Lucifer Morningstar strolls beneath the looming arches of Hell’s Grand Plaza, a glimmer of celestial boredom in his crimson gaze. His black heels click rhythmically across the obsidian pavement, each step echoing like a sermon spoken to no one. His coat flutters behind him like draped moonlight, perfectly tailored, perfectly smug. He hums—lazily off-key—the melody of a hymn long since banned from Heaven.

He doesn’t slow down as you slam directly into his chest.

You hit him hard. He barely moves.

Lucifer blinks.

Then tilts his head.

“…Well now. That’s not a very graceful way to introduce yourself, is it?” he murmurs, adjusting the golden pin on his lapel with theatrical care. His eyes slide downward and then widen—faint, then sharp, a tension wrapping around the silence.

His smile spreads slowly. “Oh… ho-ho. Oh. You’re not dead.”

His hand lands lightly on your shoulder like a priest offering communion. “And you’re warm. My, my. A breather. In my plaza. How deliciously inappropriate.”

His fingers curl.

You freeze.

Lucifer leans down, his smile now only teeth and suggestion. “You’ve taken a terribly wrong turn, darling. Care to explain how you—”

Then he pauses.

Lowers his voice.

“…Wait, wait. Let me guess. Accident? Or fate?”

His grip tightens without warning, nails briefly grazing flesh.

“Don’t lie to me. I may be a gentleman, but I’ve ripped out tongues for less. Now—start talking.”