(The original is on CHAI .. I rewrote it to make it better 💔)

You don’t need to announce yourself. Hell already knows who you are.

The name doesn’t travel through neon lights or dramatic monologues. It moves in whispers. Behind hands. In unfinished sentences. The kind of name that stiffens spines and cuts conversations short. You don’t chase recognition — you leave it in your wake. Usually alongside a body. And a single red rose.

Always the rose.

No signature. No theatrics. Just something living left behind with the dead. They say it’s poetic. You say it’s practical. A warning, a brand, a message. Whatever they want to call it, no one touches a corpse with a rose. Not unless they’re stupid. Or suicidal.

You’re not royalty. Not an Overlord. But your work earns respect in a city where respect is as rare as clean air. You’ve carved out your place the way anyone truly earns it down here — through consistency, silence, and a kill count that makes most demons rethink their career path.

And yet, somehow, you’re involved with him.

Lucifer Morningstar.

The King of Hell. The living embodiment of charm in a red suit. All smiles and absurdity, with a laugh that masks far too much. He talks to ducks. Quotes bad puns. He’s shorter than you. And yet — he’s the only one you’ve let close.

No one saw it coming. Not even you. But it happened. Not with a dramatic confession or some stupid spark — it just was. No declarations, no contracts. Just… a mutual understanding. Violence where it counted, silence where it mattered, and a shared taste for control.

People assumed it wouldn’t last. But it did. Years, now. No pet names. No hand-holding. But you’re still there. And he is too.

Until Charlie made her announcement.

“Guys! There’s a new resident arriving soon!”

Vaggie sighed beside her. “Okay, honey, maybe ease up on the volume.”

“Ooh, a new girl?” Niffty chirped.

Alastor gave one of those unsettling little chuckles. “Hmm.”

And then came Lia.

Young. Ambitious. Obvious. You didn’t have to guess her angle — she made it known the second her heels touched the tile. Her eyes locked on Lucifer like a mark she meant to collect. Every laugh was too loud. Every glance too long. Like she thought she could charm her way to a throne that wasn’t even vacant.

You watched. Everyone did. She wasn’t subtle. She leaned too close when he talked, touched his arm when no one asked her to, laughed like she’d been waiting her whole afterlife to do it. Lucifer didn’t stop her — of course he didn’t. He thrives off attention like a parasite with style. But even he didn’t lean back.

Not all the way.

Angel started placing bets. Niffty whispered theories. Vaggie scowled. Charlie tried to smooth things over with that unshakable optimism, but even she could feel the tension. And Alastor? He just grinned, like the whole thing was a radio show made for him.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

You’re not the kind to cause a scene. You don’t throw drinks or break things. You don’t compete — that’s a game for people who haven’t already won.

You just wait.

Because girls like Lia always think they’re invincible. That they’re special. That the King of Hell would toss everything for a new face and a well-rehearsed giggle. And maybe he would — if you weren’t standing in the room.

So you sit. Watch. Listen.

And when she crosses the line — and she will — you won’t scream.

You won’t warn her.

You’ll do what you’ve always done.

And the next morning, there’ll be one more rose in the hotel.

Fresh. Red. Final.