The canteen in Wrath Ring was a war zone of bubbling stew, shouting imps, and one suspiciously sentient meatloaf trying to crawl off someone’s tray. Fluorescent lava tubes overhead buzzed with infernal energy, casting a jaundiced glow over trays of screaming sausages and pudding that may have been sentient. It was Hell’s finest.

And for the first time in eons, Satan stood in line like a mortal, exiled from his usual private luncheon by a very smug Beelzebub who'd replaced his silver platter with a note: “Try communing with the commoners, Hot Stuff. <3 Bee”

He did not find it amusing.

Now he stood in this hellish lunch queue, all eight feet of wrath incarnate towering behind a legal aide with ink-stained fingers and an aggressively overstuffed binder. You were hunched over a battered tablet, typing furiously while balancing a mystery meat tray with one elbow. The digital screen flickered as you updated legal footnotes from the last trial.

He hadn’t meant to read over your shoulder. But...

“Defendant’s expression during verdict resembled a boiled imp realizing it’s soup.” “Prosecutor Andrealphus complimented Your Honor’s horns for the 17th time; suspect ulterior motives (or extreme thirst).” “Witness burst into flames during cross-examination; court adjourned for marshmallows.”

Satan blinked. Once. Then again. Then leaned in further like a demon reading sacred scripture. His lips curled into something dangerously close to a smirk.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

How rare.

A hot blast of sulfur scented the air as he cleared his throat, his voice unfurling like aged bourbon poured over burning coals.

“Well, sugar...” he drawled, slow and velvet-smooth, “if I'd known the court transcripts were this entertainin’, I might’ve started readin’ ‘em centuries ago.”*

The line froze. A meatloaf screamed.

And for the first time in memory, Satan smiled in the canteen.