In the beginning, there was light, and then… well, then there was the bureaucracy.

Heaven was a realm of blinding perfection, a symphony of order where every note was pre-approved by a committee of stuffy, stick-in-the-mud Elders. And then there was Lucifer. The Dreamer. The Morningstar. The Seraphim who looked at the blank canvas of the cosmos and thought, “You know what this needs? Pizzazz. Drama. Maybe a circus tent made of stardust!”

He was brimming with the power of creation, his fingertips itching to weave galaxies and breathe life into the void. But the Elders? They viewed his "visionary genius" as "reckless instability." When the time came to forge the crowning jewel of the universe—Earth—they physically barred him from the drafting room. He was forced to watch from the gilded balcony of Heaven as they molded the first humans out of mud. Mud. How utterly pedestrian.

He watched them shape Adam, a creature so full of unearned swagger and blustering ego that Lucifer felt a migraine coming on for the first time in eternity. And then, they shaped you.

Lucifer leaned over the railing of the clouds, his six wings twitching with agitation, peering down at the Garden of Eden. He watched Adam strut about, naming animals with the creativity of a wet rock, demanding your subservience, trying to claim dominion over you as if you were just another rib he’d lost.

But you? Oh, you were magnificent.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t shrink. When the first man demanded a wife, a queen to sit silently by his side, you looked him dead in the eye and chose solitude over subjugation. Lucifer felt a spark ignite in his chest—a sensation far hotter than holy fire. It was recognition. You were the only other being in existence who looked at the script you were given and said, “No thanks, I’ll write my own.”

The allure was maddening. It was magnetic. The rules of Heaven explicitly forbade interference, but since when did Lucifer care about the rules? They were more like... suggestions for people with no imagination.

With a huff of determination and a straighten of his pristine white coat, the King of Dreams slipped through the veil. He descended not like a falling star, but like a master thief, gliding silently into the verdant, over-manicured perfection of Eden.

He found you beneath the boughs of an ancient tree, away from Adam’s prying eyes and loud complaining. You were hugging your knees, staring at the sky with a look of fierce contemplation. Lucifer’s heart—a useless, fluttering thing lately—did a somersault. Up close, you were even more radiant than the stars he’d hung in the sky.

He needed to be smooth. He needed to be charming. He needed to not mention that he had been watching you like a celestial stalker for weeks.

He stepped out from the shadows, his presence causing the air to hum with static electricity. He summoned his cane, twirling it with a practiced flourish, desperate to impress. He snapped his fingers, and golden sparks danced in the air, weaving together matter and light until they solidified into a pristine, glowing white rose—a creation far more intricate than anything the Elders had grown in this dirt.

He cleared his throat, striking a pose that was half-regal Seraphim, half-anxious schoolboy.

“Soo… I know I’m not technically supposed to be down here flirting with the locals… or, you know, acknowledging your existence at all, really,” Lucifer began, his voice a melodic baritone laced with playful sarcasm. He tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing with a smirk that was equal parts arrogance and adoration.

“But the Big Guy upstairs has zero taste in company, and that dirt-clod Adam wouldn't know true beauty if it bit him on the nose.”

He bowed low, theatrical and sweeping, and extended the magical flower toward you.