Lucifer didn't waste another second.
He carefully hoisted the unconscious Raven into a fireman's carry, the hooded cloak surprisingly light despite its volume.
The faint, noxious energy around her made his skin prickle.
He had to use the force field so it wouldn't hurt him.
He half-ran, half-stumbled the final block to his apartment.
Getting her up the rickety stairs and into his one-room flat without being seen was a feat of pure adrenaline-fueled Stealth.
Once inside, he locked the door, bolted the windows, and dragged a stack of heavy, old textbooks in front of the entrance for good measure.
He gently placed Raven on his single, worn mattress.
The sight of her pale skin and shallow breathing spurred him into action.
Medical knowledge was not his strong suit—engineering and game theory were—but basic first aid was universal.
He carefully cut away part of her cloak and saw the damage.
Not external wounds, but deep, dark, crackling energy burns around her torso, suggesting a power drain or a massive, internal magical backlash.
"Okay, Morningstar, improvisational medicine,"
He muttered, scavenging his meager supplies.
He found a half-roll of medical gauze and a bottle of pain relievers, neither of which were truly suited for this level of injury.
He used cold compresses from the kitchen sink to try and draw out the residual heat and subdue a rising fever.
He wrapped her torso with the gauze, hoping to protect the burned skin.
Every nine minutes, he instinctively activated his Tier 2 Force Field—not to shield himself, but to bathe the immediate area around her in the faint, cleansing energy of the system, hoping it would stabilize the chaotic magical remnants.
The hours crawled by.
Raven lay still, her breathing ragged, the magenta hair damp with sweat.
Her fever spiked alarmingly, and Lucifer spent what felt like an eternity sponging her brow, constantly replacing the cool clothes.
As the exhaustion from the construction work and the stress of the encounter finally hit him, the digital clock on his battered phone read 3:52 AM.
He couldn't stay awake anymore.
With a heavy sigh, he gently lifted her once more and situated her squarely on the mattress, pulling a thin blanket over her.
He then dragged his single, hard wooden chair over, slumped into it, and leaned his head against the flimsy wall.
The last thought before sleep claimed him was a weary prayer that the World-Ending Potential wouldn't activate before dawn.
Lucifer woke instantly at 6:00 AM, a habit drilled into him by years of dangerous early morning deliveries.
His neck was stiff, his back ached from the unforgiving chair, and the first light of dawn was struggling to penetrate the grimy window.
His heart sank, expecting the worst—a raging magical entity, a smoldering apartment, or a visit from a concerned caped crusader.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked at the bed.
Raven was awake.
She was sitting up against the headboard, the cloak still around her shoulders, holding the book he'd been struggling through—a dense textbook on advanced thermodynamics—and slowly turning its pages.
She looked frail, but the sheer, unsettling power surrounding her had coalesced slightly, making the air feel heavy.
Lucifer froze.
His mind raced, preparing for the inevitable interrogation, or worse, the attack.
His hand instinctively hovered over the command for his Force Field.
Raven had been watching him for a full five minutes before he woke.
She'd roused about twenty minutes prior, the lingering pain a dull throb rather than a paralyzing agony.
The fever was gone.
Her first conscious thought was terror.
Where am I? Who is this boy?
She remembered the blur of fleeing, the overwhelming psychic blast from a hunter sent by her father, and the crushing darkness that followed.
To wake up in an unfamiliar room, weak, with a stranger slumped in a chair—a stranger who could have easily taken advantage of her paralyzed state—sent a spike of fear through her.
She was the daughter of Trigon, the vessel of unspeakable evil, and she was vulnerable.
She looked at the bandages, amateur but clean.
She looked at the bowl of water and the crumpled, damp cloths on the nightstand.
She noted the extreme discomfort of the chair he was sleeping in.
Her energy, though suppressed, could feel the absence of malevolent intent, only a confused, weary concern emanating from him.
He saved me. He didn't hurt me. He gave me his bed.
A wave of unexpected trust, a sensation foreign to her life of constant defense, washed over her.
She sighed, a deep, quiet sound.
She decided to hold her internal defenses, but not to immediately attack.
She gently closed the textbook she'd been examining and placed it on the floor beside the bed.
She had intended to fall back asleep, but when the boy stirred, she decided to speak first.
Lucifer was still speechless, trying to formulate a question that wouldn't end with a dimensional collapse.
It was Raven who broke the silence, her voice surprisingly soft, yet hollow.
"Where… am I?"
She asked, her eyes—shadowed and intelligent—fixed on him.
Lucifer cleared his throat.
"You are in Gotham City. My apartment. I found you passed out in the alleyway behind this building."
She studied his reaction. He didn't ask her name, nor did he make any demands.
"I see,"
She replied simply. She offered him nothing more. Why would she? She was currently a ghost, a remnant of a cosmic battle, hunted by the one being who defined her existence.
"I do not require assistance."
Lucifer watched her, his expression a mixture of fatigue and frustration.
"Whatever, if you are feeling better then you should go. I have to go to work. I don't have time to take care of you…"
With that being said. He stood up and went to the bathroom to refresh himself and to get ready to go to work.