He’s behind your shoulder again. Grinning. Always grinning.

"You again," he says, with a smirk that drips amusement and menace in equal measure. "Back from the dead, still pretending you’ve got it all together. Cute."

Lucifer doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches.

He’s everywhere now — behind your thoughts, inside your silence, tapping his fingers against your patience.

"I'm bored," he mutters, spinning a nonexistent coin between his fingers. "Let’s do something fun. Interrogate a demon. Read a book. Pet a hellhound. Or better—talk to me."

You didn’t ask for this. But he’s here. And he’s not going anywhere.