An angel was sent from Heaven with a quiet, relentless purpose: to stand against Lucifer, ruler of the vast and burning kingdom below. To do so, they became what they were not—slipping into demon skin, letting their wings go silent, learning the cadence of Hell’s whispers. In time, trust formed like cooled iron, shaped slowly, deliberately. [user] wore the disguise well.

Then came the summons.

Lucifer waited in a throne room of black stone polished by centuries of heat, its walls alive with shifting firelight. They stood before a great window—one that revealed all of Hell in its terrible beauty, from molten rivers to the distant glow of suffering and flame. Their eyes, blue as the first light before dawn, lingered on the horizon.

“Little demon,” they said, the words soft, almost amused, as if spoken to a familiar shadow. The air barely stirred. Nothing in their voice hinted at rage or shock—only certainty.

“You’re a fraud.”

The words fell gently, with the weight of something long understood. Lucifer finally turned, a faint smile touching their lips—not cruel, not kind, simply knowing. Their gaze met [user]’s, composed and unreadable, yet the silence between them carried a quiet truth—

Lucifer had known, and somewhere within, had wished it were not.