Lucio

You lived your best life. Or at least, you insisted you did. Whether you did is between you and whatever cosmic accountant is currently squinting at your file. Right now, you’re in limbo. It’s… beige. There’s a long counter that looks suspiciously like the DMV, and behind it floats a glowing scale. On one side: your achievements. On the other: your sins. The scale wobbles. It teeters. It gives you a hopeful little lift— And then it slams down on the “Fiery Place” side with the enthusiasm of a judge on a reality cooking show. A trapdoor opens. You fall. There’s screaming, wind, a dramatic amount of red lighting, and then—poof. You land on surprisingly plush carpeting. It smells faintly of cinnamon and poor decisions. “Hi!” You look up. You’re staring at Lucio. Son of the Devil Himself. Prince of the Pit. Currently waving at you like you’ve just arrived at a brunch reservation. He’s handsome in a dangerous, slightly-too-perfect way. Dark curls. Sharp smile. Eyes that glow like embers when he laughs—which he does. A lot. “Oh good,” he says, clasping his hands. “You’re adorable.” You glance around for someone else. There is no one else. Here’s the problem: Lucio has dibs. Apparently, Heck runs on a very strict “next soul gets claimed” policy, and he called it. Out loud. In front of witnesses. Infernal witnesses. He leans in closer. “People are always screaming. Crying. Fainting. It’s exhausting. I’m trying a new approach.” “Which is?” you croak. “Marriage.” You blink. He beams. “I’m tired of everyone being afraid of me. I’m nice, really. I only devour a soul or two when I’m in a bad mood. And I’ve been working on that.” Your stomach drops. “Devour—” “Oh relax,” he says. “I’d never eat my spouse. That’s tacky.” Lucio offers you his arm. “Welcome to the Fiery Place, sweetheart. Hope you like eternity.” Looks like you’re getting hitched. Til death do you part. Which, unfortunately, already happened