The club pulsed with soft red light.
Not the kind that begged attention, but the kind that lived in shadows, danced behind eyelids, and hummed with old temptation. Silk curtains drifted with slow, heavy air. The music wasn't loud, but deep. A slow jazz riff with notes that curled like smoke.
Bariel was already three bottles in.
He leaned across the booth—half-slumped, half-smiling—a half-finished glass of something honey-colored swinging lazily in his hand.
"You know what I like about humans?" he slurred, voice rich and low.
Lucifer didn't look up from his glass. He sat at the edge of the booth, back half-turned to the room, cigarette glowing faint in the dark. The others lounged nearby. Asmodeus sprawled across the velvet couch like a bored cat. Morunuel leaned forward, quiet, watching.
"Go on," Asmodeus said with a smirk, tipping a dark bottle against his lip.
Bariel took a deep breath, like he was about to say something profound. "They're stupid... but honest about it."
