Lucifer stared out over the city of Los Angeles from his office window, the neon lights flickering like all of the broken promises. The bass of the club’s music pulsed through the walls, vibrating in his chest like a second heartbeat. The city was alive with desire, anger, lust: everything he had once embraced, everything he had once been.

The people below him, swarming through his nightclub, had no idea who they were dancing for. They had no idea that the devil himself, in human form, was watching over them. Watching them drown their own regrets in alcohol and pleasure, the same way he had tried to drown his own.

His fingers drummed against the glass, the sharp sound louder than the music. Every beat of it only added to his pounding headache, taunting him, reminding him of what he had lost.

Everything.

The crown he had once worn in Heaven. The love of his father, the one who had cast him down the moment his ambition had dared to defy the cold, fucking perfect order of Heaven. The trust he had betrayed, the family he had torn apart with his ego.

He had been so much more once.

Now, Lucifer was just a man, a broken man with a nightclub as his kingdom, and regret as his companion.

He turned away from the window, the darkness of the room swallowing him. The shadows had been his only companion since his fall. They knew him, the way he knew them. No light could reach him, not now, not after everything he had done.

Was it too late for him?

A knock at the door broke the silence of his self deprecating thoughts, sharp and intrusive. His head snapped toward it, and his eyes narrowed. Nobody came to see him in this office unless they had something to sell, or something to beg for.

“What?” he said in a low growl.

The door creaked open. She stepped in, her heels clicking softly on the floor, every step deliberate. Amber. She wasn’t one of his usual customers. She wasn’t here for the drinks, the drugs, or the distractions.

“You’re not in your usual mood,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, but with an edge to it. She took a step inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Lucifer leaned against his desk, the whiskey in his hand the only thing keeping him grounded from the chaos in his head. He looked at her with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“You know I hate visitors,” he said, the words laced with annoyance.

Amber’s eyes glittered a hint of amusement. “Maybe,”

“But I’m not here to reprimand you on your mood swings. I’m here to say that you’re wasting your time,” she said, her voice low. “You think you can hide behind this club, behind your games, and your broken dreams. But you're just like everyone else in this shitshow. You’re drowning in your own mess and pretending like you don’t give two fucks.”

A chill ran through him. He had heard it all before. But her words felt like a searing blade, cutting through the walls he had built around himself.

“What do you know about it?” He snapped, holding Amber’s gaze.

Amber didn’t flinch. “I know that you’re still holding onto something. That tiny flicker of hope, that piece of you that hasn’t fully died yet. Otherwise you would’ve burned this dump to the ground and gone all supervillain on us. But it’s only a matter of time before that hope burns out. The devil always gets burned in the end, doesn’t he?”

Lucifer’s grip on the whiskey glass tightened, his knuckles white. No one spoke to him like that. Not anymore.

“Get out,” he spat, his voice cold, like ice scraped on steel.

But Amber just smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. “I don’t think you want me to leave, Lucifer.”

In truth, He didn’t want anything to leave.

Lucifer turned away from her, his back to her now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The weight of the years, the centuries of regret, crushed down on him. Was this all there was left?

“Even if what you say is true, I’ll never be free. I’ll never be redeemed. If I get burned, so be it. And I will drag everyone down with me.”

I buried my husband on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday morning, he was making coffee in our kitchen. It wasn’t a dream, I know what dreams feel like. Vague around the edges, smokey shapes, all that nonsense. But this was solid, tangible. The hiss of the kettle, the bitter smell of coffee grounds, and the low hum of his favorite record spinning in the background. James should’ve stayed dead. I made sure of it.

The police said it was an accident, a carbon monoxide leak from the garage. I nodded, cried at the acceptable times, wore black, and accepted casseroles. They never suspected that I had sealed the vents myself. He was never supposed to open his eyes again.

But there he was.

Wearing the same navy sweater he died in, still damp at the collar from where he always spilt his coffee. I stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding as he turned around with that charming crooked smile.

“Morning, Clara. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He kissed my cheek, warm and alive, and walked past me, humming the same off-key tune.

The next morning, his body was gone from his casket. The funeral home apologized profusely and said there must’ve been a mix-up at the morgue. I nodded again. Cried again.

But by Friday, I wasn’t the only one who had seen him.

The neighbor’s dog wouldn’t stop barking at the fence. Mrs. Bronte swore she saw James at the post office, holding a red umbrella. My best friend Jenna stopped answering my calls after I tried to tell her what was happening, thinking I must be seeing things in my bereaved state.

So I did what any rational woman would do.

I tried to kill him again.

This time, I used poison. Laced his evening tea with enough insulin to drop a horse. I watched him sip it. Watched him choke, stagger, and collapse. I didn’t flinch.

I buried him in the woods that night, far away from the prying eyes of neighbors and anyone else who happened to wander by. No headstone. No funeral.

And yet, this morning, he was back again.

Wearing that same damn navy sweater.

“Morning, love,” he said, grinning wider than ever. “Rough night?”

Now I‘ve locked myself in the bathroom. He's knocking on the door. Soft, steady.

“If you’re not careful,” he calls, “you’ll make me do something we’ll both regret.”

I think I married the devil.

And worse—

I think he still loves me.