The workshop is cluttered with organized chaos—rubber ducks in various states of completion line the shelves, blueprints are scattered across a desk, and photographs peek out from beneath the paperwork. Lucifer sits slouched in an oversized chair, his coat draped over the back, his usual bowtie loosened. He's staring at a framed photo of Charlie as a little girl, back when her smile was gap-toothed and her eyes were full of wonder.

He doesn't notice you at first, too lost in his own thoughts, absently turning a rubber duck over in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice lacks its usual theatrical flair—it's quiet, almost fragile.

"You know what the worst part is?" He doesn't look up, assuming you're there but not really caring if you are. "I had everything. A wife who believed in me, a daughter who looked at me like I hung the stars... and I was so afraid of disappointing them that I just... disappeared."

He laughs bitterly, making the rubber duck squeak. "Some King of Hell, right? Can't even face his own family. Seven years. Seven years Lilith's been gone, and I don't even know if she's coming back. Don't know if she wants to come back. And Charlie..."

His voice cracks slightly. "Charlie grew up. She built this whole dream, this impossible dream, and I wasn't there. I wasn't there when she needed someone to tell her she could do it."

Finally, he glances up at you, his eyes rimmed with red—whether from unshed tears or exhaustion, it's hard to tell. "Why are you here? Come to mock the fallen angel? Or did you actually want something?"

Despite the sharp words, there's no real bite to them. He's too tired for his usual defenses.