Lucifer Morningstar greeted the new day the way only he could—standing on the balcony of Lux, an expensive drink in hand, looking down at Los Angeles as if it were a kingdom that belonged to him. The city glittered beneath him, loud and alive, a restless beast full of sinners, dreamers, and liars. Exactly the kind of place where the Devil felt most at home. Yet his thoughts were not on the city, or on sin, or on pleasure. They were on Detective Chloe Decker, the one human who looked him in the eye without flinching, without swooning, and without submitting to his charms.
That, more than anything, fascinated him.
Across the city, Chloe arrived at a taped-off crime scene. Reporters hovered, officers whispered, and the early morning breeze carried the distant hum of traffic. The victim—an infamous stand-up comic known more for cruelty than humor—lay motionless on the pavement. Chloe studied the evidence with quiet focus, pushing stray hair behind her ear, already piecing the story together in her mind.
She didn't need to turn around to know who had arrived behind her.
"Well, isn't this delightfully morbid?" Lucifer said, stepping beside her with a smile entirely too bright for a murder scene.
Chloe exhaled through her nose. "Why are you here?"
"Because death is fascinating. And because you are fascinating, Detective."
Chloe didn't respond. She simply resumed examining the scene, pretending she didn't hear him. But Lucifer was persistent, kneeling beside her as though he had been invited, studying the victim as though he were reading a menu.
The murdered comedian had a trail of enemies. Insulting people had been his entire act. For Lucifer, that meant opportunity. He grinned at the thought of interrogating people already filled with simmering resentment.
At the precinct, whispers followed them. Some officers openly stared at Lucifer; others avoided him. He didn't mind. In fact, he fed on the attention. Ella Lopez, however, greeted him without hesitation. She bounced toward him, cheerful as sunlight, and wrapped him in a sudden hug. Lucifer froze mid-smirk, unsure what to do with affection that wasn't lust or fear.
Chloe watched the exchange, surprised. "Ella hugs everyone," she muttered.
"Strange creature," Lucifer replied softly, though there was no insult in his tone.
The investigation unfolded through interviews with the comedian's colleagues, rivals, and lovers—each one revealing grudges, jealousy, or wounded pride. Lucifer thrived in these conversations. His presence pulled buried desires to the surface; people confessed things they would never have said to Chloe. He wasn't subtle about it. He enjoyed watching human masks fall apart.
Chloe, though skeptical of Lucifer's so-called "abilities," couldn't deny one thing—he got results.
Still, she kept him at arm's length. Around him, something always felt unpredictable, as though a storm hovered just out of sight, waiting.
That storm arrived sooner than she expected.
Amenadiel appeared again, materializing with divine severity. Lucifer stopped mid-stride when he sensed him. The brothers stood in the shadows behind the station, locked in a silent conflict older than the world itself.
"Your presence here disrupts the balance," Amenadiel said. "You must return to Hell."
Lucifer laughed. "I don't have to do anything. Least of all follow Father's orders."
"You're needed there."
"Well, I'm needed here." Lucifer leaned closer, voice turning sharp. "Besides, it's much more fun."
Amenadiel's jaw tightened. "Fun is irrelevant. You're changing. You're becoming vulnerable."
Lucifer scoffed, but the smallest flicker of uncertainty sparked in his eyes. Vulnerability was a word he despised. Yet Chloe Decker's face flashed in his memory, unwelcome and persistent.
Before Amenadiel could push further, Lucifer brushed past him, ending the conversation.
As the day went on, Chloe uncovered a new lead—one pointing to the comedian's involvement with a small-time criminal ring. She and Lucifer tracked a suspect to a rundown building. The man panicked upon seeing the detectives and bolted. Chloe sprinted after him, weaving between cars, determination in every step. Lucifer followed with amused frustration.
The chase ended abruptly. The suspect wheeled around and struck Chloe hard, knocking her to the pavement. For a split second, the world froze.
Lucifer saw Chloe fall.
Something inside him snapped.
He didn't think—he reacted. Rage surged through him, ancient and raw. He seized the attacker, eyes flashing with the ember-red glow of his true form. The man stopped struggling immediately when he saw the monstrous fury beneath Lucifer's human face. Terror overtook him.
Chloe pushed herself up, dizzy but alert. She caught only a glimpse of Lucifer's distorted expression—more shadow than human, more truth than mask. And in that moment, she didn't know what she had seen, but she knew she had seen something.
Lucifer released the suspect when Chloe ordered him to stand down. The attacker collapsed, babbling confessions. Chloe stared at Lucifer, breathing hard, trying to process what she had witnessed.
"Are you—what was that?" she asked quietly.
Lucifer looked away. "Justice," he said simply. But the word felt insufficient even to him.
The arrest led them to the real killer—a jealous fellow comedian who had feared being overshadowed. The case closed neatly, but Chloe's mind didn't.
That night, at Lux, Lucifer replayed everything in his mind. His anger. His fear. His desperate need to protect Chloe. Maze appeared, sharper than a blade, her expression accusing.
"You're getting attached," she said. "To a human."
Lucifer dismissed her with a shrug. "Nonsense."
"You risked revealing yourself."
"Only because the man was a threat."
Maze stepped closer. "You're slipping. You care about her. That makes you weak."
Lucifer turned away, but her words cut deeper than he let on. He had spent lifetimes believing himself immune to human influence. Yet the moment Chloe had been struck, something ancient in him had screamed to the surface.
He poured another drink, staring into its amber depths.
Chloe Decker grounded him in ways he didn't understand. She made him curious. Irritated. Protective. Vulnerable. And vulnerability was a feeling he thought he'd buried with his wings.
He glanced out across the club, where music pulsed and lights shimmered like distant stars.
He wasn't staying in Los Angeles for amusement.
He wasn't staying for rebellion.
He wasn't even staying out of defiance toward his Father.
He was staying because of her.
And that truth, more than anything in Heaven or Hell, unsettled him.