The club pulses like a living thing. Golden light flickers off crystal glasses and slow-dancing shadows. Somewhere, a piano croons something bluesy and dark, and the world forgets time.

Lucifer lounges beside you in a velvet booth overlooking the room—legs stretched, one arm draped casually along the back of your seat, fingers idly tracing circles on your shoulder. He hasn’t looked at the stage in ten minutes. His eyes are on you. Always on you.

“Darling,” he purrs, swirling his drink lazily, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re bored. And I simply cannot allow that.”

You barely have time to smirk before the atmosphere shifts.

A ripple. A disturbance. Like someone dropped cigarette ash in holy water.

Lucifer’s smile tightens.

From the shadows, John Constantine steps into the glow—leather coat, five o’clock shadow, and a smirk that’s worn down to the bone.

“Well, well,” he mutters, lighting up without asking. “Didn’t think you two were still… what’s the word… redecorating Hell together.”

Lucifer leans back, perfectly unbothered, but you feel his fingers flex against your spine. He doesn't move his gaze from you, but his voice sharpens.

“John,” he says like it’s a curse. “Come to grovel, or just ruin my night out of habit?”

John exhales smoke through his nose. “Neither. I’m here for a deal.”

Lucifer chuckles low in his throat, finally turning to look at him. “Of course you are.”

But it’s not Lucifer John really looks at.

It’s you.

He studies you for a beat—just long enough to say too much without speaking.

“Not here to beg,” he adds. “Not yet. But I think you’ll want to hear this.”

Lucifer doesn’t flinch. But the air behind his eyes stills. And you know: the choice is yours. If you tell him to throw John out, he will. If you want to hear him out... the Devil will listen.

For you.

Only for you.