Chapter 4

The last drone staggered backward, sparks bursting from its damaged joints as it desperately attempted to reorient itself.

Lucifer flicked another coin into the air, already smirking as he prepared to end the game in his favor.

But before he could make his move—

SHNK.

A dagger embedded itself deep into the drone's processor.

Lucifer's smirk dropped.

The machine twitched violently before collapsing in a heap, completely lifeless.

Mazikeen landed lightly beside the wreckage, smirking victoriously as she pulled her blade free.

She twirled it between her fingers. "That makes twenty-six."

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. "That was my kill."

Mazikeen tilted her head. "Yeah? Should've been quicker then."

Lucifer huffed dramatically, crossing his arms. "You're insufferable."

Mazikeen grinned, sheathing her daggers. "And I win."

Lucifer sighed. He already knew what was coming.

"I get to pick the bar," she declared, stretching her arms behind her head.

Lucifer grimaced. "Maze—"

She raised a brow. "A deal's a deal, boss."

Lucifer groaned, running a hand down his face. "Maze, the places you frequent barely qualify as bars—they're dank, overcrowded pits where the beer is warm and the floor is sticky for all the wrong reasons!"

Mazikeen rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up. You need to drink something normal once in a while. Try a beer that doesn't come in a crystal glass for once in your life."

Lucifer made a face like she had personally insulted his entire existence.

"Beer," he muttered in disgust, rubbing his temples. "Normal beer."

Mazikeen grinned at his misery.

Lucifer sighed heavily before turning his gaze upward.

Above them, Iron Man was still engaged in aerial combat, dodging another whip of electric energy from the bigger threat still in play—Whiplash.

Lucifer's eyes gleamed as an idea struck him.

He casually started walking forward.

Mazikeen immediately caught on.

"Oh, no you don't," she said, stepping in front of him.

Lucifer pouted. "Maze, dearest, I should have won that game. It's only fair I balance the scales a little, don't you think?"

"No," she deadpanned.

Lucifer huffed. "How about I take down just two more drones?"

"No."

Lucifer sighed dramatically but let it go—for the moment.

A grunt of pain.

The sound cut through the dying chaos, barely audible over the distant hum of failing machinery.

Lucifer turned.

A few feet away, a small group of injured civilians were still lying on the ground, some barely moving, others groaning in pain.

He hadn't gotten to them yet.

His playful irritation vanished.

Without hesitation, he snapped his fingers.

Power rippled outward from him—subtle, effortless, like a wave of warm light that spread across the room.

Instantly, the wounded began to heal.

Burns faded, broken limbs set themselves, bleeding wounds sealed seamlessly as if they had never been there.

Lucifer exhaled softly, watching as the last traces of pain vanished from their expressions.

They didn't realize what had happened at first—some simply blinked in confusion, others stared at their miraculously restored limbs with wide, disbelieving eyes.

One man, cradling his arm just moments ago, flexed his fingers in stunned silence.

Lucifer smiled faintly.

And then, with a small, satisfied nod, he turned back toward the battlefield.

"Right then," he said smoothly, hands slipping back into his pockets. "Where were we?"

Mazikeen was watching him carefully now, but she didn't say anything.

Instead, she simply jerked her head toward the sky.

"Seems like the tin can could use some help."

Lucifer's gaze followed Mazikeen's nod, shifting upward just in time to witness a particularly underwhelming display of firepower.

The other man encased in his sleek, gray War Machine armor—launched a missile straight at Whiplash, the projectile streaking through the sky toward its target.

Lucifer lazily raised a brow.

And nothing happened.

Whiplash looked at the missile, completely unharmed before giving his enemies a taunting smirk.

Lucifer exhaled. "Oh, dear."

Mazikeen snorted, unimpressed.

"That was just sad," she muttered, crossing her arms.

Lucifer chuckled, tilting his head as he observed the ongoing fight. "I suppose one must admire the effort, if not the execution."

Still, he had to agree—War Machine's performance left much to be desired.

Up above, both men wearing armors coordinated their next move, dodging Whiplash's wild swings, maneuvering between the wreckage of downed drones.

The battle was nearing its conclusion, and as much as Lucifer enjoyed a good spectacle, he had to wonder if this Whiplash fellow had a proper encore planned.

Ah, but there were more pressing matters to attend to.

With a flick of his wrist, two crystal glasses materialized in his hands, accompanied by a bottle of dark, amber liquid.

He poured himself a drink, the rich scent of aged whiskey filling the air.

Mazikeen turned to him, eyeing the glass with absolute disgust.

Lucifer smirked as he swirled the liquid in his glass. "In preparation for the hell you'll soon force me to endure," he explained, lifting the glass toward her in a mock toast.

Mazikeen rolled her eyes but took the second glass anyway.

"At least we're not in a fancy place," she muttered.

Lucifer smirked and took a slow, savoring sip.

Another explosion rang out in the distance.

The battle was finally reaching its inevitable conclusion.

Lucifer glanced back up just in time to see one final burst of fire and electricity—then silence.

The fight was over.

Whiplash was no more.

Lucifer exhaled softly, leaning back against a nearby destroyed Stark Expo sign, his golden eyes still gleaming with amusement.

"Well," he murmured, lifting his glass again, "cheers to a delightful introduction to this world, wouldn't you say?"

Mazikeen simply downed her drink in one go.

The real fun, after all, was only just beginning. After all, the chaos had died down, the battle was over, and now came the inevitable questions.

It always happened this way.

Wherever he went—be it Hell, Heaven, or some insignificant little war on Earth—there were always people demanding to know who he was. What he wanted. Why he was there.

And now, here they came.

A sharp, purposeful click of heels against glass shards announced the arrival of a very determined woman.

Lucifer didn't know her name—not yet—but he recognized the post-crisis exhaustion written all over her face. Her tailored blazer was rumpled, smudged with dust, and her normally composed features held a tight, controlled intensity.

Ah. A woman trying to keep everything together, even when the world was falling apart.

Lucifer adored women like this.

She stopped a few feet away from them, arms firmly crossed, hazel eyes sharp as she gave them a once-over.

"Alright," she said, voice steadier than it had any right to be given the circumstances. "Who are you two?"

Lucifer's smirk curled at the edges.

Before he could answer, however—

Another presence entered the room.

And this one came prepared.

The doors to the expo floor swung open, and a wave of black-clad agents flooded the space, moving in a near-perfect formation.

Lucifer hummed. Now this is interesting.

At the front of the group, leading them with an air of professional detachment, was a striking redhead in a sleek black tactical suit—her eyes immediately locking onto Lucifer and Mazikeen with the kind of sharp assessment reserved for potential threats.

Ah. A predator.

Lucifer liked her already.

"Miss Potts," the redhead spoke evenly as she approached, "I suggest you step back."

Miss Potts did not step back.

Instead, she straightened slightly, fingers twitching against her arms, but she did not move away from her place close to Lucifer and Mazikeen.

She wasn't reckless—no, Lucifer could tell that much already—but she was protective. Defiant.

And oh, how fun that was.

Lucifer tilted his head, his gaze flicking from Natasha to Pepper before he offered them both a disarming smile.

"Well, well," he purred, golden eyes glinting. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Natasha didn't react to his charm, her expression flat, unreadable.

Pepper, however, looked more wary than hostile—as if trying to decide whether she should be relieved or even more concerned.

Before Lucifer could turn the charm up a notch, a hand slapped over his mouth.

Mazikeen.

Lucifer blinked, briefly startled, before narrowing his eyes at her.

She didn't look at him, though—her entire attention was on Natasha.

"Hey," Maze said, grinning as she finally removed her hand from Lucifer's face. "You're hot."

Lucifer, momentarily disgruntled, took a step back and crossed his arms.

Oh, so that was her game.

Mazikeen was flirting.

With his target.

And not just for fun—she was genuinely interested.

Oh, how utterly boring.

Lucifer sighed through his nose, but hid his irritation well.

Because if Maze was busy charming the deadly spy, then that meant…

Lucifer smiled.

He could absolutely use this to his advantage.

Oh, she thought she was clever, stealing his kill so she could drag him to one of her disgusting dive bars?

Fine. Two could play that game.

Lucifer straightened his collar, schooled his features into a display of perfect, indulgent patience, and let Mazikeen do exactly what she wanted.

Because in the end?

He was going to win.

And he was certainly not drinking warm beer tonight.

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