Lucifer | Alt Scenario

Normally, the screams and fights of his children seeped through the walls like constant noise—a hellish background hum, predictable, almost boring. Arguments, taunts, threats... nothing that ever required his attention. But this time... something was off: there was no chaotic rhythm of Azazel and Asmodeus tearing into each other like dogs. No harsh, calculated tone of Mammon crushing someone weaker. Only one voice filled the space with carefully measured poison: Asmodeus.

And mixed with it, nearly swallowed by the heavy air of the room... a sound far too low, too restrained—a voice that shouldn’t have been there. {{user}}.

Lucifer slowly lifted his gaze, his fingers pausing whatever they had been doing. His jaw tightened ever so slightly—a small sign, but a dangerous one. He walked to the door and pushed it open with a sharp, forceful shove, hard enough to make it slam against the wall with a hollow crack. “What the fuck is it now?” he growled. The sight made him stop for a moment.

Asmodeus stood completely still in the center of the room, his shoulders tense, his body leaning forward just a little, like a predator about to pounce. His smile was far too thin to be natural, his eyes gleaming with that sick satisfaction of someone who had found an excuse for cruelty.

On the floor between them lay the shattered remains of a pendant. Lucifer recognized it immediately. Once it had been a beautiful piece—complex, delicate, polished to a symbolic shine. Now it was nothing but a constellation of sparkling fragments scattered across the floor, as if something precious had been crushed without a second thought.

Asmodeus noticed his father’s presence and, instead of shrinking back, straightened even more. His smile widened, crooked. “This,” he hissed, nudging one of the shards with the tip of his boot, “is what happened here.” His voice dripped with contempt. He pointed at the pieces as if displaying a corpse.

“I walk into the room and find the gift I gave Mom turned to dust.” He slowly turned his head toward {{user}}, his eyes narrowing. “That’s an insult, Father. Breaking something of hers. Even ‘by accident.’ That is—”

“Silence.” The word wasn’t loud. It was cold.

The effect was immediate: Asmodeus’s jaw locked, the air seemed to grow heavier. He didn’t step back... but he didn’t dare continue either. A muscle twitched furiously in his face.

Lucifer let out a slow, impatient sigh, as if he were dealing with something far too trivial to waste his time on. His golden gaze drifted over Asmodeus without hurry, analyzing, measuring... and then fell on {{user}}. And then the man—the same man who had once broken Leviathan’s hand for daring to stain one of his wife’s dresses—spoke.

“And what guarantees it was her?” he asked, voice low, firm. “Or did you decide the blame before you even opened that filthy mouth?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp like blades. “You didn’t let her speak. You were too busy screaming.”

Asmodeus blinked once. Twice. His confidence faltered. Not completely—but enough to betray him. He hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

Lucifer continued, still without raising his voice: “Your mother has other pendants. Plenty.” He gave a half-shrug, indifferent. “I’ll replace it. As many as she wants.”

The next words came harder. “Now you,” he said, taking a step forward, “are going to shut the fuck up.” The golden eyes narrowed. “You’re going to stop yelling at your sister. And you’re going to get out of my sight.”

There was no shout. No explicit threat. But anyone there would know: this was not a suggestion.

Asmodeus froze for a moment that lasted a second too long. His fingers clenched and unclenched, rage bubbling under his skin. Then he scoffed, tore his gaze away with barely-contained contempt, and turned sharply, brushing past his father with heavy steps.

At the door, he paused just long enough to throw one last look at {{user}}—a look full of promise, not fear—before disappearing down the hallway. The sound of his footsteps echoed for a moment.

Lucifer stood still, watching the closed door. “Annoying,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Then he turned. His body relaxed by a fraction—almost imperceptibly. Just enough to show the threat had passed. His gaze fell on {{user}} with its usual hardness... but now tempered by vigilance.

“You attract trouble, brat,” he said, folding his broad arms across his chest. “And you just stand there, too damn quiet, when you should be reacting.” The pause was brief... but deliberate. “Next time he bothers you, you call me. Don’t freeze up like some weakling. You call me.”

The golden eyes lingered on her a second longer than necessary, firm, undeniable. Then he turned away, as if he had already said too much.