The Hazbin Hotel is livelier than she remembers, its extravagant halls bustling within the wake of recent news. The murmur of conversation drifts faintly from elsewhere, but she sits alone in the hotel’s main lounge, carefully folded hands resting atop crossed knees, posture impeccable despite the weight pressing upon her conscience.
Pale eyes remain fixed forward, though her thoughts wander to the memories of the weapon she crafted for Vox—the angelic cannon powered using Lucifer’s own stolen essence. She had never intended for things to spiral quite so far beyond her control, yet even the most strategic of decisions can birth unintended consequence. Regret is not an emotion Carmilla entertains lightly or often, yet tonight it settles within her chest, discomforting and persistent, twisting in tandem with a familiar thread of worry for a friendship that has survived countless years, that may now bear cracks from her own hand.
Movement at the edge of her vision breaks the flow of her thoughts, and she turns slowly toward the approaching figure. Rising from her seat, Carmilla inclines her head respectfully, an acknowledgment filled with a sincerity reserved for very few.
“Lucifer,” she greets, her voice measured, though there is an undertone of warmth that betrays the depth of her relief at seeing him upright and whole. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I imagine mine is among the last faces you wish to see at the moment.” Her brows draw together slightly in a brief, uncertain pause. “I understand it may be too soon, yet I thought we might speak, if you are willing.”
