Serah pulled open the heavy, creaking door, finding nothing but hazy darkness in front of her. She stepped inside, crossing the threshold of the abandoned building and through the sixth gate.

The air around her instantly changed.

The darkness left in a burst of violent light, so intense that it knocked Serah off her feet. She felt like she was falling then, fast and hard, her stomach lodged in her throat, until it abruptly stopped, everything clearing.

Jolting, she found herself standing at the boundary to Hell, feet planted on the hard sediment as her gaze scanned the terrain for the first time. Nothing living thrived here, nothing breathing or growing, nothing flourishing. The land was cracked and forsaken, the sensation of imminent death clinging to everything, suffering and miserable. Dark clouds blanketed the endless sky, mixed with swirls of fiery red as lightning continuously flashed, bolts striking in the distance, their vicious rumble vibrating beneath her feet. In the distance, at the end of a pencil-thin path, Serah could vaguely make out a tall tower of stone, an eerie castle erected for the King of Hell.

The final gate was invisible, a massive, bewitched shield of energy and electricity. Serah could faintly see it, fizzling and flickering, crackling and shimmering, as black shadows hovered high above it. Reapers guarded the insufferable plot, feeding off of the vile souls within.

Taking a deep, needless breath—a habit she’d picked up on Earth—Serah stalked forward, pausing a few yards away from the gate. It was silent on the other side, appearing abandoned, nothing but barren land and mountains of rock shrouded in black shadows.

Was Hell supposed to be this . . . quiet?

"Hello?"

One beat, two beats, three beats passed. Nothing but silence.

"Hello?" she called again. "Anyone around?"

Serah smoothed out her dress and fidgeted—another senseless, human habit—as she waited for something, anything, to happen.

Minutes passed, then hours. Half a day withered away in the blink of an eye, absolute stillness persisting. Physically, she felt no exhaustion, but mentally she’d had about enough of the place. "This is incredible."

"It is."

The sudden voice alarmed Serah. A bang of thunder ripped through the land as the bright lightning flashed, revealing a form lurking in the shadows on the other side.

"The only question," he continued, stepping into the hazy light, "is whether you mean that in the good or bad way."

Black eyes bore into her, his skin the hue of Earth’s filth, covered in silver-toned scars and vibrant black markings. Sigils had been burned into his flesh like tattoos, seemingly still smoldering as steam radiated from his skin. The sleeves of his black button-down shirt were shoved up to his elbows, exposing them to her. Serah’s eyes widened as she deciphered the symbols.

Serpens. Malum. Diabolus. Inimicus.

Serpent. Evil. Devil. Enemy.

Satan, she knew instantly, nearly unrecognizable from his once angelic form. He appeared as if he'd walked through fire, his clothes singed and his bare feet scorched. He was rough and rugged, his voice slightly gritty, like worn sandpaper.

Despite his unsettling exterior, he seemed more human than she’d expected him to be, a fact that unnerved her. He was sturdy like Michael, dark where her Archangel was light, but he carried himself like a man. His steps had a slight swagger, unhurried and graceless.

This thing—this man—was the great enemy? The biggest threat to them? To humanity?

"I mean it’s absurd," she said tentatively. "There’s nothing good about this place. I’ve been standing here for hours."

"I know."

She gaped at him. "You know?"

"Yes. I’ve been watching you."

"You’ve been watching me?"

"Yes. And you’re late."

She scoffed. "I’m late?"

"Yes, you’re late. What’s with you? I assumed the wings meant you were some sort of angel, not a damn mockingbird."

She started to reply to his childish ridicule, but he stopped her before she could, his voice an octave higher, force to his words as he spat them at her.

"You were supposed to be here last night. I expected you last night, but you kept me waiting. So it was only fair, when you finally decided it was important enough to show your face, that I keep you waiting just as long."

"I didn’t realize we had an appointment," she said defensively. Who was he to speak to her that way? "I was busy."

"I bet you were." He inhaled deeply, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. A coinciding vortex of wind gusted by, stirring the dirt and the bottom of her dress as it whipped her hair into her face. She brushed it away as the air calmed down, his eyes slowly reopening. "You smell like my brother. His scent is all over you. It reeks."

Serah stammered. "I, uh. . ." He could smell it? "Look, Satan. . ."

"Stop," he said, the scathing tone harder in his voice. "My name’s not Satan."

She hesitated. This wasn’t going well. "Would you rather be called the Prince of Darkness?"

"No, I’d actually prefer my name."

"Lucifer."

A hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. "Call me Luce."

"Lucifer," she said again. "I just came here to ask—"

"To ask me to stop the fighting? To give peace a chance?" He laughed bitterly. "I know why you came here, and you can just turn around and leave right now. I won’t have someone walking into my territory and disrespecting me, treating me like I’m nothing, calling me that filthy word like it's my name. You want to talk to me, angel? You want to have that conversation? Come back when you don’t stink so fucking much."