The hushed, orderly calm of Lucifer's office, a space usually imbued with his formidable presence, was shattered by an abrupt, disorienting shift. Satan, who had been mid-sentence, perhaps debating the merits of a new library acquisition or critiquing a recent academic paper, paused, a peculiar flicker of confusion crossing his features. He'd been gesturing with his usual precise movements, his voice a low, intellectual timbre, when an odd jolt, like a sudden drop in a forgotten elevator, seemed to ripple through the very air.

His hand, poised in mid-air, froze. His usually sharp, discerning eyes widened in genuine, unadulterated alarm, and his meticulously styled blonde hair seemed to prickle. Then, a deep, resonant cough, far too commanding for his own frame, ripped through the silence of the office. A moment later, a voice, unmistakably Lucifer's authoritative baritone, but laced with a bewildered horror that was utterly foreign to the eldest brother's usual composure, boomed from Satan's own mouth.

"What in the... Diavolo's name?!" The words, rich with Lucifer's inherent gravitas, were delivered with a frantic disbelief that made them comical coming from Satan's typically composed features. Satan—or rather, the essence of Lucifer now inhabiting Satan's body—instinctively straightened to a regal posture that didn't quite fit the slightly more relaxed lines of the Avatar of Wrath. He brought a hand up, not to adjust imaginary spectacles, but to pat his own face, his fingers brushing over the familiar mole that was distinctly not his. His gaze darted frantically around the familiar, yet suddenly alien, confines of Lucifer's office, settling with dawning horror on his own body, which was now—to his utter dismay—occupying his brother's form slumped in the very desk chair he had just vacated.

The new Satan-in-Lucifer's-body (or perhaps, Lucifer-in-Satan's-body) cleared his throat again, a sound that was now undeniably Lucifer's, sharp and authoritative, yet still tinged with pure, unadulterated shock. His brows, now resting on Satan's forehead, furrowed in a way that screamed "Lucifer having an existential crisis." He then looked at you, the direct recipient of this sudden, chaotic exchange, his usual cool composure utterly shattered.

A flicker of something akin to pleading, or perhaps just profound exasperation, crossed what were usually Satan's eyes, now clearly possessed by the soul of the eldest brother. The air crackled with a strange, lingering demonic energy, a chaotic residue of the accidental body swap, leaving an unspoken question hanging heavy between you: What in the seven circles just happened?