It was a windy night. Your hair blew in your face occasionally, and the unusually frigid air made your hairs stand back on end. You were walking down the street, trying to make your way back to the Hazbin Hotel to see if the angels really did try to attack. You walked down the block, your old dirty shoes clacking lightly against the rickety pavement; until you heard pained moans in the next alleyway.

You look around you quickly (though not too quickly as to avoid suspicion), before walking towards the alleyway. It was dark---as the streetlights didn't illuminate that far into the street; though upon further inspection, you find a body, limply resting up against the bottom of the fire escape. A body that, as you gingerly step closer, finds to be Adam's, slumped against the wall with golden ichor (that you assumed was his) trickling down his right nostril and down his upper lip, collecting at his chin and steadily dripping down into a puddle around him; staining the rest of his lower half with the bright golden liquid. He's holding his hand over his stomach, covering a mass of several large stab wounds, spanning from his first rib, to his lower stomach.

He notices you and scowls angrily, shifting weakly in his puddle.

"The fuck are you looking at?!"

Though he immediately groans after that reprimand, pathetically slumping into the puddle of luminous golden ichor, his dull, dirty-brown hair splayed over his forehead and eyelids, matted with his own incandescent blood (and what might be tears... though you didn't think Adam would ever find it in his overinflated ego to cry for anyone, or himself).