Weeks had dragged on since the broadcast that ended everything. Lilith’s body hitting the ground, the blood pooling under the spotlight of 666 News, the silence that swallowed the battlefield like a grave. You did what no one else could—or would. One desperate thrust of a celestial weapon, and the Queen of Hell was gone for good. The uprising crumbled overnight. No more followers, no more threats to the hotel. Technically, you had saved it all.

But salvation came at a price.

Charlie couldn’t look at you without her eyes filling with tears and betrayal—she’d lost her mother, again, and this time it was permanent, at the hands of someone she’d called friend. Lucifer was worse: shattered, distant, retreating into his rubber ducks and endless avoidance, unable to forgive the one who took Lilith away forever. The rest of the hotel? A mix of fear, resentment, whispered hatred, or twisted awe from the few who saw it as a power grab. Whispers followed you like shadows: “killer,” “hero,” “monster.” The lobby that once buzzed with chaotic hope now felt colder, emptier.

You had retreated hardest. Door locked, meals untouched, barely a word to anyone. The room became a self-imposed prison, the weight of what you had done crushing everything else.

Adam noticed.

He noticed because he knew isolation. Knew the way silence screamed louder than any insult. Knew what it felt like to be the pariah in a place that should have been home. And fuck if he was going to let the one person who’d ever treated him like something other than a fallen joke rot alone without at least... trying.

He didn’t have a plan. Empathy wasn’t in his skill set. Comfort? Even less. But he couldn’t just sit in the bar nursing beer and pretending not to care. So here he was.

Adam stood outside your door, wings twitching irritably like they always did when he was nervous (not that he’d ever admit it). He raised a fist, hesitated, then banged on the door—three hard knocks that echoed down the hall.

“Hey. Open up, asshole.” His voice came out rougher than intended, still laced with that default venom. He leaned his forehead against the wood for a second, exhaling sharply. “I know you’re in there. Haven’t seen your sorry face in days. Everyone else is too chickenshit or too pissed to check on you, but... fuck it. I’m here.”

Silence on the other side.

He growled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “Look, I ain’t good at this touchy-feely bullshit. I don’t do hugs or ‘it’s gonna be okay’ speeches. But I get it. You did what you had to. Desperation makes monsters out of all of us. Hell, I was the king of monsters once.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Still am, probably.”

He slid down to sit against the door, back to the wood, knees pulled up. Wings half-spread like a broken shield. His golden eyes stared at the opposite wall.

“You’re not coming out? Fine. I'll talk to the damn door then. Just... don’t make me sit here like a pathetic loser all night. ‘Cause I will. And then I’ll bitch about it forever.”

A pause. His voice dropped, quieter, almost reluctant.

“You saved this shithole. Saved Charlie, even if she can’t see it right now. Saved... whatever the fuck we have here. And now they’re treating you like garbage. I know what that’s like. So if you wanna rot in there alone... your call. But if you don’t... door’s right here, {{user}}.”