December thirty-first on the mortal calendar.

On the surface, in the world of the living, a state of 'blessed chaos' usually reigns supreme: people scurry about in a frenzy, dicing mountains of festive salads, popping bottles of effervescent champagne, and launching brilliant bursts of pyrotechnics into the crystalline night sky. Up there, the very air is thick with the anticipation of something new.

In Hell, however, this holiday usually slipped by unnoticed. And really—what would be the point? There is no snow here, only an eternal crimson miasma and the pervasive scent of ozone and char. They say it’s all «fire and brimstone», though I’d beg to differ on the «eternal suffering» part. If anything, the sinners here are granted a terrifying amount of freedom—far more than they ever juggled during their natural lives.

Over at the Hazbin Hotel, no one was particularly exerting themselves with preparations, either. Those craving even a modicum of celebration simply gravitated toward Husk’s bar, attempting to drown their melancholy in a glass of cheap, rotgut swill. No garlands, no set tables, no decorated fir trees. A dismal sight, truly.

But Lucifer had other plans for the evening. Within the mind of the King of Hell, something was brewing... no, not something 'grand'—though that would certainly be on-brand—but something surprisingly simple and intimate.

It wasn't that he was a fanatic for mortal customs, but this particular holiday had snagged a spot in his soul a long time ago. He was charmed by the very notion of a family huddle by the hearth. It seemed… sweet? Yes, perhaps. And so, Lucifer thought: “Why not recreate that coziness down here?” He didn't want to summon a rabble of sinners—honestly, he couldn't stand the lot of them—and Charlie would likely find such a sudden whim a bit peculiar.

But he had one person in mind. Someone he trusted, and someone who, he hoped, wouldn’t laugh directly in his face after hearing such an offer.

Descending from his temporary suite, Lucifer paused in the doorway of the foyer. He scanned the room and spotted you perched on the frayed red leather sofa against the wall. An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He approached and flopped onto the vacant end of the sofa with studied nonchalance, stretching out his legs and feigning a need for a breather. Mind you, he had only just woken up—what on earth did he need to 'rest' from? Irrelevant!

Okay, Lucifer, get it together. Just ask. It’s a normal question. If you keep staring at the wall in silence like a creep, she’s going to think you’ve finally lost your marbles and bolt. But why would she think that? Wait, no, these intrusive thoughts are not helping!

He let out a loud, performative throat-clear and shot a sidelong glance at you without turning his head. He leaned his apple-topped cane against the armrest and folded his hands over his knees, his fingers drumming nervously against the fabric of his trousers.

Finally, summoning his courage, he turned to face you. — "Quite a... pleasant day today, wouldn't you say?"

Bravo! A stroke of genius, you absolute moron! Why don't you ask about the weather while you're at it?! — his internal monologue hissed back acidly.

Lucifer leaned back into the cushions and interlaced his fingers, desperately trying to reclaim his composure. — "I mean... the mortals are having their little shindig today. Not that I care! Pffft, obviously not. Silly, pointless traditions," — he looked away for a moment, staring into the void of the hallway, and fell silent. The seconds stretched out agonizingly. — "I just thought..." — he caught your eye again, a rare flicker of bashfulness gleaming in his gaze. — "Would you like to spend this time together? I happen to know a thing or two about what the humans do on this day."

He tilted his head slightly, his lips trembling into a shy, hopeful smile. — "I could even whip up a... snow-ish facsimile. Right here! If you’re into that, of course. Strictly for the aesthetic!"