straining to categorize the look and failing. Whatever passed across your face wasn’t loud enough to name, only felt… like the promise of something that could be gentle or ruinous, and no clear line between the two.

He found his gills gasping for air underneath his shirt.

Oh, what a sinful sight you were.

Your sudden laugh snapped the tension like a wire pulled too tight.

“Pfft- why is my nose like that?” you burst out, pointing at the canvas, shoulders shaking with bright, unrestrained amusement.

Vox blinked. His display held that faint, tinted light blue, the color deepening unevenly across the glass. “You said you wouldn’t laugh…”

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, still grinning, voice softening as your gaze dragged back over the painting. “You definitely have a secret talent…” Each word left your mouth slow, lips shaping the syllables with absentminded care. His eyes locked onto the movement, unblinking, while warm air pulsed from his vents against your side in uneven bursts.

You finally turned your head toward him. He went still.

“You should keep it hidden.”

The sentence landed gently, but it hit like a stone through glass. His thoughts seemed to fracture behind his screen, attention snagging on the curve of your smile: mischief laced through something almost fond.

You kept giggling under your breath, studying the portrait again like you’d stumbled on a secret you planned to pocket.

“You-” he started, voice tightening.

You only laughed harder.

A blur of motion- his hand shot out, seizing the blue paint tube he’d set down moments ago. Before you could react, he squeezed, flinging a bold streak of color across your canvas. Blue swallowed the image in one violent splash, droplets freckling your cheek.

Your smile dropped. You stared at the ruined painting, the faint outline of the red, cat-like caricature still barely visible beneath the smear.

“THE FUCK?!-”

You spun toward him. He held the paint tube aloft like a trophy, sharp grin splitting wide across his screen.

“Payback.”

“Oh, is it now?!”

Your hand moved just as fast, fingers dipping into a thick pool of red on your palette. In one smooth motion, you pressed your paint-slick palm right against his screen.

The print stamped there; bold, dripping, unmistakable.

His eyes blinked once behind the glass, momentarily obscured by the translucent smear, static crackling faintly at the edges as he processed the contact.

“You got some screen wipers?” you giggled, tilting your head, the corners of your lips twitching with mischief.

“Oh, it’s on,” he declared, voice low and confident, the faint static of his vents threading through the words like a warning.

From that moment on, there were no gentle strokes, no careful detailing. Your canvases remained untouched in any traditional sense.

Because why bother, when throwing paint at each other was far more satisfying?

Swipes of red, streaks of blue, splatters catching on skin and cheeks, laughter bouncing off the walls and mixing with the occasional sinister snicker. Behind your easels, the two of you were untouchable, a chaotic private world shielded from the others’ eyes.

By the time the circle formed to present everyone’s “masterpieces,” it was obvious neither of you had a single completed painting. You stood with your canvas tilted slightly, smirk tugging across your lips, blue paint smeared in your hair.

Vox, trapped in red streaks from your handprints along his body glared daggers back at you, his screen flickering in irritation.

Charlie’s latest team‑building masterpiece had been “Movie night.”

The living room had settled into an unfamiliar quiet. Lights dimmed, bodies draped over couches and armchairs, the glow of the television washing everything in cool blue. It should’ve been relaxing.

If the movie didn’t make you want to claw your eyes out.

You were slouched deep into the couch, legs stretched out, one arm hooked under your head as a makeshift pillow. Your gaze stayed fixed on the screen, but your expression had long since curdled into a grimace. Blue light flickered across your face, reflecting in your eyes as two brightly colored animated sharks confessed their feelings in voices so saccharine it made your teeth hurt.

“This movie is stupid,” you muttered flatly.

“You are stupid.”

Your eyes slid sideways without moving your head, the look sharp enough to cut.

Vox sat pressed into the cushion beside you. He had somehow acquired a full shark onesie, hood pulled up so the plush fin flopped over the back of his head, framing his screen. In his arms, he clutched a mechanical shark plush like it was a priceless heirloom.

You scoffed, turning your head just enough to glare at him properly. “You look like a children’s aquarium gift shop exploded on you.”

“And yet,” he said smoothly, hugging the plush a little tighter, “I’m not the one losing a fight to a cartoon.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, then leaned a fraction closer, shoulder angling toward him. The room was too calm to break with raised voices, and annoyingly you didn’t want to be the one who ruined it. Your voice dropped to a whisper, low and venom-laced, meant only for him.

“It’s a love story about two animated sharks,” you hissed, eyes flicking back to the screen where the couple slow‑swam through glowing coral. “Charlie picked it because she can’t handle anything that isn’t animated like a damn fairy tale. She’s so fucking childish.”

Vox’s screen brightened a shade, amusement glitching at the edges. He leaned in just as subtly, your shoulders nearly touching now, his voice a quiet murmur threaded with static.

“And yet here you are,” he said. “Watching it. Quietly. Like a well‑behaved little royal.”

Your jaw tightened, “Still fucking stupid.”

“Okay, first of all, don’t insult sharks like that,” Vox said, turning his screen toward you so abruptly the flare of light made you squint. A laugh crackled through his speakers as he dimmed it back down. “And as much as I hate Charlie’s glittery enthusiasm and aggressively romantic movie picks, I actually approve of this one. The motif is inspirational.”

He gestured vaguely at the television, where the animated ocean shimmered in oversaturated blues.

Vox launched into a low, earnest ramble about migratory symbolism, partnership arcs, and “apex predator representation in media,” hands moving just enough to nearly drop the plush tucked under his arm.

You blinked at him, trying to decide if this was a bit.

“You really like sharks, huh?”

He looked at you with a flat, unblinking seriousness that stripped the sarcasm clean away. “Yes.”

Then he turned back to the screen, posture shifting as he settled in fully. The glow of the movie played across his display, and every time a shark filled the frame, his pupils widened a fraction, brightness ticking up like a system response he wasn’t bothering to hide.

You rested your head back into your palm again.

You had no idea what happened in the film for the next ten minutes. Dialogue passed, music swelled, some emotional turning point probably occurred but your attention stayed snagged on the subtle changes in his screen. The way his focus sharpened. The faint lift in his posture.

Each time his pupils dilated, you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

It was… weirdly endearing. In a pathetic way of course….

He reminded you of someone else.

The gentle banter… the rambling of their hyperfixations. The thought surfaced before you could stop it, tugging at something beneath your ribs. For a second, your chest gave a dull, unfamiliar throb.

You didn’t examine it. Just let a small smile press into your palm, gaze still fixed on him instead of the movie.

“Good to know,” you murmured under your breath, quiet enough that even he didn’t catch it.

Sinmas was creeping closer, and the relief you felt about that was almost suspicious.

It was strange.

Letting yourself feel anything at all. Your routine had loosened, the constant phantom ache in your throat gone, the invisible hand that used to squeeze your heart nowhere to be found. Even the nightmares had stopped. Stopped so completely you’d gone an entire day without remembering you’d ever had them.

That scared you more than the dreams ever did.

Because something in you - small, sharp, and patient - kept whispering that this was temporary. That when all of this ended, the quiet, the ease, the almost-happiness, everything would snap back like a stretched rubber band. That part of you dreaded it.

Another part of you couldn’t wait for things to go back.

So you settled in the middle, where you always did. Letting yourself indulge just a little longer. Just until it inevitably fell apart.

Tonight’s distraction was another “team bonding,” which in Hell translated to: competitive baking with emotional casualties.

Two long tables had been shoved together in the hotel kitchen. Ingredients covered every surface: flour already dusting the counters like fresh snow, bowls clanging, ovens preheating with low, ominous hums.

You stood at the head of your team’s table, a familiar cookbook hovering open beside you; the one the castle imps used whenever you wanted something sweet enough to rot teeth and mood alike.

Your team: Lucifer, Alastor, Husk, and Niffty.

Across the room, Vox’s team was already loud: Charlie, Cherri, Angel, Baxter… and Vox, of course, acting like this was a televised competition and he was both host and sponsor.

Vaggi had stationed herself as a judge, opting to just observe and manage the chaos from the side.

“Okay,” you said, eyes skimming the hovering recipe as the pages turned with a soft, papery whisper. “Niffty, I need stiff peaks on the egg whites. Husk, you’re on dry ingredients with her.”

Niffty snapped into a salute so sharp it looked painful. “On it, your highness! Hehehehe!” She snatched the bowl and whisk and zipped toward the fridge in a blur of pigtails and unhinged enthusiasm.

Husk didn’t bother looking up. He just gave a tired thumbs-up and reached for the flour like a man who had long ago accepted that Hell had a very specific sense of humor and he was the punchline.

You leaned closer to the book, scanning measurements, steps, timing. The filling. That was the heart of it- the part that would make or break everything. Your grip tightened slightly on the book’s spine.

“Alright, I’ll need someone on the filling…” you murmured, still reading. “Dad?”

Lucifer lit up instantly. “Yes?” The word came out hopeful, eager, a little too quick.

You froze.

It was small, barely a second, but your hands stilled on the book, a faint tremor running through your fingers before you forced them steady again. You didn’t look at him when you spoke next.

“Alastor. make the filling.”

Alastor appeared at your side like he’d been waiting for the cue, smile widening just a fraction. He leaned in, one gloved hand settling on your shoulder in a light, possessive pat, approval wrapped in politeness. The air around him crackled faintly.

“Why, of course, your highness,” he said smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”

Lucifer’s hands fumbled together in front of him, enthusiasm collapsing into uncertainty. “And- uh- well- what do I do?”

You turned a page. “What you’re best at.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

“Nothing.”

Lucifer winced but rallied with forced cheer. “Ah- well-- I could, perhaps, melt the chocolate? I’m quite good with- controlled heat.”

You gave a small shrug, still not meeting his eyes. “See if Alastor needs help.”

Lucifer hesitated, rubbing his arm where your almost-word still seemed to echo, then nodded too fast. “A-Alright.”

He moved toward Alastor’s station carefully, like someone stepping into a room where they weren’t sure they were welcome, while Alastor didn’t look up from the ingredients, only his smile sharpening as the bowl slid a little closer to his side of the counter.

You drifted to the other end of the long prep table, closer to the opposing team’s chaos, and set your bowl down with controlled precision, the metal cool beneath your palms as you began folding the batter in slow, steady turns.

The rhythmic motion should have grounded you, but your thoughts snagged elsewhere, circling that slip of the tongue from moments ago, the word you hadn’t meant to let out, the way it had almost felt natural. You scolded yourself in silence, jaw tight, eyes unfocused as the mixture thickened.

A soft whump broke your concentration.

Then another.

A pale cloud drifted down into your bowl like fresh snowfall.

You stilled, staring at the fine dust now coating the glossy surface of your batter, the smooth texture ruined by a scatter of dry clumps. For a second you just blinked, processing, before turning your head.

Vox stood at the station beside yours, sleeves metaphorically rolled, kneading dough against the floured counter with unnecessary force, every push sending another small explosion of white powder into the air. He didn’t look at you, but a sly, pixel-sharp smile curved across his screen.

“Could you possibly choose a different square meter of space to wage your flour war?” your voice low and controlled that was more threatening than shouting. You lifted the bowl slightly, showing him the damage. “You just wrecked my batter.”

He kept kneading the dough with exaggerated flair, elbows lifting high, (a/n: feeling like a Victorian man seeing ankles rn), shoulders rolling like he was performing for a camera crew only he could see

“Huh,” he said lightly, voice smooth with artificial innocence, tilting his screen just enough to acknowledge you without actually looking. “Weird. Must be interference, because all I’m detecting is loser commentary.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose. “Loser talk? Please. You’re just an egotistical prick with access to flour and an audience of imaginary fans.”

You turned back to your bowl, but the irritation didn’t dissolve, it settled low - simmering. The batter swirled thickly as you mixed, glossy and smooth… until your gaze flicked to the open flour bag by your elbow, then back to the pristine blue of his outfit.

The idea came fast.

Your fingers dipped into the bag.

The toss was almost lazy.

Flour burst against his chest and shoulders in a soft white bloom. It clung to the dark fabric of his clothes, outlined the edges of his frame, dusted his screen in a pale veil like fresh static.

His movements stalled.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head toward you.

You were already looking away, lips pressed together, shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter.

The pause stretched - then his expression shifted, surprise glitching into something sharp and delighted. He reached into the flour bag without breaking eye contact, fingers scooping deep.

You saw the motion from the corner of your eye and your stomach dropped. “Wait- wait, truce, okay? I was joking-”

You shut your eyes, one arm flying up to shield your face as your other hand lost the bowl. It slipped, hit the tile with a hollow clack, and rolled away.

…Nothing hit you.

Silence.

You cracked one eye open.

He was still standing there, arm raised, flour ready but unmoving. His grin had widened, sharp and smug, drinking in the way you’d flinched, the way your shoulders were still hunched in defense.

He hadn’t planned to throw it.

He wanted to sabotage you.

Your arm lowered slowly. You inhaled through your nose, slow and measured, flour-scented air filling your lungs, then exhaled just as controlled. “Yep,” you said evenly. “That’s it.”

His brow lifted. “That’s wh-”

A wet splat cut him off as whipped cream hit dead center on his display, sliding down in a slow, obscene drip.

You blinked.

Vox blinked, now partially frosted.

Both of you turned in eerie synchronization.

Charlie stood there, empty can in hand, shoulders bouncing with delighted giggles, eyes bright with the exact expression of someone who had just pressed a very large, very red button.

Everything unraveled after that, not in a sharp break but in a glorious, inevitable collapse - as if the night had simply been waiting for permission to lose its mind.

If anyone had scored the moment, it would’ve been something grand and absurdly elegant, strings swelling, violins liftin; Waltz of the Flowers drifting through the air while Hell’s most dysfunctional gathering descended into slow-motion culinary warfare.

Flour burst upward in soft white plumes, hanging in the light like snowfall. Eggs arced across the room in fragile, spinning trajectories, each one a doomed little planet. Milk sloshed in glossy waves over tile already slick with batter, butter skating off counters.

Alastor moved with eerie grace through the chaos, coat tails swaying as he ducked an egg Angel launched with wicked precision. The shell exploded against the wall behind him in a wet splatter. Lucifer, with all the confidence of a man who had not thought a single step ahead, dove sideways with a heroic gasp. “I’ll save you-!”

Tap.

Alastor’s cane clipped his shins with clinical efficiency.

Lucifer yelped and crumpled, clutching his leg. “I was helping!”

“How touching,” Alastor replied sweetly, already sidestepping another projectile. “Do try helping further away.”

Across the room, Cherri had both hands on a carton of milk, cackling as she dumped it straight over Husk’s head. It soaked into his fur, dripping from his ears and whiskers in miserable streams.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered, blinking through it while she howled with laughter.

You barely had time to process any of it because Charlie had decided you were her chosen target. She stood on the other side of a prep table, arm cocked back with terrifying athletic confidence, launching whipped cream in perfect, spiraling shots.

“HOW are you this accurate?!” you shouted, ducking as one sailed past your ear and detonated against a cabinet.

“Team spirit!” she called, already loading another handful.

Vox, apparently deciding this was a battle worth joining, made the critical mistake of stepping forward at speed!=

Right onto the milk-slick tile.

His foot shot out, balance gone in a split second, and he hit the floor face-first with a sharp smack, sliding a few inches through a tragic mix of dairy and flour.

There was a beat.

Then you and Charlie burst out laughing.

In the background, Niffty was shrieking at a pitch only dogs and the damned could hear, while Vaggi tried, and failed, to restore order over the sound of splattering ingredients and shouted profanity.

 Baxter, wisely and decisively, had evacuated the moment the first egg took flight. Survival instinct: impeccable.

The room filled with noise: mock outrage, cursing, breathless laughter, the wet slap of projectiles finding targets. Flour kept drifting down, soft and constant, until it really did feel like it was snowing indoors.

You broke into a sprint around the tables, shoes skidding slightly on the mess but never quite losing balance, laughter tearing out of you unchecked. Charlie chased immediately, just as breathless, just as bright, whipped cream still in her hand like a weapon of joy.

For a strange, fragile stretch of seconds, everything else fell away. The weight you usually carried, the sharp edges inside your chest, the things that waited in the quiet - went distant.

You weren’t a ruler, or a symbol, or a problem waiting to explode.

You were just running. You were having fun.

You were a kid again.

“Can’t catch me!” you yelled over your shoulder, voice rough with laughter, throwing a middle finger behind you without even looking.

“Oh yeah?!” Charlie shot back, pure delight in her voice.

You cut around the edge of another stainless-steel table, your momentum carrying you through the turn on instinct alone, soles skidding over tile glossed with spilled milk. Your hand skimmed the counter’s cold surface, fingers splaying for balance, and somehow you stayed upright, breathless laughter tearing out of you as adrenaline buzzed hot under your skin.

Behind you, Charlie followed without hesitation, bright and breathless, her laughter ringing higher than all the chaos that had filled the room minutes ago. Flour still dusted her hair like fresh snow, whipped cream streaked across her sleeve, and her smile - wide, unguarded, impossibly young - made something in your chest twist.

Her foot landed where yours had.

But you had shifted your weight.

She hadn’t.

The slip happened too fast to warn her.

Her heel slid. Her balance vanished. The sound of her hitting the floor landed a second late - loud, solid, sickening in a way no crash of dishes or thrown bowls had been. It cracked through the air and split the room clean in two.

Laughter died mid-breath. Ingredients stopped mid-flight. Even the music in your head cut to silence.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then she groaned.

You turned slowly, like the world had thickened into syrup around you. The metallic scent reached you before the sight did, sharp and unmistakable, slicing through sugar and dairy. Your eyes dropped to her as she pushed herself upright, palm slipping on the tile, the other hand brushing her forehead.

Red.

A thin line at first, then a slow trail slipping past her brow, down along her temple, catching in her lashes before falling.

Your vision tunneled.

The kitchen blurred at the edges, sound muffling into a distant, underwater hum. You didn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment she was across the room, the next your hands were on her. One at her forearm, one braced at her back, pulling her up with more force than you meant to.

“I’m okay-” she started, breathless and surprised.

You were already moving.

Your grip stayed locked around her arms as you steered her out, steps fast, purposeful, almost rough. Voices called her name behind you they felt miles away. The door to the smaller kitchen swung inward and shut behind you, muting the world to a dull, distant roar.

You sat her on a stool, hands hovering a second too long, as if letting go might make her collapse. Your eyes tracked the blood, the slow line of it, and something cold coiled under your ribs:

Fix it. Now.

You turned sharply, cabinets flying open one after another, doors slamming against tile. Your claws scraped metal handles as you tore through shelves with jerky, frantic movements. Your breath came too fast, too loud in the small space, shoulders tight enough to ache.

“Hey,” Charlie said gently behind you.

You didn’t hear her.

Another cabinet. Nothing.

You knew it was here, somewhere.

Another-

“Hey.”

Still nothing.

Then- there!

The med kit.

You yanked it down and dropped it on the counter with a hard crack, plastic bouncing once before you tore it open. Gauze ripped free under your shaking fingers, antiseptic already halfway uncapped-

“Stop.”

Your name followed, firmer. Grounding.

You froze mid-motion, shoulders locking, breath caught sharp in your chest. Slowly, like surfacing from deep water, you looked at her- not the wound.

Her.

She was watching you, not panicked, not scared- concerned. For you. As if she wasn’t the one bleeding.

“Sit down,” she said softly, but with a steadiness that left no room for argument.

Your body obeyed before your mind did. You sank down in front of her, knees hitting tile, gaze still snagging back to the blood like it might spread if you blinked.

Her hand reached out, warm and steady, wrapping around your wrist. Your skin felt cold under her touch. She squeezed gently, thumb brushing over the tremor you hadn’t noticed.

“First,” she murmured, voice low and calm in the quiet kitchen, “you need to slow down. Breathe in with me.”

Your inhale hitched, uneven, but you followed her.

“Out.”

Air left your lungs in a shaky rush.

“You always do this,” Charlie said with a soft, breathy laugh, watching you with fond recognition. “Even when we were kids and I scraped a knee, you’d look like the world was ending.”

“You were always clumsy,” you muttered, the words low and rough, more exhale than sound.

Your ears still rang faintly, adrenaline slow to drain, and your hands - still wrapped around the antiseptic bottle and folded gauze - hadn’t quite stopped trembling. You focused on the task instead of the feeling, on procedure, on something you could control.

“Yeah,” she admitted easily, tilting her head just enough to give you access. “I was.”

You moved closer, one hand steadying lightly at her jaw while the other tilted the antiseptic. The sharp, clinical scent cut through sugar and flour still clinging to the air, grounding you further. You soaked a square of gauze, the liquid seeping through, cool against your fingers before you brought it to her forehead.

“Tell me if it stings,” you murmured, voice softer now, threaded with concentration.

The first touch was careful, barely there.

You dabbed at the edge of the wound, not the center, lifting away diluted red rather than dragging it through the cut. Each motion was small, controlled: press, lift, rotate to a clean patch of gauze. Blood thinned to pink, then to faint rust smears. You wiped away what had dried in her lashes with the corner of a fresh pad, thumb bracing her temple so you wouldn’t pull.

She didn’t flinch.

You inspected the cut more closely once it was clean - a shallow split, more dramatic than dangerous. Your shoulders eased another notch.

“You should be more careful,” you said under your breath, the words slipping out quieter than you meant, almost intimate.

“Why?” she asked, smiling that bright, unguarded smile that always made something in you ache. “When I have you to take care of me?”

Your jaw tightened. You bit the inside of your lip, copper blooming faint on your tongue. “I won’t always be there.”

Her expression flickered, smile faltering just slightly. “What do you mean? You are now.”

Your gaze dropped to the open med kit instead of answering. Something tired moved behind your eyes, heavy and old. You swallowed. “Sure.”

You applied a thin line of antiseptic ointment with two careful fingers, then placed a sterile pad over the cut and smoothed medical tape across it, pressing the edges down so it would hold. Only when it was secure did you pull your hands back.

Red streaked your fingers, dried into your knuckles, caught beneath your nails. You stared at it a second too long, then dragged your thumb absently through one smear.

“I’m sorry,” you said, quieter now. “For… that day. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

Charlie blinked, surprise widening her eyes before it softened into warmth. “Oh,” she said gently. “Apology accepted.”

‘Why are you apologizing?’

You nodded once, brisk, and began packing the supplies away, movements more methodical now. When you glanced down at yourself: flour, batter, streaks of red. You grimaced.

She slid off the stool, and the sudden shift made you flinch, head snapping up. “What happened-?”

Her question died as another voice cut through the room, sharp with static and authority.

“Well, as much as I find this very heartwarming,” Alastor drawled from the doorway, tone stretched thin with impatience, eyes glowing an irritated red, “I must cut this little bonding session short. We have… unexpected guests.”

Charlie turned toward him immediately. “What?”

“Get yourselves presentable,” he growled, smile tight as wire.

Everyone else scattered to deal with the aftermath of flour, milk, and broken dignity, but you didn’t bother moving toward a sink. You simply lifted your hand. Power threaded through the air in a thin, invisible ripple, and the mess unraveled from you like it had never dared to touch your skin. Fabric shifted, darkened, restructured itself into sharp formal tailoring that carved authority into your silhouette.

You fell into step beside Charlie as she headed toward the lobby. You could feel her glance at you once, twice, but you kept your gaze forward, jaw set just enough to close the subject without words.

Your cane formed in your palm in a curl of ember-red light, metal cool, familiar. Your fingers tightened around it, posture aligning instinctively, as if the weapon completed something in you.

“Charlie!”

The voice sliced through the room, bright and unguarded.

A streak of white and blue shot past you, wind and holy chill brushing your skin like the wake of a passing blade. Feathers flickered through your peripheral vision.

“Emily!” Charlie lit up, stepping forward into the hug, laughter bubbling out of her as wings fluttered wildly to keep the other angel hovering.

“Sorry we didn’t give notice!” Emily said breathlessly, pulling back with a sheepish grin. She gestured behind her where the portal was still lit up“Sera wanted to see the hotel.”

The name settled onto you like weight.

Sera stepped through the space the portal had occupied, tall, composed, draped in quiet authority. The portal sealed shut with a low, resonant hum, light folding in on itself like a closing eye.

“Greetings, Charlie,” Sera said, dipping into a graceful bow, voice even, warm on the surface.

Then she looked past her.

At you.

It wasn’t fear that flashed across her face, Sera was too controlled for that, but recognition hit like a silent bell. Her irises tightened, gold light stuttering at the edges.

You did not bow.

Your eyes narrowed instead, red deepening, pupils thinning into sharp slits. Your tail lashed once behind you, slow and deliberate, the motion of something that did not need to pretend calm.

Sera cleared her throat, the sound quiet but tight around the edges. “And… who is this?”

Charlie, oblivious to the undercurrent, bounced slightly where she stood. “This is my sibling,” she said brightly, stepping closer to you with open pride. Then, lowering her voice as if sharing something precious, “Also called the Regent of Pride.”

You and Sera never broke eye contact.

Understanding passed between you - old, political, and edged.

Sera extended her hand. The warmth of her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

You let your gaze drop to her hand, then back to her face, letting the silence stretch half a second too long.

When you finally took it, your fingers closed with deliberate firmness. Not enough to break, but enough to remind. Enough that her composure had to hold. The bones in her hand shifted under your grip; her shoulders stayed level, but the muscles along her arm drew tight as pulled wire.

A smirk curved slowly over your mouth, unhurried, knowing.

“Oh, please,” you said, voice smooth as polished glass, low enough that the words felt private despite the room. “The honor is all mine… Seraphim.”

Neither of you let go right away.

The miracle wasn’t that no one noticed.

The miracle was that you and Sera were skilled enough to make the lie look natural.

Behind you, the hotel still breathed with noise: Charlie’s bright voice, glasses clinking, the soft shuffle of bodies trying to act normal after chaos but it all felt distant, like sound heard from underwater.

You walked side by side without touching, without looking, two heads of state performing ease while the air between you carried the density of a coming storm. A door at the end of the corridor gave way under your hand.

The room beyond was vast and hollow, marble floors stretched wide and pale, reflecting only darkness. Tall windows loomed like black mirrors, the night outside swallowing any trace of light. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, unlit, their crystals nothing more than silhouettes.

The doors shut behind you with a low, final thud.

Silence rushed in to fill the space.

Your eyes became the only illumination – a red glow illuminating. Not bright enough to warm the room, only enough to carve sharp edges into shadow. Your presence followed, a faint pressure in the air.

Sera remained a few steps away, posture immaculate, wings folded close but not relaxed. Even in the dark, she held herself like a monument. “You wished to speak privately,” she said.

Her voice carried cleanly through the chamber, but the diplomacy was gone. This was not Seraphim addressing a ruler. This was Sera addressing you.

Your cane struck the marble. The crack of it ricocheted off stone and ceiling, a sound too loud for the stillness, too sharp to be accidental. “You didn’t uphold our deal.”

No accusation in your tone. No heat. Just fact - flat, undeniable.

For the first time, Sera’s hands shifted, fingers threading together a fraction tighter before stilling again. “I reassessed,” she replied. “It became clear the agreement was no longer… beneficial.”

Your head tilted slightly. “Beneficial,” you repeated, almost thoughtfully. Then your eyes narrowed. “To us?”

You began to move. Each step was unhurried, the soft tap of your cane echoing like a clock counting down something neither of you named. You circled her the way a predator might circle something equally dangerous - no rush, no wasted motion.

“Speak for yourself, Sera,” you murmured as you passed just behind her shoulder. “I benefited.”

Her jaw set, the line of it hardening. “What benefit,” she asked, voice tightening despite her control, “comes from watching souls unravel for eternity? From reducing existence to suffering until nothing remains?”

You came back into her line of sight, stopping closer now.

“Entertainment,” you said.

The word fell softly. It felt heavy.

Her wings twitched, just once. “It was never entertainment for me.”

A faint smile touched your mouth, thin and humorless. “Protection, then. That was your justification.”

“It still is.”

You leaned slightly on your cane, gaze locked with hers. “The same logic applies, Seraphim. Only the perspective changes. Sinners remembered fear. Hellborn stopped living in it.”

The space between you seemed to constrict, the air tight, charged, as though breathing too deeply might spark something.

Sera didn’t look away. But there was something new in her eyes now - not anger.

Concern.

“I know what happened back then,” she said, quieter. “I know why you came to me. Why you wanted this system in place.”

Her gaze sharpened, studying you, not as an opponent, but as a problem.

“But I don’t understand why you still defend it,” she continued, voice lowering further, “unless something else is anchoring you to that choice.”

Your expression did not shift, but the red in your eyes deepened, the glow narrowing to blades.

She took a slow breath. “Something interfering,” she said. “With your recollection. Your judgment.”

The words echoed in the empty room.

Your cane tip dragged a thin line across the marble with a soft scrape that sounded deafening in the quiet. Your brow lifted, your voice, when it came, was smooth enough to cut.

“What,” you asked, the syllable controlled, almost idle, though something in your gaze had sharpened, “are you implying?”

Sera never answered you.

Her attention slipped past you instead, fixing on the darkness behind your shoulder. The temperature in the room seemed to dip a fraction, breath turning thinner, the air carrying that sterile, high-altitude stillness Heaven clung to. Light gathered faintly along the edges of her wings, not radiant - contained, like a blade still sheathed.

“I know you’re there,” she said.

Her voice carried strangely, doubling over itself, one tone hers and the other something older, resonant, as if the architecture itself had spoken through her lungs. “Come out.”

The reaction was instant.

Your cane slid from your grasp, striking the marble with a sharp crack that ricocheted through the chamber. Your pupils blew wide, then drowned in red. You sucked in a breath that never quite filled your lungs, hands flying to your throat as though fingers – unseen - had closed there first.

You fell.

Knees hit stone - the sound echoed.

Your coughing shattered the silence, raw and violent, each convulsion folding you further forward. Something spilled from your mouth - thick, black, viscous, threaded with glowing red flecks like dying stars caught in tar. It splattered across the marble and spread too slowly, clinging, as though reluctant to leave you.

Sera didn’t rush to you.

Every instinct screamed at her to, and it showed - in the tightness at the corners of her mouth, in the tremor she crushed out of her hands by force. But she stayed where she was, spine straight, watching with the dread of someone witnessing a prophecy confirm itself.

Then-

A laugh.

Intimate enough to feel like breath at the back of the neck.

Your spine straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra, but the movement was wrong - jerking at the edges. Like a marionette pulled by strings that didn’t care about grace. Your head lifted last, chin tilting upward in a movement too precise, too deliberate.

The marble floor cracked.

Hairline fractures spiderwebbed outward from beneath you as dark vines forced their way up through the stone, pushing with the patient certainty of roots splitting a grave. They coiled around your wrists, your waist, your calves, thorns glistening, petals unfurling; deep crimson, almost black, velvety and wet-looking in the low light.

Behind you, shadow gathered and rose, stretching into a silhouette that mimicked your shape but elongated, distorted, shoulders too broad, smile too wide.

“Ah, Seraphim…” the voice purred from your mouth. It layered over itself - yours buried somewhere deep beneath velvet, static, and something that sounded like wind moving through a crypt. “Meddling in my affairs yet again?”

Sera’s jaw set. “Evil.”

She named it without hesitation, and the word rang with recognition rather than fear.

“Release the Regent,” she ordered, the authority in her tone rolling through the chamber like distant thunder. “You know this ends badly.”

Your head tilted, slow, curious. The vines tightened around your ribs with a faint creak, petals brushing your shoulders like a lover’s touch.

“Precisely why I’m continuing,” Evil replied, amused. “Tension makes the game worthwhile.”

“Game?” Sera’s disbelief cut through. “You call hollowing out an innocent soul a game?”

A hum of laughter vibrated through your chest. “Innocent,” Evil echoed, savoring the word. “You celestial beings do adore selective vision.”

“And you,” Evil went on softly, “washing your hands in sanctified water, pretending the red never soaked into the lines of your palms.”

Sera’s gaze dropped despite herself. Her fingers flexed once, as though phantom warmth still clung there. “It will never leave,” she admitted, voice quieter but steadier. “But I can choose what I am now. Ask for forgive-“

Laughter burst out, sharp and delighted, rebounding off marble and glass. “Forgiveness? from Hell? You still misunderstand the place you pity.”

The vines shifted, drawing your body a step closer without your feet moving at all.

“What do you want?” Sera demanded, wings flaring slightly, light pushing harder into the dark. “What justifies this?”

Thorns pressed into your skin, not piercing - claiming.

“You already know,” Theyl murmured, and a low growl threaded through the silk of its voice. “There is a presence in your realm that has irritated me for centuries. She narrowed my reach, veiled my sight, dulled what I could touch.”

Your lips stretched into a smile that belonged to something that had never been human.

“I simply want her returned,” the voice whispered through your mouth, soft and deliberate, almost intimate, carrying a gentleness that made the room feel simultaneously warm and suffocating. “Nothing more.”

Sera’s wings shivered behind her, a faint rustle slicing through the silence. Her eyes were locked on you - or the hollow echo of you that now breathed in your place. The soft glow of her aura traced the edges of her feathers, trembling like candlelight in a draft, betraying the tension she otherwise tried to hide.

“There is something else at work here,” she said carefully, her voice steady but laced with suspicion. “She would not have abandoned her post so easily if… if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Perhaps,” Your shoulders lifted in a mock casual shrug.

Sera took a cautious step forward, the marble floor beneath her echoing each movement. “Then she will not be returning,” she said, her words clipped but weighted with the authority she tried desperately to maintain.

“Oh, but you can tell her,” Evil purred, the voice slipping into a velvet taunt, “that her poor children will pay the price. As if one hasn’t suffered enough already.” Your smile widened unnaturally, stretching too far, corners of your lips curving like knives. “Oh… that night. So… beautiful.”

The air thickened, charged with an almost tangible scent of iron and ozone.

“So much blood,” you continued, voice lilting, awed. “The air saturated with it. Sweet, sharp, intoxicating. And fear… oh, how intoxicating fear smells.”

Sera’s eyes widened,horror pooling in the glow of her irises. “What… what did you do?” she whispered, a shiver ran through the shadows around her.

Your hands lifted in mock innocence, fingers pressing together over your chest. “I did nothing!”

Then a chuckle bubbled up, low and melodic, twisting through the room like smoke. “I merely nudged, played, observed. The rest? That was the work of a dear associate- a creature fascinating enough to tempt a soul straight into my hands. My, my- I can only marvel at the sins that earned them a seat in Hell.”

Sera swallowed. “How did-” she began, but the words faltered.

“Do you know,” They interjected smoothly, “the most exquisite moment to manipulate a soul?”

Your head tilted, a soft, predatory motion. “It is when they have just lost someone… someone they love. Their grief hollows them, stretches them, makes them malleable.” The roses around your limbs tightened, “They weep, they falter… and the blood runs freely, just as theirs did that night.”

“You’re sick,” she breathed, wings tensing behind her, “Release them at once!”

Your head cocked lazily, smile sharp, predatory. “Oh, of course,” you purred. “Shall I provide music too? Perhaps a little tune while I comply?”

The room seemed to shrink, air thick and charged. Every shadow leaned in closer. The roses twined tighter around your limbs exuding a faint metallic scent that made the hairs on her arms stand.

“Who do you think you are, Sera?” The voice hardened, velvet slipping to steel. “You stand there, judging me, and yet you made that arrangement years ago. Your own little deal in control… in power.”

Her throat went dry.

“Have you forgotten? Seven years ago… in the room… where it happened?”

"Ah, Mister Michael.” The angel’s voice rang bright and melodic, bouncing off the polished white marble of Heaven’s pristine halls.

“Mr. Nathaniel, sir.” Michael responded with a crisp nod, matching the other angel’s pace as they walked side by side, their sandals barely making a sound on the glimmering floors. The faint hum of celestial energy brushing against their wings.

“And did you hear the news about the event that struck Hell?” Nathaniel asked, eyes darting briefly to the high, vaulted ceiling as though the heavens themselves might whisper a confirmation.

“No.” Michael’s voice was low, clipped, a subtle furrow in his brow betraying his measured disinterest.

“You know the Morningstars?”

“Yeah?”

“Supposedly a massacre has struck during their gala, a tragedy.”

Michaell muttered something under his breath, a quiet, “Sure,” barely audible, though the faintest tension in his jaw betrayed his skepticism.

Ahead, the enormous double doors of the court opened with a soft but commanding push. Inside, rows of angels were already seated, their white robes immaculately aligned, faces serene yet alert.

A subtle ripple of light bounced across their wings as Nathaniel and his companion took their places, the polished floor reflecting their forms in perfect symmetry.

Sera entered the court, every step measured at first, echoing through the high, polished hall. Her wings brushed the floor lightly, feathers trembling with the weight of anticipation. She moved toward the head of the chamber, raising a hand to signal the guards to close the doors. The faint click reverberated like a warning bell.

“The event in Hell has shaken Heaven,” she announced, trying to maintain control. “I am here to say there is no need to worry. I have already taken all precautions in case they decide to attack Heaven, though that is uncertain. A barrier has been cast upon Hell to protect the sinners, which means none of them can enter or leave. The ones in charge are the Morningstar family, so we are under no immediate threat.”

But the angels were already speaking over one another.

Jeremiel’s voice cut sharply: “But I’ve heard Lucifer has abandoned his post, and Lilith has disappeared. Without anyone maintaining it, the barrier could weaken- we could be in danger!”

Michael leaned forward, concern etching his features. “I agree. This is a risky game they are playing. The consequences could be catastrophic.”

Micah added, voice tight with worry, “The overpopulation in the Pride Ring has only worsened ever since the punishment ages were ceased. Disorder will spread if left unchecked.”

Before she could regain composure, Adam’s booming voice thundered across the chamber. “Bitchfuck Lucifer and his little bitch Lilith let the sinners roam free! Said it was too gruesome to watch them burn by Satan’s hand- pussies!”

Nathaniel raised a hand, “We must take action. Perhaps erect a barrier of our own. Who knows what the sinners might do with no ruler overseeing them?”

Adam, ignoring him, gestured wildly, excitement and rage mixing. “I could make an army- a cool, metal-as-fuck army- to protect us all!”

The words collided, a storm of sound ricocheting off the marble walls. Each angel’s voice overlapped the next, urgent, accusing, insistent. The careful control she had clung to slipped away with every sentence. Her chest tightened; the polished floor beneath her felt like it was tilting.

Her wings beat unevenly, brushing the walls and floor like desperate anchors. Her hands trembled on the podium. Breath caught in her throat, shallow, ragged, uncooperative. The voices were no longer coherent; they became a blur of warning, fear, accusation, and blame.

A buzzing filled her ears, the sound of words she couldn’t parse. Her vision tunneled; the marble columns stretched impossibly tall, looming over her. Every instinct screamed to escape.

She clung to the edge of the podium as though the marble itself were the only solid thing left in the world, knuckles drained of color, fingers digging in hard enough to ache. She tried to breathe the way she taught others to - slow, measured - but the air refused to reach the bottom of her lungs. Each inhale snagged halfway down, splintered, and came back out trembling.

The noise didn’t lessen; it thickened. Voices layered over voices, concern turning to urgency, urgency curdling into fear. The sound pressed against her from all sides until it felt physical, like standing beneath a collapsing ceiling. Her spine bowed under it.

She stepped back.

No one noticed at first. Another step followed, then another, her heels gliding across the polished floor as if she were being pulled by an invisible thread. Her wings twitched in short, restless bursts, feathers brushing columns.

Chamber blurred at the edges of her vision, gold and white smearing together.

The court’s clamor dulled behind her, not because it quieted, but because her mind could no longer hold it. Words dissolved into a low, shapeless hum, like being submerged underwater.

“Sera!”

The voice cut through, sharp and familiar.

Her head turned toward it on instinct, but her body did not stop. She walked on, steps automatic, detached, as though the corridor had risen up to carry her away itself.

“I’m sorry, Emily, I gotta go- ” she managed, the sentence fraying at the edges, breath hitching between words.

“But-!” Emily’s protest echoed behind her, small against the long stretch of marble and light.

“Decisions are happening over dinner,”

A Seraphim and demon walk into a room

Light and shadow collided without touching. Sera’s radiance held tight to her form, wings tucked but tense, each feather edged in restrained luminescence. Across from her, you stood with your cane planted lightly against the floor, posture relaxed in a way that was almost theatrical, your aura coiling low and heavy like smoke that refused to rise.

“Regent.”

“Seraphim.”

Diametrically opposed – Foes!

“You requested my presence,” she said at last, voice even, though her eyes tracked every small movement you made.

“Ah, yes.” The tip of your cane traced a lazy arc against the floor, the sound a soft, deliberate tap. “I have decided to give you a proposal. A open door if you will.” Your gaze sharpened. “I’m sure you were among the first informed of the mishaps at the gala. An event striking almost all the rings.”

They emerge with a compromise, Having open doors that were previously closed – Bros!

Sera’s expression shifted, sorrow fitting over her features like practiced armor. “Ah, yes. A tragedy.”

A quiet, humorless breath left you. “Not at all. Save the formalities, Seraphim. You hate this place just as I hate my existence - and the role I’m forced to play.”

Her brow drew in faintly. “…I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

The demon emerges with unprecedented financial power, A system they can shape however they want,

You began to circle, slow, measured steps echoing in the cavernous room. “I wish to propose a little help with your… overpopulation problem. The fear gnawing at Heaven’s council chambers.” Your eyes flicked to hers, knowing. “I’m sure you agree with your colleagues that ceasing the punishment ages was a rather stupid take. It gave peace to sinners.”

Your cane stopped. The sound rang sharper this time.

“As much as I despise your pearly white gates, I don’t wish to make war with you,” you continued, voice cooling into something practical, almost businesslike. “Call it fear, or simply… more pressing matters. I don’t care what name you give it.”

The Seraphim emerge with the heaven’s capital… And here's the pièce de resistance:

Sera’s wings flexed once behind her, a restrained, instinctive motion. Suspicion sharpened her features, but so did something else - calculation. “What are you proposing?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Exterminations.”

The word landed heavy, wrong, like a stone dropped into still water.

“What?”

No one else was in the room where it happened

Your cane traced a slow line across the polished obsidian floor as you spoke, voice level, almost instructional. “Once every year, you may enter Hell with your army of angels and slaughter as many demons as you wish-” Your eyes lifted, pinning her in place. “-but you may not harm a hellborn. I will lift the barrier for you, at your request, when you choose to carry it out.”

Sera’s breath caught. “Ho…”

My God, In God We Trust! But we never really know what got discussed!

“A quid pro quo.”

Her gaze drifted, just for a second… toward duty, toward numbers, toward fear whispered through Heaven’s halls. “I suppose…”

You stepped closer, not invading her space, but close enough that your voice no longer needed to carry. “Wouldn’t you like to save your people?”

Her jaw tightened. “I would.”

“Well,” you said softly, “I propose a deal.”

Click boom! Then it happened!

Your hand reaching out – inviting.

“And you’ll provide us your protection?” she asked, the last thread of formality clinging to the question.

You gave a small, unreadable smile. “Well… we’ll see how it goes.”

And no one else was in the room where it happened!

how i full on imagined Regent to look at Vox in those 2 scenes (i love these toxic motherfuckers):

You bent forward, extending your hand, and he mirrored the motion with practiced precision. What followed was your usual mess of a greeting-an awkward blend of fist bump, half-dab, and something that barely resembled a bow. A ritual the two of you had cobbled together over the years, much to his persistent disapproval. He’d always insisted it was unbecoming, improper for a royal attendant to dab with regency. You had always disagreed.

This time, as always, he simply straightened, smoothed his gloves, and gestured inward with a polite sweep of his arm. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”

You scoffed softly as you stepped past him, waiting for the doors to close before falling into stride at his side. Another habit he had once tried, unsuccessfully, to break. He’d insisted on walking behind you for years. Eventually, he’d given up.

“Is it really home,” you asked lightly, “if I was evicted?”

“It will always be a home for you, Your Highness,” he replied without missing a step, voice steady and certain.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of you, and with every step it became harder to ignore what had changed. Or rather-what had been erased.

The castle still stood as it always had: the same vaulted ceilings, the same polished stone, the same oppressive grandeur. But the warmth you had once carved into it was gone. No flower vases along the walls. No personal decorations. No soft touches that had made the space feel lived in rather than ruled. Everything you had added - everything that had made it yours - had been stripped away with surgical precision.

You didn’t even want to think about your old room. Satan had probably turned it into a grilling hall or some other monument to excess, just to prove a point.

“So,” you said at last, breaking the silence as you glanced down at him, at that familiar, carefully neutral expression. “How have you been?”

Noxbert inclined his head slightly. “I don’t believe I matter that much, Your Highness. But thank you for asking.” A small, genuine smile curved his lips.

Your tail betrayed you immediately, giving an unmistakable wag. You felt absurdly pleased. Seeing him smile was a rare thing-ultra-mega-legendary! even. He was always composed, always perfect in his role as secretary and guardian of the castle. Every flicker of humanity you managed to draw out of him felt like a victory, one you hoarded quietly.

After a moment, he continued, “And how have you been, Your Highness?”

You slowed for just a second before answering. “I-” Your voice caught, then steadied. “I’ve been managing. Adjusting to the new atmosphere and… everything.” You exhaled through your nose. “You know how much I dislike drastic changes.”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “That is why I always prepared your schedules a week in advance.”

“And I always appreciated it,” you said, dipping your head slightly as the two of you continued down the long hall.

His expression softened. “I was sorry to hear what happened. It was all so sudden.” He turned down a corridor with you, footsteps measured.

“I can only imagine how frustrated you must have been when you left.” He hesitated before adding, “It may be selfish of me, but I wish you hadn’t gone so abruptly. Still… I understand why you did. You wouldn’t have wanted to risk lashing out at Adinele or myself.”

You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly feeling like a degraded teenager. “Yeah. You know how I get when my temper gets the better of me.”

“I have witnessed it on numerous occasions,” he said dryly.

A weak huff of laughter escaped you. “And yet you never hated me for it.”

He stopped then, just for a heartbeat, turning his gaze toward you. “Never, Your Highness,” he said quietly. “You are only a person.”

Your body flinched before you could stop it, your gaze dropping to the stone floor.

Only a person.

You weren’t sure when the line between person and tool had blurred beyond recognition. It had happened slowly, over years, until you hadn’t noticed it at all. But hearing the words spoken aloud… spoken so simply settled something in your chest.

Hell’s morning light spilled through the doorway as the kitchen door creaked open. You winced immediately, lifting a hand to shield your eyes until the glare softened enough for you to squint past it. When your vision finally adjusted, Adinele stood there, framed by the glow.

“Your Highness,” she said, bowing instinctively.

You let out a small chuckle and stepped forward to greet her but you barely had time to move before she caught your arm, turning it over with practiced urgency.

“Have you been well?” she demanded, already inspecting you. “You didn’t get into any trouble, did you? Any rageful outbursts-no, wait.” She paused, eyes sharp with concern. “Did you at least take care of yourself when they happened?”

You didn’t resist. You went pliant in her grasp, letting her fuss over you like an overprotective mother who had been worried sick. She tugged at your sleeves, pushing them up to check your arms, slipped your gloves off without ceremony, and examined your hands closely. Her fingers brushed over the familiar constellation of old scars, lingering on the newest one - a pinkish mark where a wound had healed cleanly.

From somewhere behind you, Noxbert cleared his throat pointedly. “Adinele.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “What?” she snapped. “I’m worried. Am I not allowed to be worried?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but said nothing more.

Once she seemed satisfied, once every inch of you had been checked and rechecked, she carefully pulled your sleeves back down, smoothed the fabric at your shoulders, and finally smiled, genuine and relieved. “It’s good to see you, Your Highness.”

You returned the smile without thinking. “Right back at you, Adinele.”

Adinele finally stepped back, giving you space. For a brief moment you were simply left standing there, facing the kitchen table- and then you saw it.

You sucked in a quiet breath, the sound catching in your chest before you could stop it.

Noxbert spoke before you could find your voice, his tone measured but not unkind, as though he understood exactly what had just dawned on you. “Sir Satan ordered that all flowers be removed from the castle,” he said. “I was unable to preserve most of them.” A pause, deliberate. “But I ensured the one most important to you was spared.”

Your gaze locked onto the small flowerpot resting at the center of the table. You moved toward it slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid it might vanish if you came too close. Morning light poured in through the window, catching on the glazed ceramic and bathing the blooms in something nearly awed. For a fleeting second, it looked less like a kitchen fixture and more like an altar.

You reached out, fingers trembling as you slid your hand beneath one of the smaller clusters of blue petals. The forget-me-nots bent gently beneath your touch, supple and alive, as though leaning into you rather than away. A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding finally escaped, your shoulders loosening as the tension bled out of them.

Your eyes softened, lids lowering as you took in every fragile detail-the pale veins threading through each petal, the quiet resilience in their stems, the familiar, grounding scent that had no right to survive here.

You lifted your gaze toward the windowsill.

It was bare.

Where once there had been a dense sprawl of living blue, spilling outward and claiming the light, there was now only empty stone. Clean. Final. Your throat tightened, and you looked back down at the pot before the emptiness could settle too deeply.

Carefully, reverently - you gathered it into your hands, cradling it against your chest as though it were something that could bruise if held too tightly. Your thumb brushed the rim of the pot absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of it.

Behind you, Noxbert and Adinele exchanged a quiet glance. Neither said a word. They simply watched, expressions softened, as the Regent of Pride stood there in the quiet morning light-unguarded, unarmored, holding something small and living with a tenderness few ever got to see.

Lucifer had been restless all day.

It showed in the way he paced the living room, boots tracing the same worn path across the carpet again and again, wings twitching faintly at his back like they couldn’t quite settle. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything since morning. Not paperwork, not meetings, not even Charlie’s overly enthusiastic 171938 time recap of this weeks… exercise.

‘A positive note!’  she’d said, beaming like it meant the world.

He didn’t know whether to believe it, but he trusted Charlie with his heart and that was enough to leave him wound tight with something uncomfortably close to guilt.

“What’cha pacing around the living room for, Luci?” Angel drawled from his sprawl across the couch, lower eyes blinking lazily as he tracked Lucifer completing yet another tight circuit. “You’re gonna wear a groove into the floor at this rate.”

Lucifer stopped short, claws combing through his hair as he turned on his heel. “I- well- I have an important guest coming,” he said, words tripping over themselves before he forced them back into order. “Someone who’s supposed to help us with our… uh-”

“Family issues?”

The interruption came from the doorway.

Lucifer’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing instantly as Vox sauntered into the room like he owned the place, mug in hand. Static flickered faintly across his screen as he grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

Lucifer’s lip curled, a low growl vibrating in his chest as his gaze locked onto the sinner. He visibly considered saying something sharp before deciding, with great effort, to pretend Vox simply did not exist.

“Yes,” he said instead, jaw tight. “Our family issues. And I can’t even find them, and I’m worried they won’t show up in time, and-”

“Relax, hissy-stick.” Vox cut in cheerfully, lifting his mug to his screen. The white ceramic read Strongest Sinner in bold, self-satisfied lettering. Clearly added by Vox himself. “I’m sure they’re around somewhere.”

He took an exaggerated slurp, the sound obnoxiously loud. “Avoiding you, preferably.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched.

His nostrils flared, shoulders squaring as heat prickled beneath his skin. For half a second, the room seemed to tense with him - air pressure shifting, the faint scent of ozone creeping in - before he sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to unclench.

‘Don’t let him get to you.’ he told himself. ‘Do not let him get to you.’

Vox lowered his mug just enough to watch him, screen flickering with smug satisfaction. “See?” he said lightly. “Progress already. Growth. I should charge for this.”

The look Angel shot Vox next was sharp and unmistakably ‘don’t push it.’ Vox caught it, paused mid-sip, then blinked-once, twice-before lowering his mug with an exaggerated air of innocence.

“What?” he said, static fluttering faintly across his screen. “I’m being helpful.” He gestured vaguely with the mug. “They probably just stepped out. Job meeting. Regal obligations. You know-important, high-status nonsense, like always.”

Angel didn’t look convinced. He crossed his arms-all of them-and sank deeper into the couch cushions, eyes narrowing. “Uh-huh. Sure. And you’re not enjoying this at all.”

Vox’s grin widened. “Define ‘enjoy.’”

Lucifer, meanwhile, had already resumed pacing, boots cutting quick, restless paths across the room. His tail flicked behind him, irritation radiating off every step. Angel watched him for a moment, then sighed and fished his phone out of nowhere.

‘Get Charlie down here. Now.’ ‘He’s spiraling.’

Message sent to the kings daughter in law, Angel tucked the phone away and settled back in, content to spectate.

Vox leaned against the arm of the couch, clearly savoring the scene. If he could’ve planted a camera somewhere -captured the King of Hell pacing like an anxious intern - this would’ve been premium content. Viral. Legendary! But no, he’d learned the hard way that trust-building meant not recording psychological breakdowns without consent. Tragic, really.

And with his luck, it’d earn him a strike.

They lingered in that uneasy stalemate for a few more minutes: Lucifer pacing, Angel lounging, Vox observing like a critic at a live show-until the sudden ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the room.

Lucifer froze.

Then he bolted.

He shot across the living room in a blur, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke and displaced air like something straight out of a cartoon. The door was already halfway open before the sound had fully finished ringing.

Angel snorted. “Well,” he said, grinning. “There he goes.”

Vox tilted his head, screen flickering with amusement. “Ten bucks says he practiced that sprint.”

Lucifer flung the door open with a sharp, eager motion, already leaning forward as if momentum alone might conjure the person he was hoping to see. For a split second, his expression hovered on expectation-then his gaze dropped, confusion knitting his brows together.

An imp stood on the threshold, nearly his height, posture immaculate. They wore a dark, tailored suit pressed to perfection, the fabric catching the low light in subtle, deliberate lines. A slim briefcase rested in one hand, polished to a dull shine, while the other extended outward with practiced confidence.

“Rowell,” they said, voice smooth and measured. “My dearest client, at your service!”

Lucifer stared.

Then blinked- aaaand then blinked again.

He hesitated just long enough for the moment to stretch awkwardly before taking the imp’s hand, his grip warm but distracted, as though his thoughts were sprinting several steps behind reality. Rowell’s mouth curved into a brief, almost amused smile.

“I’m the therapist you requested,” they clarified, adjusting their grip on the briefcase.

Lucifer’s mouth formed a small, stunned ‘o’. His brain visibly stalled-processing, recalibrating-before everything clicked at once.

“Oh-!” His wings twitched, feathers ruffling. “Oh! Yes- yes, that’s- YES.” He stepped aside in a flurry of movement, gesturing far too enthusiastically toward the interior. “Please, come in, absolutely, thank you, thank you for actually coming-”

Rowell dipped into a respectful bow as they crossed the threshold, their steps unhurried. Their eyes swept over the hotel’s interior with quiet precision, taking in the cluttered warmth, the lingering tension in the air, the faint hum of voices deeper within the building. After a moment, they gave a small nod-approval or acknowledgment, it was hard to tell-before turning their attention back to Lucifer.

“I’ve been informed you requested a family therapist,” Rowell said, opening their briefcase just enough to retrieve a slim notepad and pen. “Specifically to address ongoing familial conflict.”

“Yes-yes,” Lucifer replied quickly, clasping his hands together as if anchoring himself. “It’s for my two kids-”

Rowell paused, pen hovering midair. Their gaze sharpened, analytical but not unkind. “You are their father?”

“Yes,” Lucifer answered without hesitation.

“And the other parent?”

The question landed heavier.

Lucifer stilled, the energy draining from his posture. One clawed hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes drifting away as if the answer were written somewhere on the walls instead. “She…” His voice softened, losing its earlier brightness. “She left.”

Rowell didn’t rush him. They observed quietly-the subtle dip of Lucifer’s shoulders, the way his tail flicked once before curling closer to his leg, the faint, old ache threaded through the pause that followed.

“I see,” Rowell said at last, voice gentler. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s something we’ll likely need to revisit later.”

Before Lucifer could respond, footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

“Dad?”

Charlie’s voice bloomed down the hall as she hurried into view, her expression tight with concern. She glanced between Lucifer and the unfamiliar imp, unease flickering across her face- still carrying the weight of Angel’s urgent message and Vaggi’s worry pressed into her chest.

Lucifer turned toward her, a collision of relief, nerves, and guilt crossing his features all at once.

“Char!” Lucifer’s voice lifted the moment he saw her, tension breaking like a cracked glass finally giving way. He stepped forward and caught her hands in his, his grip warm and a little too tight, wings twitching behind him as a nervous habit he hadn’t yet mastered.

His smile was sheepish, hopeful in a way that made him look far younger than the King of Hell had any right to be. “This-this is a family therapist,” he said, turning her hands slightly as though grounding himself through the contact. “Their name is Rowell. I… I decided we could use some help.”

Charlie followed his gesture, her eyes settling on the imp in the dark suit before flicking back to her father. Her expression softened, but doubt crept in all the same.

“Dad,” she said gently, choosing each word with care, “I really do appreciate you trying. I know this means a lot to you. I’m just not sure a therapist is… well-equipped for our situation.”

Lucifer’s brows drew together immediately, the hopeful crease in his expression tightening into something more fragile.  “Why not?” he asked, a faint edge creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “That’s what they’re for, aren’t they? Helping families talk. Fixing things that don’t work.”

The way he looked at her then - earnest, uncertain, already bracing himself for failure made Charlie’s chest ache. She squeezed his hands, anchoring him, and lifted her smile until it felt steady enough to pass. “You’re right,” she said softly. “We can’t do this alone. Maybe… maybe this will help more than we think.”

Lucifer exhaled, a long, shaky breath leaving him as his shoulders relaxed. Relief washed over his features so plainly it almost hurt to look at. He pulled her closer at his side, giving her hands one last grateful squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured, before turning back to Rowell with renewed energy. “So- when can we start?”

Rowell adjusted their stance, unfazed, already setting their briefcase down with professional calm. “Immediately, if you’d like,” they replied. “All I’ll need is a private room where we won’t be interrupted.”

Lucifer nodded at once, Charlie echoing the motion, and together they guided Rowell down the corridor to one of the quieter hotel rooms. The door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing them off from the bustle outside.

 “You mentioned two children,” they said, glancing up. Their eyes settled briefly on Charlie. “I only see one present.”

Lucifer lowered himself into a chair, fingers coming up to rub the back of his neck again as uncertainty crept back in. “Ah- yes. The other one is… occupied,” he said, hesitating. “Some sort of meeting, I think. I’m not entirely sure where they are right now.”

Rowell hummed, making a note. “And their name?”

“Well,” Lucifer began, straightening just a touch, “they’re the Regent of Pride-”

Rowell went completely still.

“Regent?” they repeated, eyes widening as recognition struck hard and fast. “The Regent of Pride?”

The sudden shift in their demeanor made the air feel tighter. “Well why didn’t you say so!” Rowell blurted, shock and unmistakable interest bleeding into their tone.

Charlie’s head snapped toward Rowell so sharply it was a wonder she didn’t give herself whiplash. Confusion crossed her face in quick succession-surprise, disbelief, then something closer to alarm. “I’m sorry,” she said, blinking hard, “what?”

Rowell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they set their briefcase down with deliberate care, the metal clasps clicking open as if on cue. The case unfolded like a magician’s trick: thick notebooks slid out first, their spines bent and worn, pages bristling with multicolored tabs and handwritten annotations.

After those came loose papers, neatly bundled, then glass bottles filled with swirling liquids, pill vials labeled in precise handwriting, and finally a heavy leather-bound journal that looked old enough to have survived several regimes of Hell.

Only then did Rowell laugh-a dry, knowing sound. “Oh, yes,” they said breezily, already stacking the notebooks across the small table as though claiming territory. “They were a client of mine for years. Long-term case. High-intensity.”

One notebook was flipped open, revealing pages dense with looping script, diagrams, and angry red underlines. “Eventually gave up on therapy, as most of my… more volatile clients do.”

Lucifer stared, unmoving, eyes tracking each item as it was laid bare. Charlie stepped closer without realizing it, gaze flicking between the notebooks and the therapist. “They were… a client of yours?” she repeated, her voice softer now, cautious.

Rowell hummed, uncorking one of the bottles and sniffing it absently before setting it aside. “Mm-hm. Satan, I have to say, I’m finally getting the whole picture.”

Their eyes lifted at last, dragging over Lucifer with clinical interest-his height, his wings, the tension wound tight in his shoulders. “You’re quite a bit taller than what they described you to be,” they added with a crooked grin. “Very dramatic descriptions, actually. Lots of gesturing in the notes.”

Charlie let out a nervous laugh and patted her father’s arm, as if to reassure herself he was still solid, still there. Lucifer didn’t react. His gaze was fixed on a particular notebook Rowell had opened now, one page marked ANGER EPISODE – PRIDE RING in bold ink.

“They were… how bad?” Lucifer asked finally, voice low.

Rowell tilted their head, considering, as they pulled out another journal and let it fall open with a soft thud. “Oh, a masterpiece of problems,” they said cheerfully.

“Identity fracture, authority resentment, emotional repression bordering on self-erasure.” They flipped a page. “Here’s a fun one-chronic guilt masked by arrogance. Classic.” Another page turned. “Oh, and rage displacement. That one kept me on my toes.”

Lucifer swallowed. “How many therapists did they have before you?”

Rowell paused, tapping the edge of the notebook with one claw as if tallying an invisible list. “A couple,” they said. “Some quit. Others…” They gestured vaguely, then mimed a slicing motion across their neck with two fingers. “Didn’t.”

Charlie’s breath caught. “Didn’t…?”

“Decapitated,” Rowell clarified lightly, as though discussing an unfortunate workplace injury. “Mostly blue bloods. Prideful, condescending types- terrible bedside manner. Satan was very motivated to keep that whole affair quiet.” They smiled thinly. “But things have a way of surfacing eventually, don’t they?”

Silence pressed down on the room, thick and uncomfortable.

Charlie slowly turned to Lucifer, worry pooling in her eyes. Lucifer met her gaze, his usual confidence stripped bare, replaced with something raw and unsettled. Between them, the table sat buried under years of notes, records, and bottled coping mechanisms - physical proof that whatever was coming back into their lives was far more complicated than either of them had been prepared to face.

Rowell clapped their hands together once, sharp and decisive, the sound echoing faintly off the hotel room’s walls. “Well then,” they announced brightly, already rummaging back into their bag, “let’s get this therapy session started.”

Charlie and Lucifer watched with growing unease as Rowell produced even more items - chalky crystals wrapped in cloth, folded sigils, and finally a small metal tin that rattled ominously when shaken. Rowell popped it open and tipped two pale tablets into their palm.

Both Charlie and Lucifer froze.

“These are just headache pills,” Rowell said casually, though they paused, staring down at the tablets with a thoughtful frown. “Standard precaution. Some sessions… escalate.” After a beat, they shrugged and added two more pills to their hand. “Better safe than sorry- you want some?”

Charlie and Lucifer shook their heads a chorus of “no-nope.” Filling the room.

“Suit yourselves.” Rowell shrugged, and swallowed the pill try.

Lucifer’s wings twitched. Charlie’s shoulders crept up toward her ears.

“Um,” Charlie said carefully, forcing a polite smile, “we… kind of can’t start without them here.”

Rowell waved a dismissive hand, already tossing the tin back into the bag. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got it all covered.” They pulled out a thick, battered book bound in dark red leather and set it reverently on the table. Sliding on a pair of narrow glasses, they licked the tip of one claw and flipped through the pages with brisk efficiency, eyes darting as they scanned dense columns of infernal script.

Lucifer leaned forward despite himself. “How exactly is this supposed to-”

“Shhh!” Rowell snapped without looking up. “I’m concentrating.”

Lucifer recoiled instinctively, lips snapping shut as he leaned back, hands gripping the arms of his chair. Charlie shot him a look that said ‘do not provoke them.’

Rowell began to move then, one hand raised as they traced symbols in the air, the other hovering over the open book. They murmured words under their breath-old, layered language that Lucifer half-recognized, fragments of summoning dialects warped by therapy jargon. His brow furrowed as he caught your name spoken clearly among the incantation.

The room dimmed.

A dark red glow bled from the pages of the book, pooling across the floor and climbing the walls like smoke made of light. The air grew heavy, charged, pressing against Charlie’s chest until she held her breath without realizing it.

Rowell finished the final word and snapped the book shut.

Nothing happened.

They blinked. “Huh,” they muttered. “That’s odd. This usually works.”

The book jerked violently from Rowell’s hands into the air. It hovered there, trembling, its spine glowing as a deep, blood-red light burst from between its pages. Smoke poured out in thick coils, rolling across the ceiling before spilling downward, heavy and suffocating, tinting the room in crimson.

The smoke twisted, condensed-then shaped itself.

Charlie and Lucifer both recoiled instinctively as a chair materialized beside them, followed by your form slamming neatly into it as if you’d always been there. You were mid-motion, one hand raised with a fork inches from your mouth, food still skewered on its prongs. A flower pot-your flower pot-hovered beside you, wobbling dangerously in the air, its cluster of blue forget-me-nots shaking as gravity seemed to remember itself all at once.

“Oh- shit-”

The pot tipped.

You reacted instantly, flinging the fork without hesitation. It clattered uselessly across the floor as you lunged forward, catching the pot just before it could fall. You dragged it into your lap, clutching it protectively, breath sharp in your chest.

Behind you, the book dropped like a dead weight, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“WAIT-NO-MY PLATE!” you shrieked suddenly, realization hitting you like a truck. You leaned forward, hands grabbing at empty air where, seconds ago, a full table of food had been. “NO- NONONO- MY FOOD- I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO EAT THE COOKIES! FOR SATAN’S FUHUHUCK…”

You cut yourself off only because you had to inhale, fingers digging into your hair as you tugged at it in frustration, rubbing your forehead like it might fix this somehow.

‘Satan give me patience,’ you thought bitterly. ‘…Actually, never mind.’

The room went dead silent.

You slowly lifted your head, peering through the mess of your hair as your eyes adjusted. The unfamiliar hotel room came into focus first-then Charlie, frozen with concern etched across her face, Lucifer standing rigid beside her, wings tight, expression unreadable but tense.

And finally-

Rowell.

The book skidded the last few inches across the floor and came to a stop right at your feet. Your eyes narrowed. Smoke curled from your nostrils. “You fucking-”

“Ah- Regent!” Rowell cut in brightly, flipping open a notebook as if this were a perfectly normal entrance. “How kind of you to join us!”

“Join us?” Your voice dropped dangerously low as you turned your head slowly toward Charlie and Lucifer, gaze sharpening. “What the fuck is this?”

Rowell hummed, flipping a few pages. “A family therapy session. And you know the rules-no swearing during my sessions.”

“I- are you fucking-”

A sticky note shot through the air like a projectile and slapped directly over your mouth. You let out a muffled groan, peeling it off with two fingers without even needing to read it. “NO SWEARING! >;<”

You crushed the note in your fist, glaring daggers. Rowell clapped their hands together, utterly unfazed. “Now! Let’s begin, shall we?”

You leaned back in the chair, the worn wood groaning softly under your weight. The flower pot remained clutched in your lap, a small, living anchor in the sea of emotional turmoil, your eyes never leaving the three figures who had orchestrated your sudden arrival.

Rowell rummaged through their bag once more, fingers disappearing into its depths before resurfacing with a neat deck of color cards: flat, matte squares with no markings, no words, nothing to guide interpretation. They tapped the stack against the table once, aligning the edges, then spoke.

“Each of you will choose a color that represents how you feel about this family,” Rowell said, after a beat, they added dryly, “Not how you think you’re supposed to feel. How you actually feel.”

They fanned the cards across the tabletop in a careful, practiced arc, a rainbow of muted possibilities. Then they leaned back, clipboard resting against their knee, their eyes sharp and expectant.

Charlie was the first to move, shifting forward on her knees. Her gaze flickered over the spread only briefly before her hand closed around a soft pink card without a shred of hesitation. She drew it back to herself and held it to her chest, fingers curling protectively around the edges as if it were something fragile, a small, hopeful secret.

“I picked pink,” she said, offering a small, tremulous smile as she lifted it for the others to see.

Rowell nodded, already scribbling something in their notes, the scratch of their pen the only sound in the tense room.

Lucifer lingered, his posture rigid. His eyes passed over the cards again and again, a silent war playing out behind them. His gaze lingered just a fraction of a second too long on a deep, angry red before forcing himself away, as if the color itself were dangerous. Eventually, he reached out, his movements stiff, and selected a gold card, holding it between his hands as though testing its weight. His grip tightened, then eased-careful not to crease it.

“I picked- uh- gold,” he said, then squinted at it, tilting the card slightly. “Or… is this yellow?”

Rowell hummed noncommittally and wrote it down without comment, their pen never pausing.

Your turn was an exercise in silent agony. You stared down at the fanned cards, your jaw tightening as your hand hovered over one, then drifted to another, only to pull back as if burned. Your fingers flexed, restless, a silent testament to the conflict raging within you, as if every color carried a price you were no longer willing to pay.

Your hand hovered once more - caught between red and blue. Back and forth. With a sharp, aggravated exhale, you snatched both, holding them up between your fingers like a challenge, daring anyone to say something.

A long-suffering sigh seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Rowell’s shoulders visibly slumped, their professional composure finally cracking under the weight of your defiance.

“I did say a color,” they remarked, pinching the bridge of their nose with two fingers. Then, after a beat, their eyes sharpened with clinical interest. “Though… I am intrigued. What made you choose two this time? In your previous sessions, you always picked red-“

A low growl rumbled out of your chest, cutting them off mid-sentence. “I told you not to reference those.”

Rowell lifted a brow, unfazed by your threat. A quiet, almost amused chuckle slipped out. “I said I wouldn’t analyze them,” they replied calmly, shrugging. “Context still counts.”

You pointed a sharp, accusatory finger at them, then jabbed it back at your own chest. “We know the context. And that’s already too much.”

Another sigh from Rowell, this one patient but firm, as they gestured with their pen toward the cards still fanned on the table. “Then choose.”

Your jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in your cheek as the internal war reached its breaking point. With a frustrated snarl that was more animal than regal, you dropped the red card.

It didn't just fall; you flung it from you, letting it slap against the polished tiles with a sharp, final crack. The sound echoed in the quiet room, a punctuation mark on the end of a sentence you refused to speak. Your hand tightened around the blue card, the edges bending and creasing under the pressure of your grip, a small, fragile rebellion against the role you’d been forced to play.

Rowell winced, a flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or just a deep-seated hatred for damaged materials - crossing their features before being smoothed away by professional calm. They said nothing, simply dipping their head and making a neat, precise note in their book, the scratch of their pen a counterpoint to the ragged sound of your breathing.

“Alright,” Rowell said at last, closing the notebook with a soft thump and setting it aside. They leaned forward, their entire posture shifting from clinical observer to engaged mediator. “Now I want each of you to tell me why you chose the color you did.”

Charlie’s hand shot up instantly, waving with the barely contained enthusiasm of a student who actually did the reading. “Ooh- me, me!” she chirped, her voice bright and eager. “I picked pink because, to me, it represents calmness, happiness, and romance.”

Rowell turned toward her, their head tilting with an almost predatory focus. “And do you see yourself reflected in that color?”

Charlie nodded without hesitation, clutching the card closer to her chest as if it were a sacred text. “Yeah. I really do.”

You watched her, a bitter taste rising in your throat. It was like listening to a child describe a world they’d only read about in fairy tales, a world that had never existed and never would.

“Good,” Rowell said, a note of satisfaction in their voice. “That aligns almost perfectly with how pink is most commonly interpreted psychologically-comfort, affection, emotional openness.”

They continued, their voice a steady, measured drone as they unpacked the symbolism, their words weaving a tapestry of therapeutic jargon that Charlie absorbed with rapt attention. Every word was a tool, a carefully constructed concept designed to build a framework around her chaotic feelings. You could almost see the gears turning in her head, already filing away ideas for future exercises, for the hotel, for everyone else. It was so perfectly, so tragically Charlie.

When Rowell finally finished, they turned slightly and gestured toward Lucifer. “King?”

Lucifer startled, his shoulders jerking as if he’d been zapped with a low-voltage current. He glanced down at the card in his hands, blinking once, twice, as though reminding himself of its existence. “I-ah-yellow. Or gold,” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to sound confident. “I chose it because it represents positivity. Happiness. Warmth.” He hesitated, then smiled, a soft, sincere expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. “And most importantly… hope.”

The word landed in the center of the room like a lead weight. Your fingers tightened around the blue card, the cardboard groaning in protest.

Rowell hummed approvingly, their eyes flicking briefly toward you - taking in the way your knuckles had turned white, the way you seemed to shrink into your chair - before returning their full attention to Lucifer. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of their mouth.

“Hope,” they echoed, savoring the word. “Tell me more about that.”

Lucifer brightened immediately, a desperate animation flooding his movements as his hands lifted, his wings twitching with the momentum of his thoughts. It was the performance of a king trying to convince himself he still believed in his own sermon.

“Well-hope to change things,” he said, the words tumbling over one another with a familiar, practiced enthusiasm. “To change Hell. The system as a whole. I always believed it could be better, that it should be better-”

“You didn’t.”

The interruption landed like a blade through silk-clean, sharp, and utterly final. The air itself seemed to flinch, the light from the hotel windows dimming for a fraction of a second as if recoiling from the sound. The gentle scratch of Rowell’s pen ceased.

Lucifer turned toward you with a startled, uncertain laugh that didn’t quite know where to land, his posture sagging just a fraction. “What?” he asked, confusion edging the forced brightness of his smile.

You didn’t look at him. Your attention remained fixed on the flower pot resting in your lap, your thumb tracing the cool ceramic rim with slow, deliberate care, as if grounding yourself in its simple, solid reality. A soft, bitter scoff slipped from your lips, paired with a low, humorless laugh.

“You didn’t have hope,” you said, your voice eerily calm. “Not for the rest of the Rings… not really.”

Lucifer’s smile tightened, a visible crack in his kingly facade as nerves bled through. “I did- yes -I mean, I tried, but-” He faltered, his gaze darting toward Rowell as if searching for backup, for validation from the one person in the room who wasn't family. “I lost hope, even for the Pride Ring at one point, but Charlie-”

A sound tore out of you, somewhere between a growl and a laugh, low and sharp enough to make the glasses on the table hum. You leaned back in your chair at last, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. The expression on your face was a dangerous, shifting thing: a crooked, almost amused smirk layered over something raw and wounded, your brows drawn tight as you gestured vaguely toward Charlie without breaking eye contact.

“It’s always her,” you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. “When was it me? When did my ideas ever matter?”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, twisting in her chair as if the words were physical blows. She tried to catch your eye, quietly mouthing your name, a desperate plea for you to stop, but you refused to look at her-refused to give her that lifeline, refused to let her pull you back from the edge.

Your smile collapsed entirely then, curdling into something sharp and unmistakably disgusted. You leaned forward, the flower pot still clutched in your lap, and the venom in your voice was pure, undiluted poison. “You’re just another prideful bastard,” you said, your voice low and cutting, “who only ever cared about his precious little sinners.”

The last words left your mouth like something rotten you couldn’t wait to spit out.

“They’re my responsibility-” Lucifer began, his voice a weak attempt at regaining control of the narrative.

You cut him off by standing, the movement sharp and sudden, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor with a shriek of wood on stone. With deliberate, almost reverent care, you lifted the flowerpot from your lap and set it down on the table in front of Rowell. A small puff of soil rose from the ceramic as you leaned forward, your presence eclipsing Lucifer where he sat, a sudden eclipse of fury.

Rowell didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. They remained perfectly still, their face an unreadable mask, already anticipating the familiar, explosive arc of your anger-the verbal lashing, the release, the eventual, exhausted collapse back into your chair.

Oh, how wrong they were.

“No, Lucifer,” you said, your voice low and vibrating with a restraint stretched to its breaking point. “Hell is your responsibility. All of it. Every Ring.”

Your lip curled, a sneer marring your features as you straightened, smoke beginning to coil faintly around your shoulders like gathering storm clouds. “But you chose to care only about sinners. You and Lilith both.”

Lucifer didn’t stand, even as your shadow swallowed him whole. He stayed seated, his hands lifting in a placating gesture, trying desperately to reason, “You know that’s not how it works. That’s why the Deadly Sins exist-to divide the labor, to keep order-”

You pointed a single, trembling finger at him, the digit shaking with a fury that was almost palpable.

“You are chained to Pride,” you snarled, each word a spark in the growing darkness. “You don’t have jurisdiction here- but you do over the others. You always did. You could have done something if you actually cared.”

Your hand swept outward, a grand, furious gesture as if the other Sins might materialize at any second, summoned by the sheer force of your accusation.

“They don’t care,” you went on, your voice rising. “And the ones who do are too weak, too scared to stand against the rest and change anything.”

Lucifer finally straightened in his chair, his own voice rising as he tried to force his point through the tempest. “You have to understand- my word wouldn’t have been enough against Satan. You know how he is. He wouldn’t have listened.”

Charlie moved with him, half-rising from her seat, her hands hovering in the space between you as if she could physically hold the shattering moment together. Meanwhile, Rowell, watching the scene unfold with the calm of a seasoned storm-chaser, reached into their briefcase without breaking eye contact with the confrontation. They pulled out a bottle of tequila, popped the cap with their thumb, and took a long, unapologetic swig, the action a silent, dark commentary on the proceedings.

“YOU WERE CROWNED KING, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” The scream tore through the room, a raw, guttural explosion of sound that made the very air recoil.

Your eyes flared a brilliant, terrifying red, and a wave of heat rolled off you, so intense it made the dust motes dancing in the light sizzle. The smoke around you thickened into a roiling, black aura. Charlie reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm in a desperate plea for calm - you jerked away as if her touch burned, as if even that small comfort was unbearable now.

“A crown doesn’t mean power to him,” Lucifer said sharply, the words coming out faster than he seemed to intend. His voice cracked at the edges despite his effort to keep it steady. “To Satan, it’s just another piece on a board. A chess token in his little game of entertainment.”

You stared at him, a statue carved from fire and fury, unmoving, unblinking.

He leaned forward now, his hands lifting in a frustrated, almost pleading gesture, his entire posture screaming a defense he couldn’t quite put into words. “You have no idea what pushing back against him entails. He doesn’t respect authority- he- he mocks it. Titles, thrones, crowns… they’re props to him.

“And yet,” you cut in, your voice low but trembling with a barely contained violence, “you would go through Hell and Heaven to push Charlie’s ideas.”

You took a step closer, the heat of your aura making the air between you shimmer. “You’d bend rules, move systems, rewrite doctrines just to give sinners a second chance.”

Your voice dipped then, losing its sharp edge and sinking into something far more dangerous: raw, wounded, and aching. It was the sound of a scar being ripped open. “But you couldn’t even spare me a glance when I tried to make a difference.”

The breath left Lucifer in a visible hitch, a sharp, audible gasp. His shoulders faltered, his entire frame seeming to shrink as the accusation landed somewhere deep and vital. For a long, stretched moment, he didn’t speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land.

You held his gaze, your own fury still blazing, but now threaded through it was something far worse. Hurt. Old, unhealed, and aching. The kind of profound, soul-deep pain that came from being unseen for too long.

“You’re being unreasonable,” he said at last, the words hurried, defensive, a weak shield against the truth of your pain. “I’m telling you- I wouldn’t have had the influence-”

You stared at him as though the world had tilted off its axis, as if he had just spoken a language so alien it couldn’t possibly be real. Disbelief bled into something darker, messier, a chaotic storm of emotion you could no longer contain. It felt like thorns were piercing your skin from the inside out, invisible but relentless, squeezing the air from your lungs until it hurt to breathe.

“Why,” you demanded, your voice trembling with the force of your grief, “give second chances to bastards who chose every step that led them here- who had the power to change their own outcomes-when there are people who never had a choice to begin with?”

“That’s not how it works,” Lucifer insisted, desperation now a raw current in his tone. “I didn’t create all of them-”

“Yeah,” you snapped, and a sharp, unhinged laugh tore out of you, a sound completely devoid of humor. It echoed in the small room, brittle and hollow, making Charlie flinch. “You only made the Goetia. The ones who sip tea and eat crumpets while deciding which imp to torment for sport.” Your laughter continued, a wild, unsettling cadence. “Who gets slaughtered next, just to keep them entertained.”

“Sunbeam-” he murmured, the name a soft, desperate plea, a relic of a time when you were still his to protect. He reached for you, his hand trembling.

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT.”

The scream tore from your throat, a full-throated explosion of pure, unadulterated rage. The lights in the room flickered violently, and the temperature plummeted. The flowerpot on the table rattled, its fragile blooms trembling.

The sound of a child’s love finally dying under the weight of a king’s neglect.

You stared at them- wide-eyed, breathless-before a sharp, broken laugh spilled from your lips. It echoed too loudly in the small room, a wrong, hollow sound that had no business being a laugh at all. A single tear welled at the corner of your eye, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand as if disgusted by its very existence. Horror crossed both their faces, mirrored and unmistakable.

“It’s funny,” you rasped, your voice cracking despite your effort to keep it sharp, the brittle laughter still shaking your frame. “You know?”

“You said you were cast out for your bright, revolutionary ideas. That you hated Heaven for punishing you for daring to change things.” Your laughter faltered, curdling into something cruel and bitter. “And yet you’re no better.”

Lucifer’s breathing turned shallow, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of centuries had finally settled all at once. Charlie opened her mouth, stepping in before he could speak, her voice tight with a desperate need to fix things, to smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

“There were pressing matters,” she said, trying to steady the situation, trying to steady him. “You know that. They were lower on the food chain at the time- people were dying-”

You turned slowly, deliberately, your gaze locking onto Lucifer’s face with surgical precision. The air around you warped, heat shimmering faintly as your last vestige of patience evaporated.

“So the gala,” you asked quietly, your voice dangerously calm, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within you. “Was that just entertainment to you?”

Lucifer stiffened. “What?” The word was a choked whisper, a ghost of a sound.

The floor creaked beneath your weight as your tail lashed violently behind you, knocking over a chair with a sharp crack. Glass rattled across nearby surfaces. Shadows bled outward from your feet, crawling up the walls like living things. The lights flickered once. Twice.

“Was it fun?” you demanded, your voice rising, layered now with something inhuman and ancient beneath it.

“Entertaining?” Your eyes burned, glowing faintly as smoke curled from the corners. “Watching them bleed out in my arms all those years ago?”

Charlie froze. Confusion shattered across her expression as she looked between you and her father, her mind struggling to connect the dots. “What are you talking about?”

The room shuddered, a low groan of protesting wood and stone.

“WHEN YOU HAD FULL POWER TO HELP- But NO!”

Your voice cracked and ricocheted off the walls, every word heavy with years of pent-up frustration. Your fists clenched at your sides, knuckles turning white, the tremor in your hands betraying how tightly you were holding everything in.

“Oh no… You were too busy sealing the barrier,” you spat, the words like acid. “Too busy protecting sinners so the blue bloods wouldn’t touch them. And what about the rest? Did that ever cross your mind?”

Charlie flinched, stepping forward again, trying to bridge the chasm of your pain, but you barely saw her, your vision tunneled, focused solely on the father who had failed you. “And after that everything crumbled, Mom left. Charlie left to go fuck some excorcist bitch-” you sneered, the words ugly and cruel, designed to hurt. “-you are now happy, aren’t you?”

“Don’t call her that!” Charlie’s voice broke through your storm, sharp and trembling. She planted her feet, her horns glinting as she squared her shoulders, her eyes glistening with unshed tears but fierce with a protective fire. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”

“AND I WAITED FOR YOU LIKE A DOG. DAY AND NIGHT-“ Your voice dropped to a hoarse growl, laced with a bitter laughter that had no joy in it, only pain “LIVING OFF HOPES AND DREAMS THAT DID NOTHING BUT CHOKE ME.”

Charlie reached a trembling hand toward you, her voice soft, almost fragile. “I tried… I really did. I sent letters, messages, everything I could. I tried to reach you-”

You cut her off with a harsh, incredulous scoff. “Tried? Bullshit! If you tried, where were you? Why didn’t you come? Did you expect a letter to fill the void I lived in every night?”

Her lip trembled, tears now streaming freely down her face, her hands hovering uselessly in the space between you, as if afraid to touch you, afraid you might shatter. “I-I wanted to, but I didn’t know-”

The room felt smaller, the air thick with the weight of your words, so heavy it was difficult to draw breath.

Lucifer stood off to the side, his face pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide with a horror that seemed to root him to the spot. His posture was rigid but uncertain, like a man afraid to breathe too loudly, lest the entire fragile structure of the moment shatter.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, fragile against the storm you had just unleashed.

“About the gala… I didn’t see you.” He held your gaze, and you narrowed your eyes, searching his face for any sign of a lie. “The gala was in Satan’s and Lilith’s hands. I only came later to seal the barrier.”

Lucifer’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line, and you caught the faint flicker of guilt- or was it confusion? that crossed his face before being hastily suppressed.

A shaky, brittle laugh escaped you, the sound hollow, stripped of its previous rage, replaced by a dawning, terrifying disbelief. “Don’t act so coy now,” you said, your voice trembling. “You saw them bleed in my arms, Lucifer. You watched the life drain from their eyes… and you just stood there. Laughing at me.”

“I would never-” His voice was firm, laced with a genuine shock that was almost more painful than anger.

“You- you’re mixing things up,” he continued, stepping closer, his body leaning in, his posture honest yet uncertain, as though every instinct told him to approach with extreme caution. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, and there was a raw worry etched into the crease of his brow, in the tilt of his head. “I wasn’t there-”

You scoffed, the sound swallowed by a sudden, high-pitched ringing that buzzed in your ears. “What- no, no, you were there,” you insisted, your voice shaking as you gestured vaguely toward the empty space in front of you, not daring to look at him directly, as if the memory might materialize there. “You were standing there… in front of me-”

“No-I wasn’t-”

His words barely reached you, drowned out by the roaring in your head. Your vision darkened at the corners, the room blurring at the edges as memory clawed its way up from the depths of your mind, not as a clear picture, but as splintered fragments of broken glass. You pressed your hands to your face, your fingers tangling in your hair, desperate to grasp onto something solid, something real, as your own mind turned against you.

They were in your arms. So heavy. The scent of blood, metallic and cloying, filled your nostrils, a phantom taste on your tongue. You ran through the endless corridors, your own footsteps pounding like war drums, your screams echoing back at you, unheard. You searched for someone- anyone with the power to help- but the halls were empty, abandoned, leaving you alone with the chaos and the rapidly cooling body in your arms.

No… no, Lucifer was there. You were sure of it. His gaze, once steady and paternal, had turned cruel, amusement glinting in his eyes as he looked at you, cowering and drenched in blood. He laughed, a low, mocking sound that echoed in your soul.

Or was it him?

Something shifted in your memory- a dark shape, amorphous and changing, coalescing in the space where Lucifer should have been. A strange grinning inky shape with his voice, but not his face. Your mind fractured under the weight of it, replaying the scene over and over, or maybe planting false echoes to torment you, twisting your most painful memory into a weapon designed to make you hate the one person you had left to love.

You stumbled back, your hands dropping from your face as if they were suddenly too heavy to hold. Your breath hitched in a ragged, painful gasp. Your gaze darted from Lucifer’s horrified, pleading face to Charlie’s, which was a mask of pure, heart-wrenching confusion.

“I… I don’t…” you whispered, the words catching in your throat, your certainty crumbling into dust. “I don’t remember.”

‘Don’t listen to him.’

A voice, no louder than a breath, grazed your right ear. It was ghostly and insistent, clinging to your spine like a cold film of oil. You recoiled, stumbling back another step, away from Charlie and Lucifer, who both reached out to you, their faces a blur of confusion and concern. You wrapped your arms around your chest, a futile attempt to hold yourself together.

‘He was laughing.’

The voice slithered to your left ear now, curling around your skull, intimate and poisonous. You lifted your blurred gaze to Lucifer, and for a terrifying second, his worried, innocent eyes were replaced by a sinnister glimmer, a cruel, unfamiliar grin spreading across his face.

‘They all laughed.’

The sound wasn't just a memory anymore. It was real. A sharp, maniacal laughter that seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the walls, bouncing off the ceiling, filling the room until there was no space left for anything else.

You watched in horror as Charlie’s expression twisted into the same malicious grin, Rowell beside her wearing an identical, cold amusement. You shoved backward, sending chairs crashing to the floor, the splintering wood a dull thud beneath the cacophony, trying to carve out even a fraction of space to breathe.

Blackness bled into the edges of your vision, a creeping darkness that pulsed in time with the roaring in your ears. A figure emerged from it, looming closer, an impossible shadow, familiar yet alien. Your chest heaved, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that felt like swallowing glass.

You choked, the air thick and jagged, as if invisible thorns were clawing at your throat. Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and unchecked, leaving cool tracks on your burning skin.

‘They laughed as I bled into your arms.’  the voice-so achingly familiar, so horribly wrong- slithered through your skull, a serpent of memory and lies.

Your body convulsed with a shuddering sob. “No-no, he said he wasn’t there-” you gasped, coughing through the panic, your mind grasping at the fragile shards of reason. “He said he wasn’t there-”

‘Stop listening to him!’  the voice hissed, venomous, intimate, curling through your mind like smoke. ‘Don’t you remember? He- laughing- they all- bled- don’t you remember?’

Your hands flew to your head, claws digging into your temples as if sheer physical force could silence the noise, could excavate the poison from your own brain. “Leave me alone-stop- f-fuck- stop!” you shrieked, your voice cracking, raw and ragged, a raw nerve exposed.

A heavy hand wrapped around your arm – a horned figure too familiar pressing their face close to yours - and their voice- louder, sharper, undeniable-shattered everything else in the room with a scream.“DON’T YOU REMEMBER, REGENT?”

“GET OFF ME!” you roared, swiping at the contact with wild abandon. Thorns flared to life along your forearms, your claws slashing through the air as you staggered backward, pressing yourself against the nearest wall. The jagged spines left faint, stinging scratches in the plaster as your breath came in harsh, uneven bursts.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

The whispers, the laughter, the crushing pressure in your chest-they vanished like a receding tide, leaving behind a ringing silence. You dropped your arms, trembling, and let your gaze fall to the floor, trying to catch your ragged breaths, trying to remember how to breathe normally. The metallic scent of blood lingered, sharp and invasive, filling your nostrils and making your stomach churn.

Tentatively, you looked up.

Lucifer’s wings were unfurled, wide and protective, forming a shield around Charlie, who was kneeling on the floor. She pressed one hand to her chest where blood seeped through the fabric of her shirt, the other wiping at tears that streamed freely down her face. Her lips trembled as she tried to stifle a sob, her eyes wide and pleading as she glanced at you.

‘You only ruin things.’

The thought wasn't a voice. It was a conviction, a final, damning judgment that settled in your bones like ice. The room was silent now, but the air still hummed with the tension of what had just happened, your chest heaving, your claws flexing involuntarily. You had done that. You had hurt her.

You didn’t look back.

You fled.

The world became a blur of stone and shadow, the grand corridors of the hotel folding in on themselves as you tore down the hallway.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly, each one a frantic drumbeat against the marble, a desperate attempt to outrun the memory that was clawing at your insides. You didn’t know where you were going- only that staying in that room, under their pitying gazes, wasn't an option.

A part of you half-hoped you’d reach some dead end, some forgotten stairwell that would simply swallow you whole and spare you the effort of choosing what to do next.

Your body made the decision for you.

Your legs finally gave out, and you slid down the nearest door, your back hitting the wood with a dull thud that knocked the air from your lungs. You stayed there, head tipped back, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling as your breathing came in shallow, uneven pulls. For a few precious seconds, the world was quiet.

Then the sob broke free, raw and ragged.

You clapped your hands over your mouth immediately, your shoulders shaking violently as you tried to force it back down. Crying felt dangerous-like if you let it happen fully, if you gave in to the shattering, something worse would follow. You pressed your palms harder against your lips, biting down on your knuckles until the sharp, grounding ache was enough to let you breathe again.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, frozen against the door - tail curled around your body for comfort - afraid that moving would unravel you all over again.

You didn’t hear the door across the hall open.

You only noticed the presence when something stepped into your field of vision: blue-and-white shark slippers padding quietly across the floor.

You lifted your head slowly, eyes stinging, your vision blurred and unfocused. No sharp grin greeted you. No taunting laugh. The silhouette resolved into a tall, angular shape, his screen dimmed rather than glaring, his posture loose in a way that almost suggested… hesitation.

He stopped a few steps away. “You look like shit.”

You sniffled, tears glinting like tiny jewels at the corners of your eyes as you met his gaze. Vox shuffled on his feet, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. You looked… pitiful, like some sodden, abandoned kitten left out in the rain, and for a brief, uncharacteristic moment, he imagined it. He forced himself not to let a chuckle escape.

After a pause, he extended a hand toward you. You flinched instinctively, a full-body recoil born from years of expecting betrayal. He froze, then slowly opened his palm wider, offering the gesture as if it were an invitation rather than a command. “Want a drink?”

You sniffled again, staring at the outstretched hand but making no move to take it.

Instead, you forced yourself upright, moving with unsteady, tentative steps that reminded him of a newborn fawn finding its legs for the first time.

Vox retracted his hand but didn’t speak, just watched you, his head tilted.

When you began to follow him, he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds to check on you, making sure you didn’t stumble as you rubbed at your eyes, wiping away the tears and attempting, half-heartedly, to compose yourself.

The bar lights hit your face like tiny suns, harsh and unflinching, and you squinted, raising a hand to shield your eyes as you slid onto the stool next to Vox.

He leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted in a way that felt less like curiosity and more like a quiet, clinical assessment.

This was no longer the poised, commanding Regent of Pride he usually dealt with. Vulnerability clung to you like a cloak, and for the first time, he was quietly, uncomfortably aware of it, his usual smirk replaced by a thoughtful, unreadable expression.

Husk approached the bar, his wings twitching slightly. He took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance-the calm, almost composed demeanor of the TV demon, and the absolute wrecked state of the Hellish royalty sitting beside him. He’d seen a lot of strange things in his afterlife, but this ranked. He cleared his throat, adopting a professional stance that was undercut by the weary cynicism in his eyes. "What'll it be?"

Vox gestured with one claw lazily, not even bothering to look at the bartender. "Give me… uh, whatever. I'm not picky tonight." He tilted his screen toward you, a brow quirking just slightly, a silent invitation.

You cleared your throat, the sound scraping in the quiet air. Your voice, when it finally came, was a hoarse, dry whisper, scraped raw from crying and stress. "I… uh… whatever’s the strongest," you muttered, staring at a particularly interesting scratch on the bar top, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Preferably… with a bit of poison in it."

Vox let out a soft, amused scoff, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his screen. "Oh, suicidal now-new look for you."

You shoved your hands deep into your coat pockets,"Pretty old look, honestly," you muttered, the corner of your mouth twitching in bitter humor.

Vox blinked, a rare pause flickering across his screen as if his thoughts had briefly desynced. He shifted his attention back to Husk, who was already behind the bar, swirling your drink with the kind of precise, practiced ease that came from years of repetition. The liquid caught the dim bar lights as it moved, red and gold reflections sliding along the glass in lazy arcs.

A soft, familiar click drew Vox’s gaze back to you.

You were flicking your lighter open and shut, sparks spitting uselessly from the wheel without ever catching. Your shoulders sagged in quiet frustration before you turned toward him, holding the cigarette between your fingers.

“Got a lighter?” you asked, voice rough but even.

Vox didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in just enough to close the space and extended a single finger, hovering it a breath away from the cigarette’s tip.

Your eyes lifted to his, and for a moment the bar seemed to recede-the low hum of conversation, the clink of glass, even Husk’s movements fading into the background. His gaze was sharp, curious, searching, and when you met it, something unspoken passed between you: recognition, perhaps, or simply the acknowledgement of two people standing at the edge of their own messes.

A faint spark snapped between his fingertip and the cigarette, igniting it instantly. Vox’s eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer before he looked away first, gaze dropping to his claws as though the moment hadn’t happened at all.

You huffed a quiet breath of amusement, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. Closing your eyes, you took a long drag, letting the smoke burn down your throat and settle heavy in your chest. You welcomed the sting, the dull promise of a headache later-anything was better than letting your thoughts spiral again.

Husk’s voice cut cleanly through the moment as he set two glasses on the bar with a solid, grounding thump. You flinched slightly, then looked up as he straightened.

“Drinks are up,” he said, tone professional, though there was a hint of pride beneath it, like he expected you to appreciate the effort.

You leaned closer to the glass in front of you, peering into the deep crimson liquid as it clung to the sides, slow and viscous. The color alone made your nose wrinkle as you gave it a cautious sniff, curiosity warring with suspicion.

“Woah- is that a shark?” you turned sharply at Vox’s words.

He had pulled his own drink closer, screen tilted down almost flush with the rim of the glass, his pupils expanding in open fascination. A tiny rubber shark floated proudly atop a swirl of ocean-blue liquor.

Husk straightened behind the bar, chest lifting just a bit at the reaction. “Yeah,” he said, pride unmistakable in his voice. “Been workin’ on it. Heard it’s trendy, so I figured I’d dust off what’s left of my brain and learn a new trick.”

Vox tilted his head, studying the miniature shark like it might move on its own. He pointed at it with two claws. “Okay, but… what do I do with it?”

“You dump it in,” Husk replied, gesturing lazily. “Let it bleed.”

Vox nodded solemnly, pinching the shark between his fingers. The thing looked absurdly small in his grip, dwarfed by metal claws and static hum, and you let out a soft, surprised laugh before you could stop yourself.

“HOLY SHIT, that’s cool,” Vox said, grinning wide as he flicked the shark aside and took a sip. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly. “Fuck yeah!”

You turned back to your own drink, drew in a long drag from your cigarette, and let the smoke pool in your lungs before reaching for the glass. No hesitation, no ceremony- you tipped it back and swallowed half of it in one go. The burn hit hard and fast, scorching its way down, sharp enough to cut through the noise in your head.

Husk froze mid-motion, ears twitching as he stared at the rapidly lowering level in your glass. “…You’re really not gonna savor that, huh?” he said, irritation edging into his tone.

You shrugged, exhaling smoke through your nose. “Not in the mood for foreplay tonight.”

Vox was already absorbed in his drink again, watching the colors swirl like a private light show, leaving Husk to glance back at you. He wiped his hands on the rag, hesitating before clearing his throat.

“Look,” he started, cautious, “I know it ain’t any of my business-”

You leaned back slightly and blew a lazy stream of smoke in his direction. He waved it away with a scowl, coughing once. “Correct,” you replied, flat and unapologetic, eyes narrowing just enough to warn him.

Husk coughed again and subtly shifted his stance, squaring his shoulders as if professionalism alone might cut through the haze of smoke drifting across the bar. “Ahem. Look-” he began, tone gruff but not unkind, “if you ever need a drink… or someone to talk to. Doesn’t have to be all that therapist crap. I’ll be here.”

You lifted a brow, lips twitching with dry amusement as you glanced him over. “You look like a shitty therapist.”

He huffed, gesturing vaguely at himself with the rag still clutched in his paw, a brief flicker of concern crossing his features. “Yeah, well. I’m still probably better than whatever shrink managed to get you this messed up.”

A low, humorless sigh slipped from you as you leaned back, resting your head against your palm. “I’m used to it,” you muttered. Your fingers traced the rim of the glass, swirling the last streaks of crimson liquor as a dull headache began to settle behind your eyes. You ignored it, letting it blur together with the smoke curling lazily around your face.

After a moment, you looked back at him, fatigue giving way to quiet curiosity. “So,” you asked, voice softer, “how’d you end up here?”

Husk let out a short chuckle, polishing a glass that was already spotless. “That’s a conversation you earn after a few more rounds,” he said, eyes glinting with faint amusement.

You nodded, gaze drifting back to the near-empty glass as you rested your cheek in your hand, the bar’s low hum filling the silence.

“Look-” Husk started again, more careful this time.

You lifted your eyes to him, waiting.

“They’re both trying,” he continued, voice lower, steadier, his hands resuming their slow, habitual work. “Well… Charlie is, at least. She’s ambitious. Stubborn. Kinda delusional, if I’m being honest. But she actually tries.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Takes responsibility for things I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I don’t think I’ll ever be redeemed- but she believes I can be.”

Beside you, Vox went completely still, his attention locked on the surface of his drink.

Husk glanced up at you briefly, his expression softening before he looked away again. “And since I’ve been here… I’ve gotten better. At handling things. At seeing what actually matters.” He paused, then added more quietly, “So don’t go too hard on her. She’s doing her best- even when it’s way out of her league.”

You stared into the glass for a long moment, throat tight, before murmuring, “Did she ever… mention me?”

Husk hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said honestly, his voice dropping.

You let out a slow breath, your tail drooping as if it could no longer hold itself up, the weight in your chest settling deeper. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Husk broke the silence again, his voice quieter, more careful.

“But… that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you.”

You lifted your gaze just in time to see him set the glass down with a soft clink, his movements unhurried.

“Quite the opposite,” he went on. “I think she felt so much guilt about it that she didn’t even think she had the right to say your name. Not because you didn’t matter- because you mattered too much.” He paused, searching for the words. “Feels like a mix of respect, fear, and pride. All twisted together.”

Your shoulders slumped as you looked away, fingers coming up to shield your face. The sting behind your eyes finally broke through, tears threatening as you pressed your palm there, breathing shallowly. Husk didn’t comment. He simply returned to polishing his glasses, the steady, familiar motion giving you space to fall apart without being watched.

The quiet was broken by the soft knock of glass against wood. You glanced up, swallowing hard. “One more,” you said, lifting the nearly empty glass toward him.

Husk met your eyes for a brief moment, then nodded, approval subtle but there. “Atta’ bud,” he murmured, refilling it before sliding the drink back across the bar with practiced ease.

“One more.” You say again after the 2nd glass.

“One more.” You say after the 4th.

One more.

One more.

One more-

One.

…

You stared at the glass in your hand, empty again, its rim trembling slightly as your fingers shook. Your vision swam, a dull, insistent headache pulsing behind your eyes. You lifted the glass anyway, breath hitching. “One-” The word died on your tongue.

Something was wrong.

The hotel bar was gone. The sharp reds and sterile whites dissolved into deep, burnished browns, polished wood worn smooth by decades of hands and spilled drinks.

The counter beneath your palm was solid oak, nicked and scarred, warm to the touch as if it still remembered the heat of countless evenings. Amber light washed over the room, low and honeyed, bleeding into richer reds and golds that flickered softly with the sway of hanging lamps. The air was thick with scent-aged whiskey, old smoke, polished brass, and something floral beneath it all, sweet and familiar, like crushed petals pressed into memory.

Somewhere nearby, a slow jazz tune breathed through the room. A trumpet crooned low and lazy, a piano answering it like an old friend. The music didn’t demand attention; it wrapped around you instead, settling into your bones.

You shivered, unease crawling up your spine- not fear, but recognition.

A door creaked open.

You turned.

Your breath caught so sharply it hurt.

Your heart folded in on itself as you stared at the silhouette framed by the dim doorway, backlit by shadows and warm light. The curve of their horns was unmistakable, twisting in the same elegant pattern you’d memorized long ago. Their posture, their stillness-it was all achingly familiar. As they stepped forward, the details came into focus: the cut of their clothes, timeless and neat, the small blue flower pinned carefully to their chest, just where it had always been.

Blue. Unmistakable. Unchanged.

“Flower…” The nickname slipped from you without permission, foreign on your tongue yet impossibly right. You hadn’t said it in so long it felt like pulling something delicate out of your chest and letting it breathe.

You pushed yourself off the stool, movements sluggish and uncoordinated, stumbling once before catching yourself. Slowly, almost reverently, you crossed the space between you. They met you halfway, then stopped, a soft smile curving their lips. The same smile lines framed their mouth, the same gentle crinkle at the corners of their eyes. Time hadn’t touched them- not here, not like this.

Your gaze traced their face as if you needed to relearn it, afraid it might vanish if you blinked. You hesitated a single step away, doubt flickering just long enough to hurt- then you reached out.

Your hand lifted, trembling, and when your fingers brushed their cheek, a faint spark danced at the point of contact, warm rather than sharp.

They leaned into your touch instinctively, nuzzling their cheek into your palm like they had a hundred times before. The sensation stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes burned, tears blurring the edges of them as the world narrowed to this- this warmth, this presence, this impossible closeness.

You breathed out a whisper, fragile as glass, meant only for them.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

Their eyes widened, surprise flaring bright and unguarded before softening into something achingly familiar. A quiet laugh slipped from their throat- warm, genuine, the kind that curled low in the chest - and Satan, you knew with painful certainty that you would replay that sound a hundred times if you could. It was the same laugh you used to chase, the one that came out when they forgot to armor themselves.

“That’s so fucking cheesy,” they said, swatting at your arm with a light, playful flick. The touch barely had any force to it, but it carried years of muscle memory, of comfort.

Of you.

You only smiled, slow and fond, the kind of smile that came from knowing them too well. “Is it?” you asked, brow lifting as your voice softened. “I thought you liked my cheesy lines.”

Their smile stayed-just for a second longer than it should have-before it tilted, edges fraying into something sad and bitter-warm. Their gaze dropped briefly, lashes lowering. “Sadly,” they murmured, almost to themselves, “I did.”

The air shifted.

There was the sharp, familiar scratch of a record needle being dragged into place, followed by the soft click of a switch. Static hissed through the bar, filling the space like held breath, like anticipation - then it faded, smoothing out into the gentle croon of a guitar. A bassline followed, slow and intimate, and then a voice voice slid in, rich and velvety, wrapping around the room as if the song had always been waiting for this moment.

I know, I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…

The bar seemed to lean in with the music. Warm amber lights glowed against dark, polished wood-walls lined with old posters, brass fixtures dulled by time, the scent of aged liquor, tobacco, and faint florals lingering in the air. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, catching gold and red hues as they floated. It felt like an old jazz bar pulled straight from memory, something that existed half in reality and half in longing.

They turned their head toward the record player, watching it spin slowly, blue and black vinyl glinting as it turned. You didn’t follow their gaze. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from them- not when they were standing there, whole and familiar, as if the past had reached forward and taken shape.

Instead, you extended your hand.

They looked back at you, hesitation settling into their features. You could see it in the slight tightening of their jaw, the way their fingers twitched as if unsure whether to take what you were offering. Skeptical. Guarded. As though they hadn’t come here for this- hadn’t come here to remember.

You didn’t let them overthink it.

“Let’s dance,” you said simply, voice low and steady.

Your fingers closed around theirs before they could pull away, warmth meeting warmth. You drew them closer, guiding them gently, and your feet found the rhythm without effort -as if your body remembered even when your mind ached. The music carried you both, slow and unhurried, a sway that felt intimate without trying to be.

They huffed softly when you pulled closer, nose scrunching as they leaned in just enough to catch your scent. “Augh-Satan,” they muttered, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “That’s the worst smell of nicotine I’ve ever encountered. Your taste has definitely worsened.”

You let out a low chuckle, spinning the two of you just enough for your coat to flare and settle again. “You can argue with Monty about that.”

“Monty?” They rolled their eyes with a sigh. “He put you up to this? I don’t have the patience to argue with that dickhead.”

“He hasn’t changed,” you said quietly, feeling the way their hand finally relaxed in yours, fingers slotting in like they had always belonged there. Like they remembered too.

They hummed, then their gaze drifted over you- slow, careful. Taking in the creased fabric of your formal attire, the way it sat wrong on your shoulders now. The exhaustion etched into your face. The shadows beneath your eyes that even Hell couldn’t hide.

“Neither have you,” they said softly. “If anything…” Their voice lowered, gentler now. “You look tired.”

You smiled, small but sincere, thumb brushing lightly over their knuckles as you swayed. “Well, I am tired.”

They tilted their head, studying you. “Work?”

Your eyes met theirs, the song swelling around you like a confession given permission.

“Life,” you said quietly.

Then, softer-barely above the music- “…without you.”

They grimaced as if your words had struck them physically, their mouth tightening while their brows drew together in quiet anguish. The easy sway of the dance dissolved beneath their feet; they slowed, then stopped altogether, forcing you to halt with them. Your joined movement broke, leaving you standing too close, the air between you suddenly heavy and wrong.

“Don’t say that,” they murmured, shaking their head. Their voice carried a plea beneath the firmness. “You should’ve moved on by now.”

The record kept spinning despite everything, the song threading through the bar like a cruel ghost.

…I can see it in your eyes that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before…

The lyric lodged itself in your skull, echoing until it drowned out your own thoughts.Your chest tightened painfully as you stared at them, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“How could I?” you whispered, the question raw, almost offended by the very suggestion. The idea of moving on felt grotesque, unnatural. Like being asked to breathe without lungs.

They crossed their arms over their chest, shoulders lifting slightly, retreating inward. It was a posture you knew intimately, one they’d always taken when they felt cornered or hurt. Seeing it now made something fracture inside you.

“Do you still blame Charlie and Lucifer?” they asked carefully, eyes searching your face as if bracing for impact.

A scoff burst from you, sharp and brittle, tinged with something dangerously close to hysteria. “Of course I do,” you snapped. “It’s their fault- this-this never would’ve happened if they-”

“It’s not,” they interrupted, their voice firmer now, disappointment darkening their expression. “And you know that. You’ve always known it.”

You stepped toward them abruptly, panic flaring, your hand shooting out as if you could grab the truth and force it into shape.

“He watched you bleed out in my arms,” you said, voice shaking, words tumbling over each other. “He stood there and let it happen. I felt you slipping away-I felt it.”

“No,” they said, voice laced with confusion “That didn’t happen. He wasn’t even there.”

The world lurched.

“What?”

The word barely escaped you as the music warped, the melody dragging, distorting, before fading into an unbearable, hollow silence. The warmth of the bar dimmed, colors bleeding at the edges like wet paint.

“You’re mixing illusions with reality,” they said softly.

You turned away from them, breathing hard, fingers curling into fists as if you could anchor yourself to something solid. “No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “No, I’m not- I know what I saw.”

You spun back toward them suddenly, eyes wild, reaching out again with frantic urgency. “It’s me,” you insisted, voice breaking. “It’s me, Flower. You’re here. You’re standing right in front of me. You see me, don’t you?”

They looked at you then with devastating clarity, as if seeing not just you, but everything you’d become. “What happened to you?” they asked quietly.

The question hollowed you out.

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused, desperate, your voice climbing. “I’m right here. I didn’t change- I didn’t let go. I kept you safe. I kept you alive.”

Their expression softened, pity and grief folding together. “I’m not real,” they said gently. “I’m something you made. A memory you refuse to release. An echo you keep replaying so you don’t have to face the silence.”

A laugh clawed its way out of your chest, thin and cracked, your breathing uneven. “No,” you said, shaking your head violently. “No, that’s not-”

You grabbed their hands again, pressing them to your cheeks, your touch frantic, almost reverent, as if proof could be forced through sensation alone. “You’re warm,” you whispered urgently. “See? You’re right here. I saved you. I did. I just need time -I can fix this. I’ll make them pay. I’ll bring everything back. The way it was. The way it’s supposed to be.”

They stared at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, horror and sorrow etched deep into their features. They echoed your name softly, and it nearly shattered you. “I’m dead.”

You shook your head again and again, laughter bubbling up in sharp, broken bursts. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no -you’re lying. You’re wrong.”

The bar around you blurred, lights smearing into molten gold and red, walls breathing, bending inward. Your grip tightened, desperate, almost painful.

“You’re not dead,” you insisted, voice rising, unraveling. “You’re here. You can’t leave me again.”

You repeated it like a prayer, like a command, like a spell- “You’re not dead. You’re not dead. You’re not-”

Their face softened into something unbearably worn, exhaustion etched so deeply into their features it looked permanent, like it had settled there long before you ever reached this moment.

Their eyes-once bright, once sharp-were dulled now, heavy with a fatigue that went far beyond the physical. You felt it when your fingers brushed their claws, the faint tremor in their hand as you held it too tightly, as though touch alone might anchor them to existence.

You dragged your thumb along the familiar curve, committing every ridge and angle to memory with frantic devotion, terrified that if you let go even for a second, they would vanish.

“Let me die,” they murmured, voice thin and cracked, like something stretched too far and left to fray. “Please. Just… let me die. Let me rest.”

The words detonated in your chest. Instinct took over before reason could intervene. You surged forward, cupping their face in both hands, palms pressed firmly to their cheeks as if you could physically keep them from falling apart. Your grip was desperate - bordering on painful - thumbs shaking as they brushed beneath their eyes.

“I just need a little more time,” you said, breath coming fast, uneven. Your eyes burned with something feverish, something unhinged, a fire that refused to go out no matter how much damage it caused. “Just a little more time, and you’ll see. You’ll see everything I’ve done. Everything I’m going to do.”

Their breath hitched. Horror bloomed across their face as they tried to pull away, claws scraping uselessly against your wrists.

“I never wanted you to hurt anyone,” they said, voice breaking in the middle, splintering under the weight of the realization dawning in their eyes. They stared at you like they were finally seeing you clearly- and didn’t like what they found. “The-… “ Their breath hitched” those weren’t-…. They were your doing.”

Your lips curved upward slowly, reverently, the smile that spread across your face born of devotion rather than joy. It was the smile of someone utterly convinced they were right. “It was for you,” you said softly, almost lovingly. “Every last one of them. Payback. Justice. They took you from me. They deserved to bleed for it, and more.”

Their expression twisted, disgust and grief warring across their features. “You’re becoming just like them.”

“Like them?” A sharp laugh tore from your throat, brittle and disbelieving. “Like those sinners?” Your voice rose, echoing violently as the space around you seemed to shudder in response.

“Like those soul-rotting monsters?” They flinched as you stepped closer, your shadow swallowing theirs. “The ones who killed you?! The ones who slaughtered so many more hellborns that night!”

Their voice shrank, fear threading through it. “You’re scaring me.”

Something inside you cracked at that. You dropped to your knees in front of them, the movement sudden and reverent, as if you were bowing before a deity rather than a memory. You seized their hands again, clutching them with trembling intensity, your head bowed low, devotion bleeding into madness.

“I’ll make them pay,” you vowed, voice shaking, unsteady with obsession. “Every single one of them. You’ll see. I even made a deal-” Your voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial, hope flickering wildly as they struggled to pull free. “It’ll bring you back. I can remake you. Recreate you. We’ll go back to how it was. I’ll go back to who I was.”

“Let me go!” they shouted, finally wrenching their hands from yours.

You rose slowly, dread flooding your veins as you searched their face, panic clawing its way up your throat. Words tumbled out uncontrollably, tripping over each other in your desperation.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like-

“I love-“

“Don’t,” they cut in sharply, their voice slicing through yours.

“I never got to-”

“It was for the best,” they said quietly. Their tone softened, resignation settling in like a final breath. They looked at you with something painfully gentle, a bittersweet smile pulling at their lips. “You were… a wonderful experience.”

The words tore straight through you.

“You were-” You couldn’t finish. Tears blurred your vision, your throat tightening as you stared at them, desperate for some miracle, some impossible reversal.

They exhaled slowly and took a step back.

You flinched as if struck.

“Let me rest,” they pleaded. “This isn’t you anymore. I don’t know what kind of creature has taken root in your body, but I want nothing to do with it.”

They stepped back again.

The room began to fracture- hairline cracks splitting through the air itself, light bending, reality warping under the strain. When you tried to follow, thorned roots erupted from the floor at your feet, thick and barbed, coiling violently around the ground, holding you in place.

They retreated further, their form already blurring at the edges, voice barely more than a breath carried on the air.

“Let me die.”

“No-” The word tore out of you before you could stop it, raw and unshaped, and as you tried to surge forward your leg dragged hard against the living veins coiled around it.

Pain flashing white-hot up your spine as the roots bit deeper and tightened with merciless intent, yet the sensation barely registered beneath the tidal wave of panic crashing through you, because all you could see was them leaving, their shape already turning away from you as though the ground itself had decided you were no longer worth standing on.

“NO-DON’T LEAVE ME, PLEASE-” Your voice fractured as it rose, splintering into something hoarse and desperate, and you clawed uselessly at the floor while thorned roots surged higher around your body, wrapping your arms, your ribs, your waist, forcing you upright and locking you in place as your breath came in violent, uneven gasps, each one scraping your throat raw while tears flooded your vision until the world warped into light and shadow.

“DON’T LEAVE ME -FUCK- FUCK-” The scream collapsed into a sob halfway through, your chest seizing as the roots constricted harder in response to your struggle, pinning you like a grotesque monument carved from grief and regret, yet still you thrashed against them, muscles burning, lungs screaming, body shaking uncontrollably as the sobs you’d been holding back finally tore free.

“LET ME GO- LET ME-… please ” The plea broke apart as you stretched your arm toward them, fingers trembling violently as you reached so far it felt like you might rip your own soul loose just to close the distance, just to feel their hand in yours again, because you would have trapped yourself willingly, would have drowned in this self-made hell of pain and obsession if it meant they stayed.

If it meant they were still here, still real, still breathing in the same space as you.

But they never looked back.

The glow of the night swallowed their form piece by piece, soft light bleeding around their silhouette until it fractured, thinned, and finally disappeared entirely, and the sound that ripped out of you then was no longer a scream but something broken and animal, your mouth open in a soundless cry as the roots held you fast and you writhed helplessly, pinned and shaking like a weeping statue left behind to rot in its own devotion.

I love you…

I love you…

I love you…

I love…

I…

Your vision bled through.

The world slammed back into place with cruel immediacy as the hard, polished surface beneath your cheek grounded you in reality, cold and unyielding, and a small, wounded whine slipped out of you before you could stop it as you pushed your face off the wooden bar, the hotel surrounding you in all its garish clarity - red and white, sharp lines and sterile brightness, hope and peace plastered everywhere like a mockery of what you’d just lost.

Your tail flicked weakly behind you, an instinctive, disoriented movement as though your body was still trying to wake you from something that refused to loosen its grip, and when you looked around slowly, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the low hum of the room, the emptiness hit you all at once.

You were alone.

The bar existed in quiet indifference, alive in that distant, mechanical way that made it painfully clear nothing here had shattered the way you had, and you rubbed trembling fingers into your temples as your breathing struggled to even out, your chest still tight, still aching.

“Fuckin’… hell…” The words scraped out hoarse, worn raw by screaming you hadn’t realized you were still doing.

Then your eyes caught on something small and impossibly mundane.

The tiny rubber shark sat where Vox had been, tipped on its side, abandoned, and the sight struck you straight in the chest with a sharp, unexpected ache that stole what little breath you had left, because only then did you register the warmth draped over your shoulders. You stiffened before slowly gathering the fabric in your hands, fingers curling into it instinctively as though afraid it might vanish if you didn’t hold on hard enough.

A blanket - soft, heavy, patterned in familiar blues.

Before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in, and the scent was unmistakable, ozone and static threaded through something darker and musky, unmistakably Vox, and your throat closed so tightly it hurt as you sat there in borrowed warmth, clutching the blanket like an anchor while your gaze remained fixed on a stupid little rubber shark.

You pressed your cheek back down onto the cold wood, taking the rubber shark into your fingers and looking it over. Before clenching it into your hold.

“You want the crown, don’t you? Then get close to it as much as you can… My friend.”

The smile didn’t quite hold. Concern crept in, tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Hey,” she said, softer now. She shifted a little closer. “Dad… it was okay that you left. I mean- maybe not okay okay, but… understandable. Honestly?” She shrugged. “I kind of wanted to bolt too. It got… intense.”

His fingers flexed against the railing.

“It hurt,” she continued, choosing her words carefully. “What they said. They had every right to be angry at you- at us- but when they started turning that anger on everyone else? That wasn’t fair.”

Lucifer exhaled slowly through his nose. “Hell doesn’t really do fair,” he murmured.

“True,” Charlie admitted.

Lucifer continued: “Honestly would’ve been way weirder if they hadn’t jabbed fingers at all.” Charlie gave a small, apologetic laugh at that “At least this way… it was honest.”

She glanced back through the balcony doors, toward the lobby, where echoes of chaos and color still seemed to linger. “It was shitty. All of it. But I’m still glad we tried. The decorations, the effort… everything.”

Her voice dipped, more vulnerable. “I just… wanted them to see that I’m not giving up. That we’re not giving up. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if they have hated us for a while.”

Lucifer swallowed hard. His grip tightened, knuckles paling beneath the city’s glow.

“I know,” he said quietly. His mouth opened, then closed again, the words stalling somewhere behind his teeth. “I just-” He hesitated, then asked, almost reluctantly, “What did they say… after I left?”

Charlie didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm. The contact was warm, steady - an anchor. “It’s not really about what they said,” she replied gently.

Lucifer finally turned to look at her, confusion knitting his brow. “Then what is it about?”

“They were hurt,” Charlie said, firm but kind.

He blinked. “That’s… good?”

Charlie nodded, more certain now, her voice settling into a calm conviction. “Yeah. It is.” When he shot her a doubtful look, she only smiled wider.

“They still care, Dad. You don’t get hurt by people you’re indifferent to. That kind of pain doesn’t come from nowhere.” She exhaled slowly. “They’re just burying it- under armor, anger, duty. Responsibility stacked on responsibility until there’s no room left to breathe.” Her gaze drifted toward the city. “And honestly? Considering who raised them to sit on a throne… it’s not that surprising.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from Lucifer before he could stop it - thin, but genuine. Some half-buried memory surfaced: Satan, loud and reckless, all bravado and bad ideas, laughing in the face of consequences. For a fleeting second, the warmth of it lingered.

Then the smile faded.

“I think…” he started, then faltered, his voice roughening. “I think I just got buried under it all.” His eyes unfocused as they traced the city lights below. “Everything that happened. Watching my reputation rot in real time after that disaster with Vox.” His jaw tightened. “The mockery. The whispers. Hell doesn’t forget- and it certainly doesn’t forgive.”

Charlie winced, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah… that part wasn’t exactly great.”

“And the torture,” Lucifer continued, quieter now. The word hung heavy between them, sinking into the space like a bruise. His fingers curled against the railing. “That’s when it really started to crack. You can endure almost anything when it’s just you.” His breath stuttered. “But the moment you look up and see your own child staring at you like you’re a stranger- like you’re something to be hated…” His voice broke. “That’s where it broke me.”

He dragged a hand down his face, wings shuddering faintly behind him. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m a mess…I deserved it. Every last bit.”

Charlie turned fully toward him then, the city forgotten. Her expression was soft, but unyielding. “No,” she said at once. “Nobody deserved what happened. Not you. Not them.”

She hesitated, fingers curling together, then spoke more quietly. “And I’m not blameless either. I could’ve helped more. I should’ve helped more. But I was just as disoriented as they were. Just as overwhelmed as you.”

Lucifer looked at her, genuinely surprised.

“I tried reaching out,” she continued. “More than once. They shut me out. Completely. Cut off contact with me- and with you.” Her shoulders slumped for a moment, the weight of it pressing down, but she straightened again, resolve flickering back into place. “Still… that doesn’t mean it’s over.”

He let out a weak, humorless scoff, eyes dropping back to the railing. “It feels pretty damn final.”

Charlie stepped a little closer, her presence firm and grounding at his side. “It isn’t,” she said with quiet certainty. “We’ve got time. A whole year.” Her smile was small, but it burned with conviction. “And they can ignore a lot of things- but not genuine effort. Not forever.”

Lucifer scoffed under his breath, his gaze drifted back out over Pentagram City, neon bleeding into shadow, his expression dim but thoughtful. “So you really think,” he murmured, “that there’s still something there?”

“I don’t think,” Charlie replied, squeezing his arm. “I know.” Her voice softened. “Love doesn’t just disappear, Dad. Sometimes it just gets tired. And scared. And really, really bad at saying what it needs.”

Lucifer stayed silent, staring out over the city as if it might answer him back. The lights blurred slightly as his eyes glossed over, and after a long moment he released a shaky breath, shoulders slumping as some of the tension finally bled out of him.

“…Hell,” he muttered. “Leave it to my kid to find hope in emotional devastation.”

Charlie grinned and bumped her shoulder gently against his. “It’s kind of my thing.”

He huffed, and this time there was warmth in it, faint but real.

Lucifer turned toward her then, his expression softening into something openly affectionate. Without a word, he reached out, took her hand, and pulled her into a hug. His wings unfurled instinctively, wrapping around them both in a protective arc, feathers rustling softly as they enclosed her. Charlie melted into the embrace, arms looping around him without hesitation.

It wasn’t just comfort - it was a promise. A quiet, unspoken vow that said we’ll try, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts.

They stood there together for a long moment, the chill of the night air drifting past them as the city hummed below. When they finally pulled apart, Charlie suddenly froze, eyes widening. “Uh-  Dad?”

Lucifer blinked, still half-lost in the moment. “Yes, Char?”

She winced, offering him a sheepish smile. “Is this a good time to tell you that Vox is now a resident of the hotel?”

Silence.

Lucifer blinked once.

Then one of his eyes twitched.

The air around him shimmered as his pupils flared red, heat spiking so fast it felt like the balcony itself recoiled. In a burst of motion, he shot upward, wings snapping wide as flames spat violently at his sides.

“WHAT?!”

The word cracked like a thunderclap.

Charlie yelped and lunged forward, grabbing his hand before he could fully lift off. With surprising strength - and a lot of urgency - she hauled him back down onto the balcony stones, patting his knuckles in quick, calming motions like she was grounding a panicked animal.

“Dad- dad, listen to me,” she rushed out, awkwardly forcing a smile “He just showed up. No bravado, no cameras, no stupid monologues. It was just… him. Alone. And he said he’s here for redemption. Like- actually for real this time.”

Lucifer stared at her as if she’d just told him Hell had frozen over.

“Charlie,” he said slowly, disbelief dripping from every syllable, “he’s fucking Vox.” His hands curled into fists as he paced a step away, wings twitching. “You cannot be serious. You cannot be telling me you trust him after everything he’s done.”

“I know!” she shot back immediately. “I know how bad this sounds.” She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop pacing. “But the same way I have a feeling about them-” her voice softened, “-I have a feeling about him too.”

Lucifer grimaced, crossing his arms tightly, jaw set. “That sentence alone is giving me a headache.”

Charlie hesitated, then continued, searching for the right words. “He just… feels different. His whole vibe, his presence- it’s not the same. I don’t know how to explain it and it’s driving me crazy.” She sighed, then straightened, resolve snapping into place. Her voice firmed, gaining that familiar edge of authority.

“I built this hotel for all sinners. Even ones like Vox. If I start picking and choosing based on reputation, then I’m no better than the system I’m trying to change.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “Hell is broken. It always has been. And if I want to fix that, I can’t let prejudice be the thing that stops me. He’s staying. We’ll monitor him- constantly. I promise. I know how you feel about him, but… please, Dad. Trust me.”

Lucifer exhaled slowly. A cloud of smoke slipped from his lips as the flames around him dimmed and his wings folded back in. The tension drained from his posture inch by inch.

“…Alright,” he said at last, rubbing his face. “I trust you.” He glanced back toward the city, expression weary but calmer. “Besides, we’ve got half of Hell on our side now.” A pause. “And Heaven. Still can’t believe that part…”

Charlie let out a delighted squeal and threw her arms around him, shaking him enthusiastically. “You’re the best dad!”

“That I am,” Lucifer declared proudly- then lifted a finger in warning. “But.”

She froze, looking up at him.

“He is getting nowhere near me. Understand?” Lucifer said firmly, then visibly shuddered. “I still get the heebie-jeebies just thinking about that machine of his. All those wires. The screen. The- ugh. Everything about him feels like a bad idea wrapped in bad design.”

Charlie snorted, her composure breaking as she laughed. “Deal, deal. I promise.” She grinned, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Oh- oh, but you should’ve heard what they called him earlier.”

Lucifer arched a brow, skepticism and curiosity warring on his face. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“They called him a time-wasting vortex.”

For a split second, he just stared at her- then he burst out laughing. The sound was bright and unrestrained, slicing clean through the lingering weight of the evening. He wiped at the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “Oh, that’s my kid, all right,” he said fondly. “Definitely got that sense of humor from me.”

With a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured for her to continue, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “So,” he added, settling back against the railing, “what else did I miss?”

Charlie didn’t need to be asked twice.

For a little while, time seemed to loosen its grip on Hell entirely. The city below continued its endless churn of noise and neon, but up on the balcony it faded into something distant and harmless. Charlie animatedly recounted the chaos- how you’d zeroed in on Vox the moment recognition hit, how the accusations had flown sharp and fast, and how Vox, for all his polished bravado, had snapped right back with equal fury and wounded pride.

“And then,” Charlie said, barely containing her laughter, “they pointed at him like that-” she mimicked the gesture, accusatory and dramatic, “-and he actually short-circuited for a second. I swear, his screen flickered.”

Lucifer laughed again, shoulders shaking. “Oh, I would’ve paid to see that. Vox getting verbally clotheslined in my hotel? Tragic I missed it.”

They shared another round of laughter, the kind that left you breathless and lighter than before. It peeled away the last remnants of stress, leaving only warmth behind. For a brief, precious stretch of time, it was just a father and his daughter, trading stories like the world hadn’t been threatening to collapse around them.

Eventually, the laughter softened into quiet smiles. Lucifer leaned back against the railing, his gaze drifting over the city once more. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more honest, stripped of theatrics.

“We’re both scared shitless, aren’t we?”

Charlie glanced up at him, her expression gentle. She slipped her hand into his without hesitation. “Yeah,” she admitted. “But… if we’re together?”

He squeezed her hand in return, firm and reassuring, wings rustling softly behind him.

“…Then we’ll be fearless.”

Of all the times Vox had slept - and there truly hadn’t been many, given his aggressively workaholic default settings - this one ranked, without competition, among the worst.

He woke with a low, irritated hum crackling through his frame as consciousness booted up in stages, static flickering faintly across his screen.

The bed was criminally small. Not inconveniently small, not regrettably but survivable - small in a way that felt personal, deliberate, as though whoever had approved it had never once acknowledged the existence of legs, let alone long ones. His back throbbed from being folded at an angle no self-respecting sinner (or machine) should ever endure. One of his limbs had spent the entire night dangling off the mattress like an afterthought.

He straightened with a sharp wince, joints clicking audibly (old man smh) as he stretched to his full height, internal systems protesting the movement like they were filing formal complaints. He made a mental note to politely - read: intimidate Charlie into upgrading his accommodations. A hotel like this should at least pretend to respect a former strongest sinner of media.

As he inhaled, the gills along his ribs flared open, vents parting with a soft mechanical whirr. Internal fans kicked in, compensating for the strain as his system stabilized, heat levels evening out before they could escalate into anything disruptive.

He trudged into the bathroom and paused when he caught his reflection. The screen that made up his head flickered briefly before settling into a neutral standby image, bright and carefully controlled. For a moment, he simply stared at himself.

This was it. The beginning of a new era.

One he already despised.

Just a year, He reminded himself, tightening his jaw as the thought looped through his mind. One year of smiling, behaving, playing the role everyone wanted him to play; Convince the princess. Sell the redemption narrative. Rebrand, rehabilitate, reemerge. Then he could leave this place with his reputation polished, his influence intact, and his losses quietly buried under a fresh layer of success.

How hard could it be? Convincing people had always been his specialty. It was practically his brand.

The thought steadied him, grounding the irritation into something sharper, more familiar. Ambition followed close behind; bright, electric, intoxicating. He could almost taste it.

With a flicker of blue light, a painful groan, and a whisper of static, he manifested a fresh set of clothes, discarding the rumpled remnants of sleepwear with brisk efficiency. Once dressed, he turned toward the door, momentum already building. Whatever this place was going to throw at him, he would face it on his terms.

But first priorities.

Food and coffee came before schemes.

As much as Vox thrived on an audience, mornings were not his preferred broadcast period. He could perform through them, he always did- but it took deliberate effort, and expending effort before caffeine felt like a personal affront. A logistical failure. Possibly a hate crime.

He descended the stairs with measured steps, adjusting his outfit as he went. He had chosen one of his favorites: a bright Hawaiian shirt awash in vivid blues, patterned with cartoonishly cheerful sharks. Colorful. Approachable. Disarming. The kind of visual messaging that suggested See? I’m harmless now.

He rubbed the side of his screen in a half-hearted attempt to clear the last remnants of sleep mode, faint static shivering beneath the gesture. The directions Charlie had given him replayed easily in his mind, and he followed them without trouble, pushing open the kitchen door just as the overhead lights flickered to life. The sudden brightness made his display stutter for half a second, scan lines rippling as his system adjusted.

He crossed the room and opened the fridge, scanning its contents as his optimism steadily eroded. Shelves of aggressively wholesome options stared back at him, mocking in their simplicity.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, and the fridge door shut with a flat, irritated thud. He turned toward the cabinets instead, already reaching-

“Oh-FUCK!”

He recoiled sharply, jolting backward as if the kitchen itself had lunged at him. His hip slammed into the counter beside the fridge with a sharp clatter, the impact sending a burst of static skittering across his screen as his systems spiked in alarm. Any lingering grogginess was incinerated on contact.

There you were.

Seated at the small kitchen table near the window, framed by the pale, hellish wash of early morning light, you looked infuriatingly composed for someone who had spent the previous day verbally dismantling him. A bowl of cereal rested in front of you, spoon suspended midair, mouth slightly open; caught in the exact moment before a bite that his existence had apparently ruined.

The two of you stared at each other.

One second stretched - then another.

Your expression shifted first, settling into something unimpressed and faintly irritated as you blinked yourself the rest of the way awake. You lowered the spoon just enough to acknowledge reality, your voice rough with sleep and utterly uninterested in pleasantries:

“What are you doing,” you asked flatly, “auditioning for a tropical getaway?”

Your eyes flicked over him once quick and dismissive. “What’s with the fuck-ass shirt?”

Vox glanced down at himself on instinct, he looked back up just as quickly, bristling. “Fuck-ass?” he repeated, incredulous. “It’s not ‘fuck-ass.’ It’s approachable. It’s branding.” He straightened, chin (or rather screen) lifting. “And for the record, it’s cool.”

Vox’s smile tightening into something thinner, more defensive, as he moved around the table. His boots clicked against the tile with deliberate rhythm.

“Imagine waking up and choosing this personality.” he returned smoothly, the edge tucked just beneath the polish.

Your tail slid lazily across the floor, an idle motion - unbothered, unhurried and then unintentionally lifted at exactly the wrong moment.

Vox didn’t notice until his foot caught it.

He pitched forward with a sharp curse, one hand slamming against the counter to keep himself upright while the other clenched reflexively. Static snapped audibly from his frame as his balance recalibrated. “Okay- what the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, irritation bleeding through the veneer.

You tilted your head slowly, eyes half-lidded, spoon hovering above the bowl again as if this were mildly entertaining rather than disruptive. The calm in the movement was almost predatory.

“My problem?” you echoed evenly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Vox straightened, palm still braced against the counter as he leaned in just a fraction too close. His screen brightened, the smile sharpening into that familiar, honeyed broadcast expression. Reasonable on the surface, razor-edged underneath.

“Alright,” he said, voice smoothing out. “Let me recap. You trip me, insult my shirt- which, for the record, is vintage, limited run, and objectively charming- and then you look at me like I’m something you’re debating whether or not to scrape off the floor.”

You lifted your spoon again, unhurried, eyes never leaving him. “I’m multitasking”

“Cute,” Vox shot back. “Did you rehearse that, or does the bitterness come naturally before noon?”

Your jaw tightened, barely perceptible, as you chewed. After a moment, you swallowed and set the spoon down with deliberate care, metal clicking softly against the bowl.

“Funny,” you said. “Coming from someone who built an empire out of ego and reruns.”

His screen glitched - just a flash of static, gone as fast as it came. “Wow. Straight to the classics. No warm-up, no small talk. You really don’t do mornings, do you?”

“I do mornings,” you corrected. “I don’t do you.”

Vox scoffed and folded his arms across his chest, posture stiffening as though he could physically barricade himself behind attitude. “Trust me, the feeling is mutual. Yesterday you nearly bit my head off in front of half the hotel. Acting like I’m the reason your life went to shit.”

You leaned back in your chair, the legs giving a faint scrape against the tile. For a brief second, something tired slipped through your expression - raw and unguarded - before you smoothed it away behind a thin, humorless smile.

“You’re not the reason my life went to shit,” you said evenly. “You’re just the loudest symptom.”

That made his fingers twitch. They drummed once against his arm, sharp and irregular, the telltale bleed-through of irritation beneath the polish. His screen flickered faintly before stabilizing. “I don’t even fucking know you,” Vox snapped suddenly, volume spiking.

You raised a brow. “Charlie introduced me.”

His eyes narrowed, screen dimming just a fraction as he looked at you. “While you were actively trying to bite my head off.”

You smiled at him slowly, entirely without warmth “Yummy.”

Silence followed - thick, awkward, oppressive - stretching until it was filled only by the low electrical hum of the overhead lights. Vox shifted where he stood, weight rolling from one foot to the other, shoulders tightening as if the very air had decided to irritate him. His screen flickered faintly, a restrained glitch he didn’t bother masking.

“…Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. “What the fuck did I get myself into?”

You raised a brow, and he with a sharp, annoyed huff turned his back on you.

It was deliberate. A decision, not a retreat. He moved toward the mug cupboards with the stiff precision of someone refusing to rise to bait, choosing instead to starve it of attention (and starve literally). Whatever reaction you were angling for, whatever bravado or spark you wanted to draw out of him, he clearly wasn’t interested in giving you the satisfaction.

You watched him for half a second longer than necessary before turning back to the window, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into your mouth with exaggerated boredom.

Vox opened a cupboard and scanned its contents, jaw tightening as he took in the selection of mugs. His hand hovered, then recoiled slightly at a garish reindeer-shaped one. He grimaced at a yellow duck mug beside it.

“Nope,” he muttered.

He selected a plain white mug instead - unbranded and unoffensive. Shutting the cupboard with more force than necessary. As he headed for the door to find the coffee machine he saw in the hall with the mug in hand, his head tilted just enough for his screen to angle in your direction. His gaze tracked you carefully, calculating - watching for any sign you were about to fling something, lash out, or subtly shift the floor under his feet.

Nothing.

Satisfied, or at least unwilling to gamble on your restraint - he exited the kitchen without another word.

The door swung shut behind him.

You glanced toward the entrance for a brief moment, tail flicking once, then turned back to the window. Pentagram City stretched beyond the glass, loud and endless and cruelly familiar.

You nudged the empty bowl aside and glanced down at your hand. The bleeding had stopped, at least for now, but the gauze was still darkened and sticky with dried red. You flexed your fingers once, then let your head drop into your palm with a quiet breath, wincing as the skin pulled. You didn’t pull away from the pain. If anything, you lingered in it - grounded yourself with it.

Outside the window. No flowers crept along the sill. No familiar floral decay hung in the air. Just dust and the stale, overused scent of a hotel that had seen too many occupants and remembered all of them.

Usually, by now, Noxbert would have been hovering nearby - clipboard in hand, voice clipped and precise as he rattled off your schedule, your obligations, the latest minor disaster that required your signature or your threat. Adinele would have followed shortly after, correcting him, smoothing things over, managing the things you pretended not to notice.

You hadn’t seen or heard of either of them since yesterday morning.

Since you’d stormed off in a wash of flame and fury, leaving scorch marks and stunned silence in your wake.

After the fight with the boxy, electric bastard, you’d barely registered your own movements, just grabbed a random key from the receptionist’s desk and locked yourself away in the first room it opened. The rest of the night was a blur. You couldn’t remember if you’d cried, or when sleep finally dragged you under. Only the sensation of thorns twitching beneath your skin lingered in your memory, crawling up your leg from cracked ground that hadn’t actually been there.

A lovely reminder of… it.

You cursed under your breath and pushed yourself up from the table, sliding the chair back into place with mechanical care. The bowl and spoon clinked softly as you set them in the sink. You remained there for a moment longer than necessary, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the basin as if it might offer answers.

How the fuck do you get out of this mess?

Charlie’s voice, bright, syrupy, and aggressively optimistic, hit your ears and made your stomach turn on instinct. You sank deeper into one of the lounge chairs off to the side, the upholstery an eyesore of hand-drawn pixelated hearts and stars that looked like they’d been doodled by someone who believed glitter was a personality trait. The chair creaked under your weight, as if protesting your presence as much as you were.

The rest of the room was already occupied. Bodies sprawled across couches and armchairs in varying degrees of resignation. Husk was tipped back in his seat, gulping liquor like it was apple juice, and you couldn’t help the brief, bitter thought that you would kill for a drink right now. Niffty sat wedged beside Baxter, oscillating between manic giggling fits and sudden, eerie stillness. Vaggi stood near Charlie, arms crossed, posture rigid and alert like she was bracing for impact.

Angel and Cherri had claimed a corner together, openly glaring- no, staring daggers in the direction of both you and Vox, as if the two of you were a matched set of bad decisions.

And Vox himself?

He’d taken up the far end of the couch, stretched out with forced casualness, arms crossed tight over his chest. His screen flickered faintly with static every time Charlie’s enthusiasm spiked, the irritation bleeding through despite his attempt at a composed facade. Each overly cheerful word made his posture stiffen a fraction more, like he was physically restraining himself from short-circuiting the room.

The only absences were notable ones: Lucifer, of course, and the menstruation-colored deer.

Thank Satan for small mercies.

Charlie clasped her hands together, beaming. “Since we have my dear sibling here,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement, “I thought it’d be really nice to help them understand how things work around the hotel! Especially our therapy sessions- bonding, healing, all that good stuff!”

Your jaw tightened.

“And!” she continued, pivoting with theatrical flair, “we also have our new resident. Vox!”

She gestured toward him like she’d just unveiled a prize on a game show.

Vox’s smile snapped into place- tight, polished, and deeply unhappy. The expression on his screen read fuck me in bold, blinking letters. “Thrilled,” he said flatly, voice smooth but strained. “Absolutely honored to be here, Princess.”

Charlie either didn’t notice or chose not to. She turned toward Vaggi, who stepped forward and handed her a stack of papers along with scissors and an assortment of brightly colored pens that looked like they’d been purchased in bulk from some craft-store nightmare.

“Okay!” Charlie announced, clapping once. “Everyone gets a piece of paper, a pen, and scissors.”

She paused mid-distribution, smiling wider as she moved around the room, handing out supplies. Reactions varied: some grimaces, some resigned sighs, a few overly eager nods but no one seemed particularly surprised. This clearly wasn’t their first time being subjected to whatever this was.

When she reached you, Charlie stopped and held the items out expectantly.

You looked at the paper, then at her, one brow lifting slowly. “What?” you muttered. “Don’t tell me you actually think I’m participating.”

Charlie tilted her head, still smiling. “Do you?”

 “Fuck no.”

A flicker of something sharp crossed Charlie’s face; hurt, quick and genuine but she smoothed it over almost immediately, her smile snapping back into place with practiced ease.

“That’s okay,” she said lightly, voice warm despite the crack beneath it. “If you don’t want to participate, you don’t have to.”

She moved on, distributing the remaining papers, her steps a touch quicker now. When she reached Vox, she extended the supplies toward him. He accepted them after a brief pause, long fingers brushing the paper as his screen flickered faintly, static rippling like a suppressed reaction.

“Now that all of us have the papers- ” Charlie began.

“And where’s Sir Lucifer today?” you cut in, tone dry as bone. Your gaze slid lazily around the room. “I don’t see a duck toy anywhere. Kind of his calling card.”

Charlie hesitated for half a second before answering. “He said he had… business to attend to… and idea to manifest….”

You tilted your head, eyes lazily sweeping the room again before settling back on Charlie.

“Him? Business?” you echoed, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “Wow. And here I was getting worried Satan hadn’t dragged me into some last-minute, end-of-the-world meeting.”

A humorless huff left you as you leaned back. “What is this-character development? Is the King of Hell finally taking responsibility?”

faltered, just barely, before forcing her smile brighter- too bright, like a light flickering before it burns out.

Vox glanced sideways at you, his screen flashing with a quick ripple of static that passed for an eye roll. “Careful,” he said, voice low but sharp, arms crossing tighter over his chest. “Insulting the landlord tends to come with consequences. Usually duck-themed, loud ones.”

You turned your head slowly toward him, brow lifting. “Are you pointing fingers?” you asked mildly. “Not very redemptive of you.” A smirk tugged at your mouth, deliberate, poking. “Thought this was your whole rebrand.”

Vox let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, don’t start.” His screen brightened, colors sharpening as his irritation leaked through the polish. “I’m not defending him. I’m just saying, antagonizing powerful authority figures is a terrible survival strategy.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “Coming from a walking billboard with daddy issues and an antenna problem?”

His smile sharpened instantly. “Bold words from someone who thinks that attitude pairs well with whatever feral aesthetic you’re committing to today.”

You flicked your eyes down at his shirt, then back up. “Says the guy wearing a Hawaiian shark shirt like it’s casual Friday at a midlife crisis.”

“It’s vintage,” Vox snapped automatically. “Limited run. And for the record, sharks are a power symbol.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Clashes with your daddy-shark-meets-corporate-sellout vibe.”

Static crackled across his screen, a violent smirk plastered on his face – you mimicked it yourself. “Oh, I will end you.”

Charlie clapped her hands together sharply, her voice pitching just a notch higher than usual as she stepped decisively between you and Vox.

“O-kay! Moving on,” she announced with forced brightness, planting herself like a living divider before the tension could finish coiling. “Before this turns into a very different kind of meeting- and before someone redecorates the room with violence…”

“So! I want everyone to take one hand- or paw and place it on the paper. Trace around it with your pen, then cut out the shape with the scissors.” Her smile sharpened just a touch as she glanced toward Niffty. “And Niffty, please don’t stab the paper. Once you’re done, I’ll give you the next step!”

There was a chorus of low grumbling as people complied, but no one outright refused. Hands, claws, and paws pressed down onto paper; pens scratched uneven outlines across the pages. Angel sprawled dramatically over the couch arm, already half bored, while Husk muttered under his breath as he traced with minimal effort.

Vox followed suit more stiffly, placing his hand on the paper only to realize it extended well beyond the edges. His jaw tightened as he glanced sideways, watching how easily everyone else mapped theirs out. For a split second, his gaze lingered on his own hand, something unsettled flickering across his screen- then he scoffed quietly at himself and adjusted, tracing only what would fit.

“Hey, Husker,” Angel called out, holding up his pen with a grin. “You want all four of my hands, or should I pick my favorite?”

“Just one,” Husk replied flatly, not even looking up. Angel shot back with something shameless and flirty that earned him a pillow to the face. Cherri burst out laughing beside him, nearly botching her outline.

Across the room, Niffty was already done, scissors snapping rapidly with surgical enthusiasm, while Baxter worked with meticulous focus, measuring angles and proportions like he was drafting blueprints instead of cutting paper.

Your attention drifted toward a soft burst of giggling. Charlie was standing close to Vaggi now, gently guiding her hands as she cut around the traced shape, gathering the excess paper and holding it up like a prize. They were smiling, wrapped up in each other in a way that felt effortless.

For a moment, your vision blurred.

The room shifted, just slightly. Vaggi’s shape bled into another, familiar silhouette, and you found yourself standing where Charlie was, laughing, close, warm. The sensation hit like a half-memory or a wish pretending to be one- something you couldn’t quite place, but felt too deeply all the same.

Through her laughter, Charlie glanced up- and caught your expression.

Concern flickered across her face as your dissociated stare met hers, raw and unguarded for half a second too long. You flinched immediately, looking away, your mouth twisting into a grimace as you shoved the feeling down and masked it with irritation.

The room kept buzzing around you, oblivious. Pens scratched. Scissors cut.

When everyone finished cutting, Charlie had them hold up their paper hands like some kind of uneven show-and-tell. The shapes varied wildly neat, messy, oversized, clawed - but they were all recognizable enough.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes flicking to Vox’s cutout, and a snicker slipped out before you bothered to stop it. “What,” you drawled, tilting your head, “was your ego too big to fit on the paper?”

Vox didn’t even look at you at first. He adjusted the edge of his cutout with two fingers, screen flickering faintly before he glanced your way. “Funny,” he replied coolly. “I was going to ask if you’d recently lost a few limbs. Given you got no cutout-“

Before either of you could escalate, Charlie clapped her hands a little too loudly, her voice jumping an octave. “NOW!” she said, startling both of you into stillness. She beamed, though the smile was clearly under strain. “I want everyone to write their name on their hand and then pass it around the room. Everybody should write down one good thing about the person whose hand it is!”

 “What-no. Absolutely not,” Angel grimaced, pointing at Vox. “I’m not writing shit for him.”

Vox scoffed softly, folding his arms. “Likewise. I’m not exactly drowning in compliments for spider-themed delinquency.”

Charlie’s smile twitched. “Please, Angel,” she said gently, but there was an edge there now; quiet and pleading.

Angel held her gaze for a long second, jaw tight, then sighed through his nose. His eyes flicked past her, briefly landing on you; on the way you were suddenly very interested in the floor, shoulders drawn in just enough to be noticeable. With another sigh, he stuck out his hand. “Hand it over,” he muttered. “Before I grow a conscience and regret it.”

The exercise began, papers circulating slowly from hand to hand. Pens scratched, pauses stretched. Laughter came easily for some- Niffty hummed to herself as she wrote, Cherri leaned over Angel’s shoulder offering commentary whether it was wanted or not but Vox noticed the hesitation when his name appeared. The way hands stilled for just a fraction of a second too long.

His internal temperature spiked, systems compensating automatically as the vents along his ribs flared beneath the fabric of his shirt.

He redirected his focus sharply, eyes dropping to the hand in front of him - Vaggi’s. He turned the pen between his fingers, searching his internal lexicon for something neutral. Acceptable and inoffensive. After a moment, he wrote a single word in careful, deliberate lettering: Formidable. He paused, then added, smaller beneath it, Efficient.

You slumped deeper into your chair, shoulders curling inward as you unlocked your phone and began scrolling with more force than necessary. An unread message from Ozzie glared back at you. Nothing from Satan. Nothing from Noxbert. The absence pressed heavier than any insult had earlier, a hollow ache you refused to acknowledge outright.

You were mid-scroll when something entered your peripheral vision.

You looked up.

Charlie stood in front of you, her cutout hand extended carefully, like she was offering something fragile. For a moment, neither of you spoke. She wore a small, uncertain smile; hopeful, but braced for rejection. Your gaze dropped to the paper hand, then back to her face. The silence stretched just long enough for doubt to creep in; her fingers twitched, ready to pull back.

You grabbed it.

Not gently- more like you were afraid she’d change her mind. Charlie startled, letting out a soft gasp before quickly handing you a marker. You didn’t meet her eyes. You rested the paper against your knee and scribbled something fast and tight, the marker scratching sharply before you shoved the hand back into her grasp.

Charlie didn’t look at it. She just held it close, fingers curling around the paper as though the act itself mattered more than whatever you’d written.

“Did everybody write on each hand?” she asked, her voice lifting, brightening in that way it did when she thought- no, hoped- things were working. Like optimism was flooding back into her all at once.

You dropped your gaze back to your phone, thumbs flying as you typed messages you weren’t sure you’d ever send. Trying to drone the feeling of something pricking your throat.

Around the room, heads nodded. A few reluctant, other few amused.

“Okay!” Charlie clapped once, beaming. “Now everyone take back your hand and read what people wrote about you!”

The room shifted as everyone complied. Husk snorted the second he looked at his, casting a sideways glare at Angel and Cherri, who responded with a thumbs-up and poorly concealed giggles. Niffty cackled outright, spinning her paper like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Baxter adjusted his glasses, humming thoughtfully as he scanned each word. Vaggi paused on one note, brow lifting as she reread it with quiet scrutiny.

Vox took his hand last.

He turned it over, then froze.

For reasons he didn’t care to unpack, he’d expected it to be blank. Or worse- one crude insult scrawled dead center. His processors lagged for half a second as he stared at the paper, heat blooming unexpectedly beneath his casing.

It wasn’t empty- but covered.

Sure, there were messy scribbles, aggressive pen pressure, a curse or two wedged between lines- but beneath that were legible words. Thoughtful ones. Reluctant, biting, but undeniably there:

'Knows how to command a room (unfortunately).' 'Strategic thinker. Uses it for evil, but still.' 'Hard to ignore. Like a pop-up ad you can’t close.' 'Confident. Sometimes delusional, but confident.' 'Clearly intelligent, even when being insufferable.' 'Effective communicator!' 'Persistent. Refuses to stay down.' 'Good stabby stab.'

His grip tightened without permission.

The paper buckled in his hands, a sharp crease biting dangerously close to a tear before Vox caught himself. He drew in a slow breath, vents flaring beneath the fabric of his shirt as his internal fans whirred a notch higher, cooling something that had no business overheating. With deliberate precision, he smoothed the page flat again, leaned back into the couch, and folded his arms across his chest- posture closed, expression composed, every inch of him performing normalcy.

As long as he played along; as long as he smiled when expected, checked the right boxes, nodded at the right moments.

This would end. And he’d get what he wanted - what was ripped from his hands and more.

The sudden scrape of movement cut through the room. You sprang to your feet without warning, cluthing your throat.

Charlie had been mid-sentence, mid-read, her voice catching as she looked up. “Where-?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even glance back. You were already moving, boots carrying you briskly out of the room and toward the stairs, pace sharp and purposeful despite the way your shoulders sagged the moment you crossed the threshold.

No one stopped you.

Upstairs, your door shut with a soft but final click. The room responded the way it always did- rotted roses blooming along the corners, petals curling darkly as if feeding off your mood. You ignored them, ignored the heaviness pressing between your ribs, ignored the ache that had nothing to do with old wounds.

A voice eating away in your brain – giving you answers.

Downstairs, Charlie remained frozen for a beat longer than she meant to.

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she looked back down at the paper hand in her grasp. Her eyes scanned the notes again, lingering on the last word written near the edge, the ink slightly darker, the handwriting firm and unmistakable.

She smiled.

Quietly, she brought the paper to her chest, clutching it there as a soft, breathless laugh escaped her - equal parts fond and relieved.

Angel leaned back on the couch, watching her with narrowed eyes. “She’s finally lost it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Told you this arts-and-crafts crap was dangerous.”

Charlie didn’t respond. She just held the paper a little tighter.

'Stubborn'

You gripped your hair with both fists, fingers tangling hard at the roots, and pulled.

A sharp, grounding pain flared across your scalp - deliberate, desperate - as if hurting yourself on the outside might drown out the inferno raging inside your head. A strangled sound tore from your throat as you yanked again, teeth clenching so hard your jaw ached, stars bursting behind your eyes. It didn’t help. It never did. The pressure only intensified, pounding against your temples like something trying to claw its way out.

Your hands went down to slam onto the sink like it might anchor you to reality, knuckles whitening. The power surged again - too much, far too much - pressing against your skin from the inside, demanding release. Your vision smeared at the edges, spots of black blooming and crawling inward, and something inside you snapped.

You swung.

Your fist connected with the mirror in a violent CRACK!  power coiling instinctively around the blow. The impact sent a shockwave through the room. Glass exploded outward in a shriek of splintering sound, lights flickering wildly. For a moment, everything trembled - walls, air, you - until the electricity steadied and the lights burned fully again.

Silence followed, thick and ringing.

Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, lungs burning, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might break free of your ribs. Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Your fist was still embedded in the mirror, surrounded by a spiderweb of shattered glass. Blood welled from your knuckles, dark and slick, slipping down your skin and dripping into the sink below. When you pulled your hand back, it was with a sharp hiss- tiny shards bit into your flesh with every movement, a thousand stinging reminders of what you’d just done.

You let your arm hang uselessly at your side, fingers twitching as pain pulsed through them. The mirror was ruined - half of it reduced to jagged fragments, the other half still intact, cruelly reflective. You could only see one side of your face now, distorted slightly by the surviving glass. Around you, the bathroom was chaos: pill bottles strewn across the counter and floor, caps rolling lazily to a stop.

Bright colors. Smiling faces printed on the packaging. Cheerful promises staring back at you, obscene in their optimism.

They felt like they were laughing.

Your reflection met your eye - wild, glassy, hollow - and something sour twisted in your gut.

“…fucking pathetic,” you spat quietly, the words heavy with venom and shame.

“Your Highness, please stop moving.”

Adinele’s voice was soft, careful in the way one speaks to something wounded and dangerous all at once. Her small imp hands steadied yours as she leaned closer, the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic cutting through the lingering smell of wrath and shattered glass.

“It fucking hurts- ah, fuck- OUCH!”

Your hiss broke into a snarl as she eased a larger shard free from your knuckles. Your tail slammed hard against the kitchen floor, the impact echoing as instinct screamed at you to yank your hand away. You barely managed to restrain yourself, claws curling inward as you forced your body to stay still.

“I know,” Adinele murmured, unflinching, her thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin as she worked. “But considering how often this happens, I would’ve thought you’d learned by now.”

You quieted, the sharp edge of your breathing finally dulling as Adinele’s delicate fingers continued their careful work around your wounded hand. The way she handled you - gentle, practiced, reverent - felt almost unreal against the ache still pulsing through your bones. Your gaze lingered on her hands, the soft contrast of her touch against your ruined knuckles, and before you could stop it, your thoughts slipped their leash.

The court bled back in.

Marble floors. Cold laughter. The way the verdict had landed heavy and final, justice twisted into spectacle. Ozzie’s face flashed in your mind - wide-eyed, helpless, staring at you as if he didn’t recognize what was wearing your body anymore. Or worse, as if he did. The memory lodged deep, a splinter under your ribs, and guilt gnawed at you with quiet persistence.

You barely noticed the room again until Noxbert’s voice cut through the fog, precise as a scalpel.

“Your Highness,” he said calmly, “Sire Satan has left you a message.”

Your jaw tightened. You gave a small, stiff nod.

Noxbert tapped a rune on his device, and sulfurous smoke coiled into the air, rising and thickening until it formed a floating screen. Satan’s recorded image flickered into focus - far too close to the projection, his face looming at an awkward angle, squinting like an ancient demon who had never quite mastered modern tech. (like those old people photos on facebook)

“Regent,” he began, scowling. “I sent this to Noxbert because you ignored every message I sent to your phone. And if you smashed it again, I swear I am not paying for another.”

His eyes narrowed meaningfully. You rolled yours in response, tail snapping behind you like an irritated feline. Adinele didn’t pause her work, unfazed by the familiar tension.

“Anyway!” Satan continued brightly, clapping his claws together. “Since you made such a spectacle of yourself in court, I’ve decided to make your dream come true.” He grinned. “I’m sending you to the Pride Ring, to the Hazbin Hotel!”

“What-?!” The word tore out of you as you spun, knocking over bottles of antiseptic that shattered and rolled across the floor. You rounded on the screen, fury blazing. “Are you-?!”

“Now, now,” Satan interrupted, tapping a claw against the projection. “I know that look. Listen carefully.”

The levity in his tone didn’t soften the iron beneath it.

“You’ll stay there,” he said pleasantly, “for the foreseeable future. Think of it as… supervision. Charlie Morningstar’s little redemption project has grown noisy, and after a sinner’s recent stunt nearly blew half of Pentagram City into slag - I’m not interested in Pride spiraling into another gala-level disaster.”

Your throat tightened, something heavy and cold settled there as you stared at him.

Satan glanced down and briefly disappeared from frame, only to reemerge chewing loudly, grease-stained wings clutched in one claw. The sound made your skin crawl; both Adinele and Noxbert visibly winced.

“Mphm-” he continued around a mouthful, smacking his lips with enthusiasm. “You’ll keep the sinners in line. Make sure redemption doesn’t turn into rebellion. And you’ll make sure-” smack “-another idiot doesn’t try to play kingmaker.”

He pointed the chicken wing at the screen, sauce dripping slowly down his knuckles. “And before you start, this isn’t optional. Your authority covers Pride. The hotel’s in Pride. Therefore, it’s your mess.”

A low, cracked laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. “So I’m a leash,” you muttered. “Or a warning label.”

“Call it whatever helps you sleep,” Satan replied smoothly “Though, judging by recent events, sleep hasn’t been doing much for you anyway.”

Your tail lashed sharply, anger flaring hot beneath your ribs.

You didn’t care about Pride anymore.

Not the politics. Not the power. Not the endless games that chewed people up and called it order. You’d thought you’d buried that indifference long ago - dealt with it.

Apparently not.

“Oh,” Satan added softly, satisfaction curling through his voice. “And Regent?”

You looked up despite yourself, eyes burning.

“You’ll stay the full term. No vanishing acts. No delegating. One year. Minimum.” He paused, savoring it. “Call it… rehabilitation.”

“Mphfm- these chicken wings are good wha’d you put in these-“ The screen dissolved into smoke.

The room fell silent - thick, oppressive, suffocating.

You slowly tightened your fingers, feeling fresh warmth seep into the gauze Adinele had just secured, pressure blooming painfully with the motion.

“Husk, put the banner higher-no, higher- wait, no, that’s too high, bring it down a little- ANGEL, DO NOT USE DICK-SHAPED CONFETTI-NIFFTY!”

If chaos had a color palette, it had just detonated in the Hazbin Hotel’s lobby.

What had once been merely colorful was now an assault on the senses, as if a unicorn had exploded mid-prance and splattered glitter, streamers, and aggressively cheerful pastels across every visible surface. Ribbons draped from chandeliers like dying vines, balloons bobbed ominously near the ceiling, and at least three banners argued with gravity at once. Charlie’s voice cut through it all, bright and frantic, ricocheting off marble and glass as she spun from one disaster to the next, hands flailing, horns nearly clipping a garland from the intense emotions she was experiencing.

Alastor, standing like a predator at the edge of a feeding frenzy, observed with delight. His grin was impossibly wide, teeth glinting, eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned against a pillar, perfectly still except for the subtle twitch of an ear. Every shout, every frantic gesture, every misplaced decoration fueled his amusement.

Charlie finally halted mid-spin, placing her hands over her face, taking in the sheer magnitude of the chaos. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and the tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves.

“Nervous, dear?” Alastor purred, voice low and velvety, a predator’s tease.

“N-Nervous? ME? Who’s nervous?” she sputtered, flinging her arms in all directions. “I’m not nervous! It’s not like-like my sibling, who I haven’t seen in over seven years, is about to arrive at the hotel as the Regent of Pride- nothing to be nervous about!”

Alastor raised an elegant brow, one hand tapping his chin. “Oh, my dear, being nervous is hardly shameful. Everyone - even the most regal among us - experiences it.”

Charlie visibly relaxed for half a second.

“That is,” he continued pleasantly, “unless one is failing miserably at their task. Which you are.”

She deflated instantly, shoulders slumping as tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m trying my best,” she whispered, voice wobbling.

“But,” Alastor added smoothly, leaning in just a touch, “I might be of assistance - if you’d allow me?”

Her head snapped up. “Yes! Please-please! I would owe you!”

His ear twitched.

With a lazy flick of his wrist and a sharp snap of his fingers, the air rippled. Decorations jerked into place as if yanked by invisible strings - banners straightened, colors harmonized, glitter redistributed with alarming precision. Chaos collapsed into curated perfection in the blink of an eye.

Charlie’s eyes sparkled. She clapped her hands, bouncing on her heels. “It’s perfect! It’s perfect! Thank you, Alastor!”

“My pleasure,” he replied, voice honeyed and far too pleased.

Behind them, Vaggi’s frown deepened as she scanned the room. Husk had retreated to the bar, drink in claw, while Angel lounged dramatically over a stool and Cherri muttered something about lost sleep. Niffty was meticulously scrubbing the same spot she’d been focused on for an hour, muttering warnings about dirt and respect. Baxter, ever the sensible one, was still asleep somewhere safe, blissfully ignorant of the mayhem.

Vaggi’s eyes narrowed. “Charlie… where’s your dad?”

Charlie froze. “…Huh.”

Her gaze darted through the room, realization dawning. Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. No hovering over staff, no sharp remarks, no subtle tension radiating from a corner like a coiled spring.

“I’ll go check on him,” Vaggi whispered to herself, moving swiftly through the dimly lit hallways.

Her boots barely made a sound, though the faint echo of each step reminded her just how empty the corridors were. She headed toward the one room she knew Lucifer retreated to when he wasn’t hovering over her, or verbally sparring with Alastor.

The door came into view, plastered with two handwritten warnings: “No Alastors Allowed!” and “No Voxs Allowed!” She let out a short, amused huff before rapping her knuckles lightly against the wood. Silence answered. She frowned, unease prickling at her spine, then pushed the door open without waiting any longer. “Lu? You in there?” she called, her voice careful but carrying a thread of concern.

At the far end of the room, a faint, warm light flickered beneath a draped cloth. Vaggi approached slowly, careful not to startle him, and gently lifted the fabric.

Lucifer sat motionless, knees drawn toward his chest, one hand stretched outward. In his palm, a small, glowing bird shimmered, dancing with light and shadow as though it existed between reality and something far more fragile. Vaggi sank to the floor opposite him, settling into a quiet observation. She didn’t speak - there was no need - but her eyes followed the bird’s flight with a soft attentiveness.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and vulnerable. “I’m scared.”

Vaggi’s breath hitched slightly, but she stayed still, giving him space to voice what had clearly been buried for too long.

“How… how do I even face them?” he whispered, not looking at her, eyes fixed on the delicate light spiraling above his hand. “I…” His chest rose and fell in a shuddering inhale. The bird glided out from his palm in lazy arcs, its light washing over them. He pulled his hand down, shoulders slumping further. “I failed them. As a father. I can’t… I can’t look them in the eye.”

Vaggi furrowed her brows, sadness threading her expression. “I don’t know what happened between you… something big, I can tell, given that even Charlie hasn’t mentioned it. But hiding here, avoiding them, it won’t make it better- it’ll only deepen the scar.” Her voice dropped lower, soft as a secret, like speaking louder would shatter the intimacy of the moment.

Lucifer’s shoulders sagged. “I’m supposed to be… Lucifer Morningstar,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes closing. “The big bad demon of Hell- the one everyone should fear.” His words barely left his lips before he muttered, almost inaudibly, “Vox was right.”

Vaggi’s hand hovered for a moment before she finally moved, placing it gently over his. “No, he wasn’t. You-you fixed things with Charlie. Yes, the connection is still growing, but you did it. You tried because you wanted to. And here you are. What makes you think you can’t do the same with them?”

Lucifer’s eyes flicked open, shadowed with doubt, as he watched the bird swirl in delicate arcs around them before condensing into a soft, glowing orb. “Because…” His voice trembled, low and heavy. “I failed them when they needed me most.”

Slowly, deliberately, Vaggi inched closer, pressing her hand over his. Her smile was soft - steadying. “The road to forgiveness isn’t the same for everyone. For some, it’s smooth and short. For others… it’s long and full of bumps. But if you truly want to, you can always reach the end.”

Something shifted in him. The faint glimmer in his eyes brightened, and a single tear traced its way down his cheek. Without thinking, he swept her into a bone-crushing hug. Vaggi squeaked, caught off guard, but her initial shock melted into warmth, and she allowed herself to settle into him. They stayed like that for a long moment, the small orb of light hovering above, casting gentle shadows around them.

Finally, he pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Not a word of this to Charlie, alright? I still have a reputation to uphold in front of her,” he murmured, half-joking, half-serious.

Vaggi chuckled softly, a comforting sound, and guided him back out of the covers and toward the bustling chaos of the hotel.

“Dad! There you are!” Charlie cheered happily coming over to stand by his side as he took in the very colorful room.

“Are you ready?” She said with a nervous tone.

Lucifer’s attempt at a cheerful facade was paper-thin, cracking under the weight of Vaggi’s parting words. He stood beside Charlie, his hands jammed into his pockets, his shoulders a little too straight. “Ready as I’ll ever be!” he boomed, a little too loudly. “I mean, how hard could this all be? Just a nice, happy family reunion-”

He was cut off with a BANG!

The grand entrance doors didn’t just open; they were thrown inward with such force that they splintered in their frames. Every soul in the room flinched as one.

The cheerful, mismatched lights strung overhead flickered violently, plunging the space into a dim, strobing nightmare. The candles on the welcome table sputtered and died, their cheerful flames snuffed out by an unnatural, cold draft. The air grew heavy, thick with the acrid scent of ozone and old embers.

From the doorway, a vortex of black smoke and fire swirled, not with chaotic abandon, but with terrifying precision. It coalesced, taking on the shape of a horned figure before, in a millisecond, it imploded. The smoke and fire rushed inward, collapsing into themselves to manifest your figure.

The lights snapped back on, as if nothing had happened.

You stood at the entrance, a hand resting neatly on the head of your cane, your posture pridefully straight. Your eyes, half-lidded and bored, swept across the room, taking in the garish display of forced sentiment - the “WELCOME HOME” banners, the poorly drawn hearts, the cheap streamers. A faint, bitter taste settled in your mouth. ‘How sweet.’

Then- POOF!

An unapologetic shower of- dick shaped confetti? burst into the air right in front of you. From the bar, Husk smacked a paw against his own forehead, shooting a death glare at a snickering Angel Dust. You watched a single piece of confetti drift down toward your shoulder. With a lazy flicker of thought, a wisp of flame appeared above your palm, incinerating the paper with a silent fzzt before it could land. You neatly brushed the imaginary dust from your suit.

You took a step forward, the click of your cane on the marble floor the only sound in the suddenly silent room.

Charlie cheered your name, her voice bright with desperate, brittle hope. She bounded forward; her arms extended wide for the hug she’d been dreaming of for years.

You didn’t move. Instead, as she was about to collide with you, you dissolved into a plume of shadow and embers, reappearing silently behind her. Charlie’s cheerful smile froze on her face, her arms still outstretched. She stood there for a full second, a statue of misplaced affection, before confusion and a deep, painful crimson blush of humiliation spread up her neck. She slowly lowered her arms and turned around.

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on a particularly ugly watercolor in the corner, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“So… the Hotel?” Charlie stammered, desperately trying to fill the suffocating silence “Pretty neat, huh? The lights work! Most of the time. And we got a new mop! And the bloodstains are mostly gone! See?” She pointed a trembling finger at a faint, brownish patch on the ornate rug, a testament to a particularly messy Tuesday. “Mostly…”

Her voice dropped, the forced smile wavering. “We… we did it all for you. We wanted it to be perfect for your… return.”

At last, you spoke - your voice laced with easy sarcasm and polished mockery, a faint smirk curving your lips as your gaze swept the room:

“Return? Hardly,” you drawled. “It isn’t a return if one was never invited back. This feels less like a homecoming and more like a… performance review.” Your eyes flicked to the banners, the confetti, the forced cheer. “A very, very disappointing one.”

Then, without warning, you turned. The smirk vanished as if it had never existed, your expression flattening into something colder, sharper. When you spoke again, the warmth was gone - replaced by a calm monotone that somehow carried more menace than your mockery ever could:

“Do you have the permits and partitioning variances required to operate this establishment as a commercial residential property?”

Charlie blinked at you, her smile collapsing as her mouth fell open. “I… what?”

“This structure is a classified historical monument,” you continued, ignoring her sputtering confusion. You spoke like a bored administrator reading from a particularly tedious script. “To alter its purpose requires a writ of existential rezoning, signed by at least two members of the Ars Goetia and a notarized petition from the Impish Arts and Crafts Guild. I see no paperwork.” You let your gaze drift over the room, a look of profound disgust on your face. “As Regent, I cannot allow an unlicensed, unsanctioned, and frankly, aesthetically offensive blight to operate within my domain. The color scheme alone is a war crime.”

Charlie’s face drained of color, then shifted into a sickly green that clashed spectacularly with the red wallpaper behind her. “I-uh-we…”

Your severe expression shattered without warning. A sharp, humorless laugh tore from your throat as you pointed at her, openly mocking. “I’m kidding! Satan, look at your face!” You shook your head, clearly entertained. “It’s the exact same expression you made when you tried to summon a unicorn and instead unleashed a plague of locusts that devoured the royal gardens…good times.”

“Y-yeah,” Charlie laughed weakly, forcing the sound out. “Haha… right. The locusts. The… crunchy locusts.”

You leaned in, just enough to invade her space And to think you’re running this establishment with that small, relentlessly optimistic brain of yours.” You smiled, voice lowered into a syrupy condescension so thick it could curdle milk. “It’s almost charming. Like a hamster on a wheel earnestly powering a city-wide catastrophe.”

“Actually,” a smooth, velvety voice cut in, “I’m running it!”

Alastor materialized from the shadows as though he’d been waiting for his cue, his grin stretched impossibly wide. “Alastor- the Radio Demon! A pleasure, Regent. I’m quite certain you’ve heard of-”

You stared at him, genuinely baffled. “Uh… who?”

Before you could react, he seized your cane and shook it enthusiastically, as though greeting an old friend. You let out a low, unmistakable growl of displeasure.

Alastor continued brightly, unfazed. “This is my beautiful establishment you’re viewing. What do you say?”

Your expression flattened into something unimpressed and faintly offended. “It looks like a unicorn took a shit in your living room,” you said evenly. “Then died. And then its ghost came back to haunt the shit.”

From somewhere near the bar, Husk scoffed with a smile, “Could’ve at least taken it on a date first…”

Alastor’s smile tightened- just for a fraction of a second. A vein twitched at his temple, his radio static crackling faintly. “Well, we wanted to welcome the Regent of Pride with a few festive decorations,” he said, smoothly recovering. “Charlie’s idea.”

“I figured,” you replied dryly. “She’s always been enthusiastic in moments where she absolutely shouldn’t be. Like when she tried to ‘redecorate’ the throne room with glitter glue.” You scoffed. “Took Satan a century to get it out of the velvet.”

Vaggi, who had been simmering silently at Charlie’s side, finally snapped. Her hands curled into tight fists as she hissed, “Bastardo desvergonzado…”

You turned to her slowly, the corner of your mouth lifting in faint, dangerous amusement. “¿Desvergonzado?” you echoed, your voice soft, almost indulgent. “Charlie debió consentirte tanto que olvidaste cuál es tu lugar.”

You stepped closer, your gaze dropping pointedly to her clenched hands- then back to her face, drinking in her shock.

“When one is abandoned for so many years,” you continued coolly, “one tends to hop from learning one language to another. It passes the time.”

Your gaze slid past Vaggi then, settling on the King of Hell himself, who was doing a remarkably poor job of blending into the wallpaper. You lifted your cane and pointed at him with exaggerated cheer. “Isn’t that right, Luci?”

Lucifer jolted as if struck by lightning. “I-I mean, I just thought-”

“Right. Thought,” you crooned, your tone syrupy with disdain. “That’s new. Did it hurt?”

His eyes darted around the room, panic flashing across his face as sweat beaded at his temple. He tugged at his tie, fingers fumbling, and for a brief moment he looked to Vaggi who was already reaching out toward him but before anyone could say a word, he vanished in a puff of red smoke.

In his place sat a single rubber duck, bright yellow and absurd, squeaking faintly as it settled on the floor. A small note taped to its side read ‘Sorry! ‘ The painted smile stared up at you, mocking in its cheerfulness.

“Expected,” you muttered.

You exhaled slowly, the sound long and weary, tightening your grip around your cane. For just a heartbeat, the facade slipped - something raw and wounded flickering behind your eyes, your jaw tensing as if to physically lock the feeling away. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, buried beneath composure and contempt before anyone could be sure they’d seen it.

“Ugh,” you continued, waving a hand as if to slap away the emotions. “I’m developing a headache just from inhaling the air in this place. Is that desperation I smell, or cheap air freshener?”

You rapped your cane against the floor, the sharp crack slicing cleanly through the lingering tension. “Anyway-”

You began to pace, slow and deliberate, each step measured, predatory, like a shark circling blood in the water. Your eyes swept over them one by one before settling on Charlie “Let’s get a few things straight.”

“I didn’t return,” you said coolly. “I’m here because I’ve been ordered to monitor this… establishment you’ve decided to dedicate to your little redemption fantasy.”

You paused, allowing the words to settle into the room like ash. A crooked, bitter smile tugged at your lips. “It’s a punishment, by the way. For me.”

A short laugh followed, sharp and humorless: “Truuuust me, I would have happily stayed buried in the Wrath Ring, but Satan’s been in a real revenge era lately. You know how he gets.”

Then the warmth vanished.

Your tone flattened, turning dry yet again “Your sinners have grown bold over the years. And after a certain… incident that nearly erased half of Pentagram City from existence, I’ve been assigned intervention.”

You stopped pacing.

“Think of this as supervision,” you continued. “Supervising you. Supervising this profoundly stupid idea. And understand this clearly: I have full authority to shut it down the moment something like that happens again.”

A thin smile returned, sharp around the edges.

“I can turn this place into a parking lot,” you added lightly. “A very, very tacky parking lot.”

Your cane struck the marble once, the sound sharp and final, as if punctuating a verdict already decided.

“I will be monitoring you for a year,” you said evenly. “After all, this ring has become my responsibility. If another incident like the last one so much as breathes in this direction, I will personally see to it that this hotel is condemned and every single one of its occupants is… evicted.”

The pause you left afterward was deliberate. Heavy. You let your gaze settle on Charlie, slow and unblinking, your expression unreadable.

“After all,” you added softly, almost pleasantly, “we wouldn’t want to repeat the same event from years ago now, would we… sister?”

The word landed like a dropped glass.

Somewhere near the bar, Husk let out a dry, resigned snort. “Well,” he muttered, lifting his bottle, “we’re screwed.”

Angel Dust, on the other hand, looked positively delighted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glittering. “Ooooh, honey, talk dirty to me some more,” he purred. “That whole ‘I have the authority to shut you down’ bit? Chef’s kiss. A little power play, a little family drama…mmm, hotter than Valentino’s temper after a bad review. Somebody fan me, I’m faint.”

“Angel, no!” Charlie yelped, mortified, hands flying up.

“Ange-!” Cherri snapped through clenched teeth, already halfway to violence.

You turned your head toward Angel with a slow, assessing tilt, like a scholar examining something mildly disappointing beneath glass.

“How quaint,” you said. “A soul trapped in an endless cycle of degradation finds authority arousing.” You took a step closer, your shadow stretching long across the floor. “Tell me, does this Valentino find your predictable brand of rebellion tedious… or does he simply enjoy how cheaply your soul was purchased? Bulk discount, perhaps?”

Angel’s grin faltered. Just barely. “Hey- that’s not-!” he shot back, bristling. “He values my artistic vision!”

“Fuck you!” Cherri barked, fists clenched, already sparking.

You didn’t even look at her.

Instead, your attention swept across the room, taking them all in as a single, unimpressive whole. “This,” you said coolly, “is the caliber of sinner you wish to redeem? A lust-addled masochist, a washed-up showman with a fondness for bargain-bin deals, and a disgraced ex-exorcist clinging to a hero complex…

Your lips curved as you addressed the other sinners- not into a smile, but something sharper.

“It’s not a revolution,” you concluded. “It’s a petting zoo for the pathetically ambitious.”

Alastor broke the tension first, clapping slowly, the sound sharp and theatrical as it echoed through the lobby. His grin widened, impossibly pleased.

“Bravo!” he crooned. “What an absolutely thrilling performance. Your assessment is as sharp as your tongue, Regent. It’s been an age since I’ve seen psychological cruelty delivered with such… panache.”

You turned your head toward him at a lazy angle, eyes flicking over his frame with open, unapologetic appraisal. Then you frowned.

“Okay,” you said plainly, “can somebody explain the deal with radio Rudolph here? Is he part of the decor, or does he just orbit the princess to make her feel taller?” You gestured vaguely with your cane. “He looks like a haunted lampshade that learned how to smile.”

Charlie sputtered, horrified. “He’s-uh- Alastor! He’s helping!”

“No, I heard him the first time,” you replied, waving her off without looking. Your gaze slid back to him, sharp and inquisitive, like you were genuinely trying to solve a puzzle. “I’m just asking why he looks like a candy cane that got mugged in a back alley. What’s the gimmick with the red? Fell into a vat of cherry Kool-Aid? Lost a fight with a Christmas tree?”

A sharp snort cut through the air.

Husk turned away from the bar, coughing into his sleeve. “Pfft-cough- sorry. Dust in my throat.”

For a fraction of a second - barely a breath - Alastor’s smile tightened. Not gone-never gone. But strained, like porcelain under pressure. A faint vein twitched along his temple as the hum of radio static bled into the room, low and irritated, vibrating just beneath hearing.

“Kssshhk…Well,” he said lightly, voice still smooth, still pleasant, though edged now with something metallic, “quite the little jester, aren’t we?”

You took a slow look around the lobby, letting your gaze drag over every banner, every glittering streamer, every aggressively cheerful slogan taped to cracked marble and stained pillars. Your expression was unreadable:

“So this is what you’ve built.”

Charlie stiffened. “I-what?”

You gestured vaguely with your cane, the motion dismissive, almost bored. “The banners. The confetti. The slogans. Redemption through glitter and positive affirmations.”

Angel snorted from somewhere near the bar. Husk followed it with a long, suffering groan, burying his face in his glass like he wanted to drown in it.

You began to circle Charlie slowly, footsteps unhurried, predatory in their calm. “You built this place the way a child builds a fort,” you continued, voice even, precise. “Optimism first. Structure never. No contingency plans. No enforcement protocols. No concept of consequence.” You stopped in front of her, tilting your head. “Just hope, smiles, and the belief that if you want something badly enough, Hell will suddenly stop being Hell.”

Charlie snapped “Hey-! People want to be better!”

You raised a brow. “Do they?” A beat. “Or do you want them to be- because the alternative would mean admitting you have no idea what you’re doing?”

Vaggi stepped forward sharply. “Watch your mouth.”

Your eyes flicked to her, lazy and cool. “Oh, I am,” you replied smoothly. “I’m choosing my words very carefully.”

Your attention slid back to Charlie, something sharper settling behind your gaze. “Tell me, sister,” you said quietly, “do you actually believe this will work?” You leaned in just enough to make the question feel intimate. Dangerous. “Or is this just a stage you’ve built so you don’t have to look at the mess underneath?”

You straightened, eyes glowing red, tail flickering behind with anger.

“The mess,” you added, “that I have been given to clean up.”

Charlie clenched her fists. “You don’t get it. This isn’t about rules or fear. It’s about giving people a chance.”

A dry laugh slipped from you before you could stop it- soft, humorless.

“And there it is,” you murmured. “The Morningstar brand delusion. Exceptionalism dressed as mercy.” Your eyes flicked briefly, knowingly, toward the space Lucifer had vanished from. “Your father’s idealism. Your mother’s defiance. None of their restraint.” A faint hum of irony threaded your tone. “A fascinating cocktail.”

“You don’t get to just come in here and tear everything apart!” Charlie snapped, voice shaking but resolute.

You met her gaze without flinching.

“I absolutely do,” you said calmly. “That’s literally my job.”

For a moment, the edge dulled.

Your shoulders eased - just slightly. The sharpness in your eyes softened into something worn, something old. A bittersweet smile tugged at your lips, small and tired, like it hurt more than it helped. “That’s all I’ve ever learned to do.”

Charlie’s eyes widened looking at you.

The tension in the lobby had reached a point where it felt physical, thick and oppressive, like the air itself might split if anyone so much as breathed wrong. That was when a sharp, insistent buzzing cut through the silence - jarring, metallic, impossible to ignore.

You froze mid-thought.

With a sharp exhale, you reached into your coat and pulled out a sleek obsidian phone, its surface glossy and immaculate, the screen pulsing an angry red like a warning flare. The shift was immediate. One second you were the Regent of Pride, radiating controlled menace; the next, your posture straightened, shoulders squaring with a reflex born of long habit.

You lifted a single clawed finger toward the room, suddenly very polite.

“One moment.”

You turned away, pacing a few steps towards the entrance, as the call connected, your voice dropping into a tight, urgent hiss the second you spoke. “Yes, Satan?”

A pause, you pinched the bridge of your nose, your tail swooshing behind you in irritation.

“No, I’m dealing with it right now,” you muttered, glancing back at the hotel with open disdain. “It’s a complete shit-show, by the way. You’d love it-”

Another pause - shorter this time.

Your spine went rigid, tail stilling. One eye twitched, sharp and involuntary.

“…You did what?”

You spun on your heel so fast the hem of your coat snapped through the air. Flames burst from beneath your feet, not controlled or elegant, but wild - heat licking the marble.

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN YOU EVICTED ME?!”

The shout cracked through the lobby, raw and unfiltered, still aimed at the glowing phone in your hand. You turned mid-rant - and froze.

A sinner stood framed in the doorway, built from sharp lines and polished chrome. His head was a television screen – the newest plasma model it seemed. The face displayed there was a too-bright, too-perfect grin, the kind engineered to sell lies to the masses: trust, comfort, compliance, all wrapped in synthetic cheer. It never quite reached his eyes.

Your fury veered, locking onto him with surgical precision. “And what the fuck are you looking at?” you snapped.

He stiffened, the easy confidence faltering as confusion rippled across his screen. The grin didn’t vanish, but it recalibrated - brightness nudged up, angles softened - an automatic adjustment meant to soothe. His hands folded together in front of him anyway, a rehearsed, camera-ready gesture of approachability.

“Uh-” His voice crackled with faint feedback before smoothing out into something polished and broadcast-friendly. “Is this a good moment to enter the hotel?”

Every head in the room turned as one.

“Vox?!” Charlie blurted, her voice pitching up in alarm.

The name snagged in your mind like a splinter.

You blinked, your fury cutting off mid-burn as recognition failed to quite ignite. “Wait… Vox… why- why do I know that name?” You snapped your fingers once, sharply, then turned half away, muttering into your phone. “Big C. What’s the name of that sinner again? The one with the stupid screen for a face who almost blew half of Pentagram City to bits…”

Charlie’s eyes widened, horror dawning in slow, inevitable clarity. “Oh no,”

Vox visibly straightened, static briefly skittering across his screen before it resolved into a high-definition smile - wide, charismatic, and entirely too practiced. He rolled his shoulders back, posture shifting from “awkward interruption” to “center-stage host” in a heartbeat. One hand swept outward in a smooth, theatrical flourish.

“Now, now, let’s not lead with the negative,” Vox said, his voice slipping into a rich, performative cadence, every word perfectly enunciated.

One hand swept outward in a smooth, theatrical flourish. “I’ve decided to try out redemption! ” he continued, tone glossy and upbeat, like he was unveiling a new product line. “For real this time. Fresh start. Rebrand. New image. Ha-ha…”

You turned to stare at him, your fingers tightened around your cane until the metal creaked. “…You.”

Your voice rose, cutting and unforgiving. “You are the fucking sinner who almost blew half of Pentagram City off the map.”

Vox froze for half a second - just long enough for his processors to catch up. His screen flickered, the smile glitching before reforming into something smaller, tighter. Defensive. Calculating.

“I- uh- ” he started, then straightened, static snapping at the edges of his voice. “Okay, wow, that’s a strong opener, but who exactly are you supposed to be?”

“You’re the reason I’m stuck in this shithole for a year.” you snapped back, every word vibrating with restrained fury.

Vox’s smile sharpened, irritation bleeding through the polish. “I’m the reason- what?” He scoffed, leaning back slightly, arms spreading in an incredulous gesture. “Buddy, I don’t even know you. Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

Charlie hurried forward, hands raised, panic flashing across her face. “Okay- okay, let’s all just calm down, please. Both of you. Alastor?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Little help?”

Alastor’s grin widened by a fraction.

Then he stepped backward- and simply wasn’t there anymore, his form melting into the shadows like he’d never existed at all. Charlie stared at the empty space. “…Alastor?”

Husk blinked, unfazed. He reached behind the bar, grabbed another bottle, and twisted the cap off with a tired flick of his wrist. “Oh yeah,” he muttered before taking a swig. “We are definitely screwed.”

Angel Dust had already turned on his heel, clearly deciding this was above his pay grade. “Nope. I am not gettin’ vaporized today,” he said, heading for the stairs - only to stop short and squint. “Whoa- Baxter? Since when were you here?!”

Baxter hovered near the edge of the chaos, goggles fogged, posture stiff with immediate regret. “Just now,” he said flatly, eyes darting between you and Vox, Charlie who was trying to calm you two down and Vaggi who was trying to calm her down.

“I came to see what the commotion was and I-” He winced. “I am already extremely overwhelmed.”

✶ Afternote: Me too Baxter, me too.

Lucifer clapped his hands once, wings fluttering with barely contained excitement. “More than ready! I have been waiting all week to see what happens next. That cliffhanger was criminal. Absolutely criminal. Quackgatha and Quackthony cannot possibly leave things like that- do you know how emotionally invested I am?”

Angel snorted into his drink. “They’re ducks.”

“Yes,” Lucifer said firmly, “and that’s what makes it art.”

Truthfully, none of them were especially fond of the show. The melodramatic bird-family reality series was… generous at best. But that wasn’t the point. The point was this - being together, breathing for a moment, letting the week’s tension loosen its grip. The hotel had been busier than ever now that sinners actually came for the right reasons, expectations were high and patience was thin.

If unwinding meant sitting through feathered soap opera nonsense, then so be it.

“I genuinely fail to comprehend how you find this utter garbage entertaining,” Alastor remarked, lifting his teacup for a delicate sip. “I would much prefer something with a touch more… violent. A splash of red can be very therapeutic.”

Lucifer snapped his head toward him. “You have absolutely no taste. Which is, frankly, predictable. Low-IQ deer brain behavior.”

“I see no reason any of us should be subjected to this,” Alastor continued pleasantly. “Especially against our will.”

Vaggi shot him a knowing look, smile sharp but amused. “You say that every time. And every time you stay until the end and then ask me questions about the lore.”

Cherri burst out laughing. “Ohoho- BUSTED!”

Angel lifted his mug. “Yeah, radio boy. You’re obsessed.”

Alastor’s eye twitched. “Spreading slander will not improve your standing, Vagine.”

“It’s Vaggi- actually, you know what? Forget it.”

Husk muttered something under his breath.

Angel perked up instantly. “Say that again?”

Husk sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m just saying… the show’s shit. It’s a family drama where the mom bails, the dad spirals into a depressive mess, the daughter runs off chasing her dreams, and the other kid gets left behind with abandonment issues. Now they’re all trying to glue themselves back together like that fixes anything.”

Charlie’s hand stilled mid-motion in Vaggi’s hair.

Lucifer froze, wings half-lifted.

They both let out quick, awkward laughs, immediately redirecting their attention to the walls, the ceiling, a suspicious stain on the carpet- anything but each other.

Husk frowned. “Did I-”

“CHANNEL!” Lucifer barked, snatching up the remote and flipping through stations with aggressive determination.

Commercials rolled by in a lazy blur. A handful of Vee-related ads flashed across the screen - slick smiles, distorted jingles, hollow promises - earning a unified chorus of groans, hisses, and middle fingers from the room. Someone threw a pillow. Someone else booed. Eventually, mercifully, the screen cut to black.

Then the show’s theme burst to life.

Overly dramatic music swelled through the living room, violins wailing like the end of the world depended on the waterbird romance. Everyone shifted, resettling into cushions and each other, the familiar ritual of collective focus settling in.

Lucifer tilted his eye just slightly, catching Alastor in his peripheral vision. The Radio Demon was watching the screen with unusual intensity - his characteristic grin absent and replaced with a lazy smile. Ears angled forward and posture subtly attentive. Lucifer noted it silently, already savoring the opportunity to bring it up later.

The theme song faded out, and the episode began, picking up exactly where the cliffhanger had left off.

Lucifer let out a small, delighted quack.

“I– I don’t think I’m good for you!” Quackgatha cried, mascara-stained tears streaking messily through her feathers. “I’m a mess!”

“We can be a mess together…” Quackthony murmured, voice low and earnest, eyes full of unfiltered devotion.

Angel’s attention drifted briefly from the screen. He glanced sideways at Husk, who seemed acutely aware of the look. Husk met his gaze for half a second before the both of them snapped their eyes away like they’d been electrocuted. Cherri noticed, of course, raising a brow with a slow, knowing smirk.

“I’m scared!” Quackgatha sobbed.

“I am too.”

Quackthony lifted a wing, brushing it gently along Quackgatha’s cheek, guiding her chin upward until she was looking at him. Her tears slowed. The music softened, violins trembling in the background. The room grew quiet as everyone leaned in just a little, breath collectively held while the ducks edged closer… and closer…their beaks hovered a breath apart-

Static screamed through the speakers.

The music died mid-note. The image fractured, blurred, and then snapped into something else entirely.

A vast courtroom filled the screen.

Everyone froze.

Lucifer’s eye twitched violently. His wings unfurled as he shot upright, hovering in midair as fury crackled off him. “FUCKING- BITCH-SATAN, FUCK YOU!” he roared, flipping off the television with impressive accuracy.

The others groaned in unison, arms thrown up in protest. Alastor, who had sworn he wasn’t invested, flicked his ears sharply- once, twice- in clear irritation.

Lucifer dropped back down onto the couch with a huff, arms crossed tight against his chest as smoke puffed angrily from the sides of his head.

“What the hell is this?” Cherri asked, gesturing at the screen where armored guards dragged a struggling imp toward the crest of a hill. “Can’t we just change the channel?”

Lucifer groaned. “We can’t. It’s a Wrath Ring’s court broadcast. Satan’s doing. He loves showing off when he’s playing big boss.”

“Then I’ll just turn it off,” Cherri said, already pushing herself to her feet.

Lucifer waved a hand irritably but nodded, murmuring with a sad pout,“I wanted to know what happened.”

The television suddenly blared with overlapping voices from the courtroom, echoing and harsh.

“This vile, hideous imp has put his kind to shame!” a voice thundered. “Committing such hardened acts to GAIN THE UPPER HAND!”

Cherri slowed as she reached the TV stand, fingers curling around the remote. She raised it, thumb hovering just above the power button.

“And what are these… so-called crimes?”

“STOP!”

The word cracked through the room.

Cherri flinched, the remote slipping slightly in her grip as she turned around.

Lucifer was half-risen from the couch, one arm stretched out as if reaching for the screen itself or warding something off. He didn’t blink. His eyes were wide, unseeing in the way only true recognition could hollow it out. Beside him, Charlie had gone utterly still, her usual warmth drained from her posture, shoulders drawn tight as though the air itself had turned cold.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence that followed was suffocating, stretching thin and brittle. The television murmured on, the courtroom filled with the uneven stutter of someone scrambling through an explanation, words tripping over fear. No one in the room breathed too loudly. Slowly, one by one, the others turned back toward the screen, searching for whatever could have frozen both the Princess of Hell and it’s King in place.

“What the fuck is-” Angel started.

The screen’s imaage shifted.

An icy, avian demon strode across the air itself, talons skimming over translucent frost that formed beneath each step. Their movements were exaggerated, theatrical, feathers flaring wide as they gestured to the invisible masses above, voice sharp and cutting even through the screen.

Then the camera flipped

It panned upward, deliberate and groveling.

A throne came into view - ancient, carved from stone with an apple symbol engraved at the top. Upon it sat a figure at ease. Legs crossed. One arm draped lazily over the armrest, fingers curled near their chin in a posture of bored indulgence.

On the bottom of the screen read an introduction “The Regent of Pride” and a name stuck to… “Morningstar”.

The room fell dead quiet.

Alastor’s smile widened by degrees, slow and deliberate, stretching into something sharp and knowing as his eye gleamed with interest.

Lucifer finally spoke.

His voice was low, barely more than a breath, as though he were afraid that saying it any louder might make it real- might let them hear him.

“Sunbeam?”

You scoffed, tongue clicking against your teeth as two blue-bloods postured at one another like overdecorated peacocks. Your brows knit together, irritation settling deep and familiar.

Fucking Goetia, you thought. Prideful to the marrow - couldn’t help it, really, considering who had breathed life into their lineage in the first place.

From your periphery, Ozzie glanced up at you and offered a subtle thumbs-up, as if checking whether you were enjoying the spectacle. You responded by sarcasticaly flicking your tail in his direction, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. That earned you a snort and a grin before he leaned back again, arms folding loosely.

“Stella and I didn’t want to put him through the trauma of facing his aggressor!” the icy avian demon chirped sharply, feathers bristling as he flared his wings in what was very clearly meant to be intimidation.

You squinted at him.

What was his name again? Andrenaline? Andrephus? Something aggressively aristocratic. And the guy he was arguing with was…Vasagi? Vasabi? Ooo Wasabi- you might ask Noxbert if he could get you some on the way home.

“Who, might I also add…dramatic pause… “The bird demon snapped back into focus when he jabbed a talon toward the restrained imp - Blitzo you remembered “PLOTTED TO HAVE HIM ASSASSINATED!”

You leaned forward with a sigh, uncrossing your legs and spreading out a little too comfortably on the throne. One hand came up to massage your temple as disbelief bled into boredom.

“Wait, so-” you started, voice carrying easily through the din.

The room quieted, reluctantly.

“You’re tellin’ me,” you continued, dragging your gaze back to the icy bird, “that you decided to start a whole-ass trial without calling the victim to court.” You paused, wrist twirling lazily in the air as you searched for the name. “What’s his name again, uh… uhh-”

You shot Ozzie a pleading look.

“Stolas,” he supplied smoothly.

You snapped your fingers. “Ah, yes-Stolas! Him.” You leaned forward again, eye glinting. “So you just… didn’t summon him. Because he’s traumatized.” A beat. Your mouth curled. “What do you take this court for- a clown show?”

A faint jingle of bells cut in.

You turned your head toward Mammon, who was already scowling at you like you’d personally insulted his entire net worth. (You did.)

“All offense meant in that statement, by the way,” you added pleasantly.

A few snickers rippled through the balconies.

“What I’m saying,” you went on, gesturing broadly to the assembled demons, “is that we have to summon him. Due process, decorum, the boring shit that keeps this place from turning into a blood sport.” You glanced around. “Anybody got his phone number? House number? Hell, a pigeon?”

You reclined back into your throne, crossing your legs once more. “He’s one of the Goetia’s that I actually would’ve liked If he come forward with his problems to me.” A chuckle slipped out, quieter, more to yourself. Biting back a ‘After all, I’m a bit of a professional when it comes to hellborn romance disasters.’

Mammon barked out a laugh. “I don’t think you should get a fuckin’ say in how this court runs, Regent.” He leaned forward, sharp grin flashing. “Only reason you’re sittin’ in that chair is ‘cause of us.”

You looked him up and down slowly, deliberately, eyes dragging over his form with pointed disinterest.

“It’s a miracle you’re even sitting in any chair,” you said mildly, tilting your head.

Mammon snarled. “That’s just off putting!”

“You should be off pudding,” you shot back without missing a beat.

Asmodeus doubled over, cackling as he slapped the surface hard enough to rattle chairs. Beel wheezed beside him, pounding a fist down between laughs. A chorus of heckling followed immediately. “GET DUNKED ON!”

One of the imps in the court finally broke through the laughter, staring in wide-eyed disbelief as he shouted over the noise. “That wasn’t him! We don’t even know who wanted Stolas dead- but it wasn’t Blitzo!”

The icy bird-whatever his pretentious, vowel-heavy name was; you’d already decided it wasn’t worth the mental effort-let out a thin, smug snicker. “Oh?” he drawled. “Well then… perhaps we should ask.”

He snapped his fingers.

The mechanisms beneath the courtroom floor groaned to life, a narrow platform rising slowly. A sound - sharp and dry, like a rattlesnake’s warning spread through the room - revealing another imp standing stiffly atop it, arms crossed, chin lifted in practiced arrogance. He flashed the room a crooked sneer.

“The hitman,” the bird announced grandly. “Himself.”

A ripple of murmurs surged through the room.

“Who,” the bird continued, feathers settling with smug satisfaction, “has graciously agreed to give his testimony in exchange for full immunity.”

The hitman puffed out his chest, rolling his shoulders like he was posing for a recruitment poster. “Yeah, it was him, alright,” he said confidently. “Paid me to take out the precious Goetia to cover up what he was doin’ with the, uh…”

He paused. Looked down at his palm in confused, then back up at the icy bird.“…uh- line?”

They leaned toward one another, whispering urgently, far too close, far too loudly- despite the fact that the entire courtroom could hear every mortifying syllable.

You leaned back with a dry scoff. “Are we supposed to suddenly be deaf, or is this part of the performance?”

After a brief, frankly embarrassing struggle, the chain mechanism around Blitzo’s mouth loosened. He tore the muzzle away with a violent jerk, coughing once before shouting at full volume.

“BLAGH- WHAT?!” he snapped. “Look, I’m an assassin, okay?! If I wanted Stolas dead, I would’ve done it my-fucking-self!”

The words hit the courtroom like a bomb.

Gasps exploded from every corner. A few royals screamed outright. Asmodeus’ grin dropped into open-mouthed horror; Beel’s wings twitched, eyes wide. Beside Blitzo, an imp grabbed another and sobbed, “We’re gonna fucking die!”

You slid forward to the edge of your throne, brows lifting as dread curled in your gut. ‘Oh, that was not the right thing to say.’

Before Blitzo could dig himself any deeper, the mouth guard snapped back into place, dragged up by invisible force, sealing his words behind metal once more. He struggled against it, muffled curses vibrating uselessly through the restraint.

Satan exhaled sharply, claws tapping against his armrest. “What a disappointment,” he muttered, unimpressed.

“That’s bullshit, guys” Beel shot up, wings unfurling as she slouched on her seat. She gestured toward Blitzo, amusement cackling in her tone. “I’ve met this lil’ imp before. He’s a real wildcard, but he’s a lot of fun and I think we should hear him out.”

She dropped back into her chair with a huff, muttering, “It’s pro’lly not a big deal.”

Ozzie leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah! I'm sure he has a good reason for all this.”

“Are we really falling for the damn assassin they dragged in here?” you cut in sharply, teeth clenched as you leaned forward, tail flicking behind you despite yourself. “I mean- come on! It’s painfully obvious someone else paid him to go after Stolas.”

Your tail betrayed you fully then, angling ever so slightly toward the icy bird and his theatrics.

You exhaled through your nose, reigning yourself back in, voice colder now. “And by everything I know- and by the laws this court pretends to uphold- it’s completely legal for an imp to use the grimoire if a Goetia hands it over willingly.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber, uneasy, thoughtful.

“Oh, shut up, you three.” Mammon leaned back in his throne, hands spread over his stomach as he burst into wild laughter, the sound grating and smug. His eyes dragged over you with open mockery before he turned sideways, elbowing the figure beside him.

“We all know you love slumming it with the lower-class plebs,” he snickered. “Unlike the rest of us, eh?” His grin widened obscenely. “Right, Levy?”

Leviathan stiffened instantly, disgust flashing across their face. Without a word, they grabbed their chair and scooted it several inches away from Mammon, casting him a sharp, venomous glare.

“Oh, you wanna fucking go, Mam?”

Ozzie snarled, lames roared higher around him burning brighter, hotter, his jaw set tight as his hands curled into fists. Beel was already there, grabbing his arm and yanking him back before he could lunge.

“Not worth it, Oz,” you muttered firmly. “You’d just get your hands dirty in a pile of clown shit.”

Beel snorted, unable to help herself. “Yeah. And that stuff stains.”

“SILENCE!” Satan’s roar cracked through the chamber like a whip, the air vibrating with restrained fury.

Your eye twitched.

“You don’t get to fucking silence me, fuckward,” you snapped back instantly, temper flaring. Your horns surged larger, curling outward as power rolled off you in a visible wave. “Not after the stunt you pulled eating all my fucking biscuits!”

Satan blinked, genuinely thrown. “Nowhere did it say they were yours!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose hard, teeth grinding. “Oh, I don’t know- maybe the label with my name on it? Or the very clear ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ written in blood?”

He paused, scratching the back of his head, thinking far too hard for far too long. “…Ah. I might’ve eaten the box too.”

A sharp, tired breath escaped you.

‘Fucking stupid-‘ you muttered under your breath, forcing yourself to turn back toward the court before you did something regrettable.

“Back to the matter at hand,” you said coolly, folding your hands as your tail flicked once behind the throne. “Sentencing these imps to death would be a direct violation of our own laws. This court hasn’t followed protocol from the very start.”

You gestured broadly; to the chained defendants, the grandstanding speeches, the absence of the so-called victim. Satan responded only with a dismissive huff, wings rustling irritably.

“Death?!” Blitzo snapped, incredulous, jerking against his restraints. “For what- doing a job? Trying to help people? That’s what gets us executed now?”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, eyes never leaving Satan. “The dude’s got a point.”

Blitzo and the others kept talking over one another, voices cracking with desperation as they tried to justify themselves, to explain, to plead. You watched them with something close to pity- but pity didn’t carry weight here. Not when Satan’s word ruled the ring, and not when the rest of the court was content to nod along.

Then abruptly Satan raised a hand.

“Wait.”

The chamber stilled.

“What was the recipe for the biscuits?” he asked, turning back toward you.

You blinked.

“Oh, it’s nothing too special,” you replied, unbothered. The imps stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Pretty standard dough. But Beel’s Gluthoney gets mixed in.” You glanced sideways. “Beel, what do you put in the drink again?”

Satan followed your gaze.

“Oh, you know,” Beel said easily, wings fluttering. “Honey, some sin-”

“HELLO?!” the icy bird shouted, fury finally boiling over. “We are supposed to be executing these imps?!”

Three heads turned toward him at once - flames flared: “SILENCE.”

The word hit like a physical force. He recoiled instantly, sweat beading at his feathers as he nodded rapidly, shrinking back into his cloak.

Satan straightened at last, the faint curl of amusement leaving his expression as if a switch had been flipped. Whatever fun he’d been having was over.

“Enough,” he growled. “I’m fucking hungry, and this farce has gone on longer than I intended.”

He rose from his throne in one smooth, unhurried motion. His wings unfurled slowly, deliberately, the span of them swallowing the light as they cast long, creeping shadows across the court. Conversations died instantly, even Mammon shut his mouth.

“For the treacherous crimes of stealing a Goetia’s grimoire for illegal use,” Satan declared, voice carrying with practiced authority, “bringing harm to a Goetic prince, and accessing the mortal coil without clearance or procedure-”

Your skin prickled. The air thickened, pressure coiling tight around your ribs.

“-you, Blitzo, and your crew are hereby sentenced…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…to death.”

Your eyes widened-and you were gone.

Power cracked sharp and loud as you vanished from your throne and reappeared directly in front of him. Marble split beneath your feet as a pillar of inky, thorned roses erupted upward, curling and hissing as it lifted you to his eye level. The court recoiled at once.

“You cannot be serious!” you snapped, disbelief and fury bleeding together in your voice.

Satan barely looked at you.

His gaze slid past your horns, past the writhing roses, like you were a misplaced piece of furniture blocking his view. An obstacle. An irritation. Nothing more than the role you’d been given - balance incarnate, useful only so long as you stayed decorative.

“Sit down,” he said flatly. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

A low ripple moved through the chamber, not shock- never shock, but interest. This was the good part. This was where something might break.

You didn’t move. Your tail lashed once, the crack echoing through the court like a whip. A few demons flinched despite themselves.

“You don’t get to dismiss me,” you said evenly, the calm in your voice far more dangerous than shouting, “when you’ve just wiped your ass with your own laws.”

Satan glanced at you then, slow and unimpressed.

“You didn’t summon the victim,” you continued, ticking each point off with surgical precision. “You accepted testimony from a witness who couldn’t remember his lines. You gagged the defendant the second he said something inconvenient. And now you’re calling it justice?”

Satan exhaled, long and theatrical, the sigh of someone humoring a nuisance they were too powerful to swat outright. “This is Hell,” he replied. “Not a courtroom drama. The law exists to maintain order, not to coddle imps who forget their place.”

“Order,” you echoed, incredulous. A sharp laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “Is that what you call this?”

You gestured toward Blitzo and his crew - chained, bruised, eyes fixed on the floor because looking up had already cost them enough. One of them was shaking so hard the chains rattled.

“This,” you said, your voice climbing despite your effort to keep it measured, heat threading through every word, “is spectacle. You’re not punishing a crime. You’re reminding everyone watching what happens when the wrong class gets too bold.”

Mammon clicked his tongue, long and loud, clearly enjoying the tension. He leaned back in his seat, boots propped carelessly against the edge of the table, a grin splitting his face. “Ooooh, careful there,” he drawled. “That almost sounded like empathy.”

Your gaze snapped to him - sharp, predatory, honed by centuries of being underestimated. It lingered just long enough to make the grin on his face falter.

“Careful,” you warned softly, the quiet in your voice far more threatening than shouting. “You are treading a path you do not want to walk with that pig’s tongue of yours.”

Mammon raised his hands in exaggerated surrender, laughter bubbling out of him anyway. “Hey, hey. Just sayin’. You’re gettin’ awfully worked up over some disposable imps.”

The air shifted.

Beel’s wings rustled, the sound uneasy, instinctive. Asmodeus’s smile finally fell, eyes narrowing as he glanced between you and Satan. Even Leviathan shifted in their seat, discomfort written plain across their face.

Satan’s attention sharpened then - but not on Mammon.

On you.

“Enough,” he said again, and this time there were teeth behind it. The word carried weight, final and heavy. “This verdict stands.”

You stared at him, searching for some crack, some hint that this was still a performance that could be steered. There was nothing. Just certainty – hunger.

Slowly, deliberately, you straightened atop the writhing pillar of thorned roses, meeting him at eye level once more.

“Then say it honestly,” you replied, voice steady now, stripped of heat but not conviction. “Say this isn’t about Stolas. Say it isn’t about law. Say it’s about reminding Hell who gets to decide who lives and who dies.”

The court held its breath.

Satan smiled. It wasn’t wide or cruel - just satisfied.

“There you go,” he said lightly. “Now you’re paying attention.”

He turned away from you without another glance, already done, already bored with the argument. “Carry out the sentence.”

The guards stepped forward in unison.

Chains clinked, metal scraping against stone, the sound far too loud in the stillness. One of the imps broke, a quiet, ugly sob slipping out despite their effort to swallow it down.

Blitzo lifted his head at last. His eyes were wild - not pleading, not furious anymore - just stunned, like someone who had finally realized the game was rigged from the start. For the briefest moment, his gaze found yours.

And something ugly twisted in your chest.

A sharp, unwanted thing. Guilt.

“No,” you muttered under your breath, barely audible even to yourself.

“If you want to execute someone for your entertainment, then fine,” you said sharply, the words tumbling out with barely contained fury. “But execute the one responsible. His employees aren’t at fault here.”

Blitzo jerked upright so fast his chains rattled. “Y-Yeah! They got a point!” he barked, nodding frantically before turning on Satan with reckless desperation. “Look- all Hell’s gonna see is you executing imps who were just doing their damn jobs! I’m the rogue here, not them!”

Satan’s stare snapped to Blitzo, molten and unforgiving.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. “Fine,” he said at last, rubbing his temple like this was a mild inconvenience. “I suppose I did create imp-kind to be obedient. No sense punishing the dutiful. Just axe the mouthy one.”

Chains surged from the floor like living things, coiling around Blitzo’s body, yanking him forward. They cinched tight around his neck, dragging him across the stone toward the chopping block. The imps beside him cried out, scrambling uselessly against their restraints.

Blitzo didn’t fight.

He looked at you.

Fear was written plain across his face - but beneath it, resolve. He gave you a small nod. A quiet, devastating thank you.

You couldn’t watch.

As the guards hauled him into place, every eye in the court locked onto the spectacle. You turned away instead, taking a few slow steps toward Satan as the world dulled around you, sound muffled like you were underwater.

“You were never going to hear them out,” you said quietly, only loud enough for him. Not a question.

He lifted a brow, lips curling into a knowing snicker.

You smiled then - bitter, tired. “That’s what you love, isn’t it? Forcing people into corners they never wanted to be in.” Your voice trembled despite yourself. “And if they decide to go against it - against you… you kill them for it.”

“See, Regent,” Satan murmured, almost fondly. “I knew you were smart.”

Something ugly churned in your stomach, hot and nauseating. “And if I decided to rebel?”

He smirked, ugly and sinister – you didn’t need a verbal answer to know what he would say.

It hollowed you out.

Defeated, you flicked your wrist and vanished in a sharp pulse of power - reappearing on your throne like nothing had happened. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

Ozzie turned his head toward you, flames dimmed, expression unreadable.

You lowered your gaze instead, staring down at your lap, hands clenched tight enough to ache - while the court prepared to finish its entertainment.

‘ I failed them. Again’

The thought lands with the weight of a verdict, final and absolute. It echoes once-then again-and again- andagainand- until it’s the only thing left.

Shame seeps in first, thick and suffocating, crawling beneath your skin. Your vision blurs, the edges of the world splintering as darkness fractures at the corners of your sight. You try to breathe, but your lungs stutter; too fast, too shallow - each inhale scraping, each exhale unfinished.

Black thorns begin to curl around your throne.

Not erupting – slowly and deliberately. Like they’ve always been there, just waiting for permission. They creep along the marble, up the armrests, around your legs, biting into stone and shadow alike. The courtroom dims, light swallowed whole, until the room feels impossibly far away - like you’re watching it through thick glass.

You try to move.

Your body doesn’t answer.

Your muscles lock, rigid and upright, posture perfect in a way that feels wrong. You are standing - no, posed - while something else presses in, heavy and intimate, crawling through the dark like smoke learning how to wear a shape.

A figure emerges.

It moves too close, too smoothly, as if distance doesn’t apply to it. A hand – cool and familiar cups your face with a tenderness that makes your stomach twist. The touch is almost loving. The thorns sting where they brush your skin, sharp enough to remind you that this affection has teeth.

“My dear,” the figure croons, voice velvet-soft, pleased. “You’ve accomplished nothing.”

Your breath catches. Tears blur your vision completely now, streaking down as your chest rises and falls in panicked bursts. You try to speak. Nothing comes out. Your throat closes around the effort.

“What would they think?” The figure tilts its head, studying you, then shifts.

It’s shape bleeds rearranges - pulling into a shape that makes your stomach drop. A silhouette you know too well. One that burns behind your eyes the moment you recognize it. The voice changes, the pitch, cadence, familiarity twisting the knife deeper.

“You failed me.”

The words hit harder than any blow.

Your mind fractures, memories bleeding through in jagged flashes you can’t control. The courtroom blurs back into focus - not as it was, but as it felt. Your voice echoing, sharp and furious - your own decree ringing louder than anyone else’s objections.

You remember condemning Stolas with a cold certainty that hadn’t felt like yours.

Stripping him of his title. His power. Casting him down to live among those he was never meant to stand beside. The words prohibited contact echoing in your head and his daughter’s name lodged painfully behind your teeth as you forced the sentence through.

A century.

You remember Ozzie stepping forward, voice raised, trying desperately to reach you.

And you remember shoving him aside without even looking.

Your breath comes in sharp gasps now, hands trembling against the armrests as the illusion tightens. The darkness presses closer, the figure looming, satisfied. You can feel it curling into you, settling behind your eyes, threading through your thoughts with intimate ease.

Detached. Unfeeling. Like you were watching yourself from somewhere far away, screaming silently while another presence wore your skin.

That wasn’t you.