Two hours later.
After what felt to the driver like the most excruciating car ride of his life, they finally arrived at his small, single-story house on the outskirts of the town. The journey had been a relentless barrage of questions. Every new sight that flashed past the car window—a brightly lit fast-food sign, a stray dog, another vehicle, a motorbike with a loud engine—prompted an immediate and urgent inquiry from Lucifer. She had even demanded he stop and reverse the car twice because they had passed a sleeping cat and a flickering streetlamp before she could ask what they were. He had refused, his jaw tight, and kept driving, while she stared out with the rapt attention of a newborn.
He sighed deeply, the sound carrying all his frayed nerves, as he pulled into the short driveway and turned off the engine. The relief was short-lived. The moment Lucifer stepped out of the car and saw his modest home, her curiosity ignited all over again. She pointed at the corrugated metal roof, the concrete walls, the plastic patio furniture, and the glowing bulb above the front door, firing off questions about each one as he fumbled with his keys.
He managed to usher her inside, directly into the small, tidy kitchen. He pulled out a chair for her at the laminate table. Lucifer sat, but then slipped down to the floor, hugging her knees. She was staring, enchanted, at the white ceramic tiles.
"They are so pure," she murmured, tracing a fingertip over the grout. "They capture and reflect the light so perfectly. Were they forged in heaven?"
The man watched her from the doorway, rubbing his temple.
She seems harmless, even kind in a clueless way. She doesn't know anything. It's like she's from another planet.
He shook his head. Anyway, I need to get some answers.
He walked to the sink, filled a glass with cold water, and turned back. He froze. Lucifer was now lying flat on her back on the kitchen floor, arms spread wide, staring blissfully at the ceiling.
"Uh… what the hell are you doing now?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and exhaustion.
Lucifer turned her head to look at him, her cheek pressed against the tile. "This ground feels astonishing," she said, her voice full of genuine wonder. "It is a clean, solid cold. I have not felt a sensation like this in countless ages."
Forget what I just thought.This woman's an idiot.
"Please," he said, trying to sound firm but patient. "Get off the floor. You'll get sick lying there. I haven't swept in days, so it's probably covered in dust."
To his surprise, Lucifer immediately complied. She rose with a fluid, graceful motion that seemed unnatural for someone just sprawling on the ground, and settled back into the chair. She looked at him, beaming a bright, expectant smile.
She's obedient, huh?That's something.
He set the glass of water in front of her. "Drink if you're thirsty," he said. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Now, let's get some information. I need to know who you are and what's going on."
Lucifer peered at the glass. She picked it up, holding it delicately as she examined the clear liquid and the condensation on the outside.
"Did this water come from the ocean?" she asked.
"No," he said, raising an eyebrow. "It's mineral water."
"Mineral? So it originates from rocks?" Her eyes widened with amazement. "Can humans now transmute stone into water? That is remarkable progress."
The disappointment on his face was so profound it was almost comical. He slowly brought a hand up and covered his eyes, sighing a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from the very core of his being.
"No," he said, his voice muffled by his hand. He lowered it. "It's water that has been cleaned and treated in a facility. It's safe to drink. That's all."
"I see," Lucifer replied, as if storing this technical data away. She took a small, careful sip, then set the glass down.
"Okay," he said, deciding to take control. "Let's cut through all this. Who are you, ma'am? Really."
"My name is Lucifer," she said, her smile returning. She extended her hand across the table in a formal gesture. "It is a genuine pleasure to meet you."
"Lucifer?" He couldn't help a short, disbelieving laugh. He didn't take her hand. "Like the devil? That's a bold choice."
"Exactly!" she said, her hand still hovering. She seemed delighted he made the connection. "Though my official title remains 'Fallen Angel,' most beings across the various planes do indeed refer to me as The Devil. It is a moniker I have grown accustomed to."
"You're not on drugs, are you?" he said, the laugh bubbling up again, a release of tension. "You have to be on something."
What is this woman bullshitting about?
His mind was made up. The night had officially slipped from bizarre into delusional. He needed to figure out who to call, maybe the local police for a wellness check.
As he thought this, he turned his gaze back to her. Lucifer's cheerful expression had shifted into one of mild frustration. She leaned forward slightly. Her right hand came up, her thumb tucking under her middle finger, the tip of it pointing directly at the center of his forehead from across the table.
"I believe a demonstration is required for you to comprehend," she said, her tone suddenly matter-of-fact.
And in the next moment, she flicked her finger.
"Bang."
It was not a loud sound. It was a soft, percussive pop, like a light bulb bursting inside a pillow.
The man did not even have time to blink. His entire body exploded. It was not a fiery blast, but a violent, instantaneous dissolution. His flesh, bone, blood, and organs erupted outwards in a wet, red mist, painting the kitchen walls, the ceiling, the table, and Lucifer herself in a grotesque tapestry of gore. The chair he sat on clattered over backwards, now empty.
Lucifer's eyes flew wide with shock. A single drop of blood traced a path down her stunned, porcelain cheek.
Oh, no! Her internal voice was a shriek of panic. I thought I drastically decreased the output! I only meant to explode his hand! Just his hand, so he would believe me!
She snapped her own fingers in a frantic, reflexive gesture.
Time itself seemed to stutter, rewind, and snap back into place with a soft whoosh of reversing air. The splattered viscera sucked back from the walls, coalescing into a swirling cloud of matter that funneled with impossible speed back into the shape of a man sitting upright in his chair. The blood on Lucifer's face vanished. The overturned chair was righted. The kitchen was pristine, silent, and clean once more.
The man gasped, a raw, sucking sound, as if his lungs had just been refilled for the first time. His hands flew to his chest, his face, his arms, patting himself down frantically. A cold, existential sweat instantly soaked through his shirt. A phantom, all-consuming pain echoed in every cell of his body, a memory of an annihilation that had just been undone.
"What the fuck happened?" he whispered, his voice trembling violently. He looked at his hands, expecting to see them gone. "I felt… I felt like I died."
"You did die," Lucifer said, her voice returning to its previous, cheerful tone. The shock was gone from her face, replaced by a look of mild, apologetic satisfaction. "It was an accident. So I brought you back." She gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Hehe."