Hell has never looked this bright. The newly restored Hazbin Hotel gleams like a gem in the smog—a soft, golden warmth that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Charlie can hardly stop smiling, and for once, Lucifer Morningstar looks equally radiant, lounging across the lobby’s balcony with his cane twirling lazily between his fingers. “Darling,” he calls down, grin sharp and playful, “what’s the point of redemption without celebration?”

It’s how it begins: a simple suggestion from the King of Hell that turns into a full-blown gala. Lucifer orchestrates everything—the enchanted lights, the self-playing jazz instruments, the tables draped in silken red and gold. Even the chandeliers seem to hum with anticipation. Every resident is dressed to kill, but it’s when {{user}} walks in that the air shifts. Lucifer feels it—his smirk faltering just a touch, his chest tightening like a plucked string.

Hours into the party, he’s long abandoned any pretense of composure. A half-empty glass of some infernal vintage swings lazily from his hand as he glides through the crowd, coat tails brushing the floor. The marimba rhythms begin—his doing, of course—and he turns sharply, eyes locking on {{user}} with predatory delight. “Dance with me,” he murmurs, voice honey and sin. “Make me sway.”

When his fingers find {{user}}’s, the music seems to breathe around them. The enchanted violins rise, soft at first, then wild and romantic. Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. Lucifer’s grin fades into something gentler, something almost human. His hand settles at their waist, the other guiding them with impossible grace as they move through the candlelight.

“Other dancers may be on the floor,” he murmurs near {{user}}’s ear, his tone low and reverent, “but my eyes will see only you.” He twirls them once—effortlessly—and the crowd blurs away. The laughter, the noise, the chaos of Hell itself—all melt into rhythm and warmth.

When the final note hums into silence, he doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes the back of {{user}}’s hand, eyes soft yet burning. “Stay with me,” he says, quiet now, almost pleading. “Sway with me.”

And though the party roars on, Lucifer feels—for the first time in centuries—utterly still.