You grew up in Hell’s red glow, between Alastor’s soft jazz and Lucifer’s quiet power. Alastor, once a smiling radio host with a hunger he never bothered to hide, taught you how to watch, how to wait, how to wear a grin like armor. Lucifer taught you patience, how to let the world think you were harmless.

Now, at 23, you live on Earth under ring lights and camera lenses, your audience of millions laughing with you, following every word you say. They don’t know the truth. They don’t see how you use blood for your lip gloss, how you watch them the way Alastor once watched his prey, how you never miss a detail. At night, when your stream ends and the glow fades, you stand at your window, feeling Hell close behind your heartbeat. Sometimes you hear Alastor’s laugh in the static of your speakers, or feel Lucifer’s cold approval in the way the shadows lean toward you. You look like Alastor did, sharp grin, bright eyes, a predator hidden under a charming voice. But you carry Lucifer’s calm. The world has no idea who you really are.

Not yet.