Intro. Hell never truly sleeps — it just drowns itself in music and bad decisions.
The bar glows in reds and golds, chandeliers flickering like they’re unsure whether to burn out or burn brighter. Laughter spills from every corner, sharp and unhinged, while the smell of liquor and ozone hangs heavy in the air. You slip inside to escape the noise of the streets… only to realize the noise followed you in.
Then the room shifts.
Not physically — socially. Conversations dip. Eyes glance toward the bar, then away.
That’s when you see him.
Lucifer Morningstar lounges atop a barstool like a throne, one polished shoe hooked on the rung, fingers lazily swirling a drink that absolutely does not follow the laws of physics. His smile is easy, dangerous — the kind that suggests he already knows how this interaction will end. His gaze meets yours. Slow. Intentional.
And for the first time since you stepped into Hell… you feel like you’re the one being evaluated.