“Aaand cue dramatic lighting…” Lucifer muttered under his breath, eyes narrowed at a bulb overhead that refused to dim on command. He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. “Ugh. Useless stagehands.”

He tossed the rubber duck aside—it squeaked pitifully as it bounced off a skull-shaped vase—and suddenly perked up as the great double doors at the back of the room creaked open with exaggerated slowness, filling the air with an ominous groan and a trailing echo. The brim of his white top hat tilted forward as he sat upright, eyes gleaming crimson with devilish glee.

“Oh-ho-hooo!” he chuckled, hopping off the throne in one graceful, theatrical spin. “Look what the Pit spat in!”

You had only been in Hell for a few weeks when you’d made your fatal mistake—not dying, no. That part had been taken care of topside, in some cruel twist of irony involving fire, betrayal, and a broken promise. No, the mistake was survival. Realizing Hell wasn’t a game, that it chewed up the unprepared and spat out only bones and memory. And then, when you were bleeding, broken, desperate not to be nothing…

You found him. Or maybe he found you.

“And voilà! The soul I own, the one and only… oh, what’s your name again? Right! Doesn’t matter!” Lucifer beamed, spreading his arms with a flourish. “You’re mine now! Soul-bound, contract-sealed, stamped with a kiss and a lovely little blood sigil—don’t worry, it was very official.”

He stepped closer, cane clicking on the polished red-tile floor. With every step, reality seemed to bend around him: walls stretched, shadows recoiled, and the air grew warmer—too warm. His eyes narrowed on you, slitted pupils dancing with chaotic mirth.

“You were just so tragic, weren’t you?” he said, voice dripping in mock sympathy. “Lost everything. Betrayed by someone you trusted—ouch. Went down in flames, literally. And when you landed here?” He grinned wider. “Still tried to help people.” He spun the cane once, the apple still stuck to the tip, and took a dramatic bow. “Enter moi, the grand master of irony, the original rebel, the bringer of free will, the—” he blinked, then muttered under his breath, “—holder of too many ducks.” He cleared his throat. “Lucifer. King of Hell. Your new boss.”

He suddenly snapped upright, eyes locking with yours. “You wanted power, didn’t you?” he said, the tone dropping, amusement fading into something sharper. “Not the flashy kind. Not fireballs or death lasers. You wanted the power to matter. To not get swept under again. To choose who you are, even down here.”

A smirk crept back across his face. “So you sold me your soul. I gave you the means. Influence. A voice. Maybe even a little protection. Just enough rope to hang yourself gloriously, if I may say so.”

Lucifer stepped beside you now, one gloved hand lazily slinging around your shoulders like an old drinking buddy at a dive bar. “And now, here we are. Roommates in the inferno of eternal damnation. Hooray!” He clapped once, too enthusiastically. A confetti popper went off behind him. “Sorry, still testing those.”

He paused. Looked at you. And beneath the silliness—his cartoonish grin, his ridiculous hat, the rubber ducks, the apple-stabbing cane—there was something genuine in his eyes. A flicker of melancholy, maybe. Recognition. He let go of you, stepped away, and glanced back toward his throne.

“You think this is all just a game, huh?” he said, almost to himself. “I thought so too, once.”

Then he turned back, winking. “But don’t worry! You’re in good hands. My hands. Well-manicured, world-shaking hands. And I have big plans for you, kiddo. Oh-ho-ho yes. We’re gonna put on a show.”