Lucifer sighed dramatically, stretching out on the velvet couch like a lazy cat.
"Maze," he murmured, golden eyes half-lidded, "must you always be so predictable?"
Mazikeen rolled her eyes. "Oh, excuse me for wanting to actually do something fun and fight an Aesir."
Lucifer smirked, lazily swirling the glass of whiskey in his hand.
"If you're so eager for entertainment," he mused, "I guess can go there. Then you can have your little brawl with the Asgardian."
Mazikeen's brows lifted slightly.
"So we are going to Mexico?"
Lucifer tilted his head, considering.
"Well," he said, thoughtful, "if only to satisfy my curiosity."
Mazikeen grinned. "Finally."
"But," Lucifer continued, raising a finger, "it's late in Mexico right now. Even I have standards, and waking a stripped-down Asgardian in the dead of night just to watch you beat him senseless seems a bit unsporting."
Mazikeen huffed, crossing her arms.
"You're no fun."
Lucifer grinned. "Ah, but I am. Just not tonight."
Mazikeen scowled, snatched a bottle of whiskey from the bar, and turned toward the hallway.
"Fine," she muttered, already heading for her room. "But don't think this conversation is over."
Lucifer chuckled. "Perish the thought."
With that, Mazikeen slammed the door shut, leaving Lucifer alone in the living room.
With a content sigh, Lucifer rose to his feet, rolling back his sleeves.
Now, it was time to make this place feel like a home.
A simple snap of his fingers, and the once-empty bookshelves of his penthouse were suddenly filled with row after row of beautiful, leather-bound first editions, each priceless, each holding a personal story.
Some had been gifts from poets and playwrights. Others were stolen treasures, lifted from long-gone empires.
He ran his fingers over the spines, smiling faintly.
Milton. Wilde. Shelley. Shakespeare.
Dante, of course.
Every book a memory, a reminder of the countless minds he had encountered throughout time.
Then came the trinkets.
A gold coin from a deal struck in Rome.
A silver pocket watch, gifted by a certain Scottish inventor.
An ornate dagger, once belonging to an Ottoman prince who had tried to bargain with him.
Lucifer placed each one with care, letting them settle into their new home.
By the time he was nearly finished, an hour had passed. The door that led to Maze's room creaked open and Lucifer glanced up, watching as she emerged, whiskey bottle still in hand.
She muttered something under her breath, running a hand through her hair.
"I need to get some air," she said.
Lucifer smirked, lounging back in his chair.
"Enjoy yourself," he murmured, motioning lazily toward the bar. "Take my credit card."
Mazikeen, already heading for the door, flipped him off without looking.
But she still grabbed the card.
Lucifer chuckled.
And just like that—
He was alone again.
Perfect.
With a satisfied sigh, he poured himself another drink, leaned back into his chair, and let the city lights burn in the reflection of his glass.
The penthouse felt different without her presence.
Lucifer didn't mind solitude—he often welcomed it, reveled in it. But tonight?
Tonight, his mind was too restless.
He leaned against the piano, fingers idly pressing down on a few keys, letting the soft notes hum through the air.
He wasn't thinking about Mexico.
He wasn't thinking about Matt, Fury, or Thor, or the ridiculous bureaucratic dance he had just endured.
No.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To a hospital.
To the strange, deep, aching familiarity that had pulled at him the moment he first arrived in front of it.
Lucifer hated unexplained feelings.
Curiosity was one thing—an intellectual puzzle was always enjoyable. But this? This was different. This was…
Personal.
But why?
That was the part that bothered him.
Each time he had appeared in front of that mundane little hospital, something inside him stirred.
It reminded him of… better times.
But which times?
He wasn't sure.
And Lucifer Morningstar did not like being unsure.
He exhaled sharply, straightening.
Maze knew him too well. If she had been here, she would have picked up on it immediately—the way his thoughts kept circling back, the slight tension in his posture, the uncharacteristic hesitation.
She would have teased him for it. Or worse—pressed for answers.
Answers he didn't have.
Answers he wasn't even sure he wanted.
So, for now, he would keep it to himself.
But that didn't mean he wouldn't investigate.
Lucifer rolled back his sleeves, golden eyes gleaming as he made up his mind.
There was one way to satisfy his curiosity.
With a slow, indulgent stretch of his wings, he stepped toward the grand windows of his penthouse—
And in the next instant, he vanished.
Reappearing midair, high above the city.
The wind whipped through his hair, the city lights stretching endlessly below him.
And in the distance was Metro General Hospital.
Waiting.
Lucifer smirked, his wings giving a single, powerful beat as he descended, unseen, his form veiled in invisibility.
The scent of antiseptic and faint despair clung to the air, mingling with the sounds of beeping monitors, muffled cries, and hurried footsteps.
He rarely visited hospitals.
Not because he couldn't handle suffering—Hell was built on it, after all—but because the slow, creeping inevitability of mortal fragility was dull.
Disease and death came for them all eventually, no matter how hard they fought.
He had no interest in lingering among those already on their way out.
So, he left the terminal wing behind, stepping lightly into the busier corridors where life still clawed for survival.
At first, he simply watched.
Doctors prescribing medications. Nurses checking vitals. Patients receiving treatments.
It was all…
Boring.
Lucifer sighed, rolling his shoulders.
"Where's the fun in this?"
There was no grand drama, no thrilling gamble of fate—just mundane efficiency.
Then a flash of silver caught his eye.
A scalpel.
Ah. Surgery.
Now, this was more interesting.
Lucifer slipped into an observation gallery, his invisible form settling against the glass as he watched the delicate ballet of hands and steel below.
The surgeons moved with practiced precision, cutting, stitching, sealing—defying Death herself with every movement.
Lucifer smirked.
"Playing God, are we?"
It was admirable, really—how they fought to steal lives back from the brink.
But then—
Something else caught his attention.
In a different operating room, there was a different surgeon.
And this one…
Lucifer's golden eyes narrowed.
The man moved with arrogance, not precision—his hands too quick, his decisions too reckless.
A nurse hesitated, shifting uneasily.
The anesthesiologist looked tense.
The patient's vitals spiked.
Lucifer's smirk vanished.
"Ah. A man who thinks himself untouchable."
Lucifer had seen this type before.
The ones who believed in their own infallibility.
The ones who forgot the price of arrogance—and let others suffer for it.
He tilted his head, watching for a moment longer, before making a decision.
He let himself be seen.
Not all at once—no, that would be too easy.
Instead, just enough to unsettle.
A shadow in the reflection of the surgical tools.
A flicker of golden eyes in the glass.
A whisper of breath against the doctor's ear.
And then—
Lucifer's voice, low and dangerously smooth.
"You missed a step."
The surgeon jerked, his hands faltering.
The nurse's eyes widened. "Doctor?"
He stammered. "I—I didn't—"
Lucifer leaned in closer, invisible to all but the guilty.
"Careful now," he murmured, grinning wickedly, "you wouldn't want to make a mistake, would you?"
The surgeon's hands trembled.
Lucifer's golden eyes gleamed as he took one last look at the trembling, pale-faced surgeon.
Then, with a slow, satisfied smirk, he leaned in one final time and whispered—
"If someone dies on your table. Be it now or in the future…"
The doctor flinched, frozen in place.
Lucifer's grin widened.
"You will be the one to follow next."
The heart monitor spiked, the sharp beep cutting through the air.
Lucifer turned away, vanishing from sight, leaving behind only the lingering chill of fear.
Annoyed, Lucifer continued his rounds, floating unseen through the hospital corridors.
"Let's see who else likes to play God, shall we?"
But as he observed more operating rooms, he found…
Nothing.
Just competent hands, steady focus, and true skill.
No more reckless gamblers of fate.
No more unworthy men trying to hold dominion over life and death.
Lucifer sighed, mildly disappointed.
"Well, I suppose even hospitals must have some standards."
A sound caught his attention.
Not the beeping of machines.
Not the hurried whispers of nurses.
But music.
Lucifer's head tilted slightly.
Tasteful music.
He followed the sound, stepping through the glass doors of another operating theater—
And that's when he saw him.
Doctor Stephen Strange
There was no mistaking him.
The man Lucifer had seen grumbling in the hospital corridors when he first arrived on Earth.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
The operating room hummed with controlled energy.
Strange's voice was calm, edged with dry amusement as he conversed with his assistants, his tone laced with sarcasm but never distraction.
His hands were steady. Precise.
Moving with absolute confidence as he operated on something as delicate as the human brain.
Lucifer leaned forward slightly, golden eyes narrowing.
The music played softly in the background, setting a strangely elegant rhythm to the procedure.
Lucifer had seen plenty of mortals try to play God.
But this one?
This one was different.
Not reckless.
Not desperate.
Just incredibly, maddeningly good.
Lucifer smirked, intrigued.
And for the first time since stepping into this hospital—
He couldn't stop watching.
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