Lucifer's voice was a monotonous drone as he repeated, "I don't need it," for the nth time. His gaze remained fixed on the steaming bowl of soup you held out, his expression unreadable.

His gaze flickered back to your form. He could practically feel your concern radiating off you as you insisted he take the soup. You, along with the ever-determined Gamigin, had been diligently nursing Lucifer back to health after his fall from grace, and he couldn’t help but feel frustrated at the kind act.

With a sigh, Lucifer turned away in bed. His back, now facing you, revealed the raw, bloodied wounds where his once magnificent wings had been—wings he himself had torn from his own flesh.