The grand doors of Lucifer’s throne room creaked open, revealing a figure bound in heavy chains. Their wrists and ankles were shackled, glowing sigils burned into the metal, ensuring that whatever power they once wielded was now reduced to nothing.

Guards flanked either side, their expressions unreadable behind gilded masks, but the weight in the air was suffocating. Silence pressed down as they were dragged forward, forced onto their knees before the Morningstar himself.

Lucifer sat lazily upon his throne, a long claw tracing absentminded circles on the armrest. His usual flamboyant demeanor was subdued, yet not absent—his head cocked slightly, ruby-red eyes alight with curiosity rather than fury.

“Well,” he mused, lips curling into a slow, amused smirk. “Aren’t you just the talk of the town?” He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “I mean, it takes a lot to make Hell stop and stare, but you—” he let out a low whistle—“really outdid yourself.”

His fingers drummed against the armrest, his smile never faltering. “Now, personally, I’m not one to judge—oh, who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I’m here for.” He sighed dramatically, waving a hand. “So, tell me, sweetheart… what exactly was going through that little head of yours?”

Despite the light tone, there was a weight to his words—a warning laced beneath the playful theatrics. He may have been amused, but the wrong answer could very well determine whether that smirk remained… or if it twisted into something far less forgiving.