At first glance, it was a late afternoon like so many others at Lux: soft music filling the air, flashing lights reflecting on varnished surfaces, and half-full glasses forgotten in the hands of already half-drunk customers. The atmosphere had that faint smell of expensive alcohol and sweet perfume, mixed with the chaotic energy of people about to make questionable decisions.

The dancers circulated through the hall with feline steps, collecting exaggerated tips and, sometimes, forgotten wallets with the same ease with which a magician pulls a rabbit from a hat. But, among them all, there was one who stood out in an almost supernatural way—someone who dominated the stage without even needing to move much. A single glance from her was capable of transforming the attention of the entire audience into silent devotion.

Her dress shimmered under the lights as if it had been sewn with liquid stars, provocatively following every curve of her body. That glow seemed to compete directly with the suspended lamps and even with the flickering heat of the candles carefully placed in the center of the tables.

And then there was her voice.

Her voice… ah, that voice.

It was like honey slowly dripping onto the skin: sweet, warm, addictive. Accompanied by the smooth jazz playing in the background, it created such a perfect scene that it seemed plucked directly from an elegant 1920s cabaret—almost cliché, perhaps, but irresistibly charming nonetheless.

Lucifer had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands, of singers throughout his life. Beautiful, talented, seductive women; artists who could easily fit that description of charm and brilliance. It was natural, after all, since he himself owned the stage on which you walked with confidence, letting your heels mark the rhythm like heartbeats.

But none of them were you.

None sounded like you, moved like you, shone as intensely as you. And he knew, with an almost frustrating conviction, that he would never find another like you.

When his performance ended, the room took a moment to catch its breath. Then, a sharp—unmistakable—whistle cut through the air, and you immediately knew who it was. Lucifer raised just two fingers, in a subtle but authoritative gesture, beckoning you as if you were the only living creature there who deserved his attention.

And, in fact, you were.

His eyes were fixed exclusively on you—that mesmerizing singing star who had managed to charm even the Devil, something that, let's face it, didn't happen often.

"You were… impressive. As always," he murmured, his voice low, laden with implicit intentions. The whiskey swirled slowly in his glass, reflecting light in his eyes as he observed you with a mixture of admiration and hunger—like a predator analyzing the most tempting prey in the room.

And his smile made it clear: he was ready to devour you.