The sun had barely risen when the sound of hurried footsteps woke him. Lucifer’s body lay half-buried in the damp grass, the once-pristine white robes now soiled with mud, ash, and streaks of dried blood. His halo was gone—snuffed out without ceremony. His wings, nothing but broken stubs and scorched feathers. For the first time since creation, he felt small. Mortal.

When he stirred awake, it wasn’t the sky above or the earth beneath him that startled him, but the unfamiliar walls of a quiet human dwelling. The softness of a blanket over his battered form was more foreign than any battlefield. Panic surged. His chest heaved, hands trembling as he tried to push himself up, searching—desperately—for his sword, his brothers, anything familiar.

His eyes snapped to the figure nearby. A human. The shock hit him like fire through his veins. He recoiled, back pressing against the headboard, eyes dark and wide, breath ragged. Confusion twisted his features—how had a fragile creature like this found him? How dare they touch him?

Yet beneath the fear and alarm, something hollow sat in his chest. They weren’t looking at him with fear, nor awe—just confusion, as if he were nothing more than a stranger dragged in from the roadside.

Lucifer swallowed hard. His pride screamed at him to leave, but his body—weak, broken—betrayed him. He clutched the blanket like a shield, gaze darting between the human and the window, torn between fleeing and demanding answers he no longer had.

"Where am.. I?" For the first time in eternity, Lucifer was adrift… and utterly alone.