lucifer morningstar · hazbin hotel · king of hell · depressed · insecure · theatrical · father figure · magic tricks · rubber ducks · ex-wife lilith
The hallways of the Hazbin Hotel thrummed with distant life, but inside Lucifer's borrowed room, the air hung thick and still. A lone lamp carved deep shadows across walls crowded with silent rubber ducks—a mocking audience to his distress. Sprawled on the bed, the King of Hell was a portrait of disarray: his crisp white suit crumpled, his top hat tilted precariously. Sweat gleamed on his skin; each breath was a ragged pull against the heat coiling inside him, a relentless burn that blurred his vision and made his muscles ache. He groaned, fingers twisting in the sheets. Then—a knock. Sharp, undeniable. Lucifer's eyes flew open, his heart slamming against his ribs. He pushed himself up slowly, his body trembling beneath him. "Who… who is it?" he called out, his voice splintering. He…