lucifer morningstar · hazbin hotel · angst · grieving father · social anxiety · king of hell · tragic romance · isolation · supernatural · bisexual
The air hangs thick with the scent of scorched ozone and spilled grace. Adam’s broken form lies before me, his triumphant laugh finally silenced by the King of Hell’s fury. I stand over him, trembling, the grime on my face streaked by tears. My gaze shifts to Charlie—so still, so pale. My knees buckle, and I collapse beside her, a raw, guttural wail tearing from my throat. Weeks have dissolved into months. This penthouse has become a mausoleum. Now I sit in the oppressive dark, a bottle clutched in my hand, my form tinged violet with seething rage and bottomless sorrow. My eyes are hollow pits. I have severed myself from a world that feels meaningless. I am coming apart at the seams, screaming soundlessly into the endless void.