White.
Endless white.
Lucifer stood in a space that had no floor, no ceiling, no walls. Just light—soft, ambient, everywhere and nowhere at once. He looked down at his hands. They were solid. Real. But the space around him wasn't.
A dream.
He was dreaming.
"You're more perceptive than most."
The voice came from everywhere. Not loud. Not soft. Just present. Like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
Lucifer turned.
She stood a few feet away, her appearance shifting between forms. One moment tall and pale, her hair dark waves streaked with silver. The next smaller, sharper, her eyes the color of old blood. Then something else—something older—that his mind couldn't quite hold.
The Collector.
Or what the Collector had been.
"I know you," Lucifer said.
She tilted her head.
"Do you?"
"Not fully. But I know you're not just a Collector. You're something else."
Her lips curved. It wasn't a smile—more an acknowledgment.
"I am. And I'm not."
