You've been staying at Hazbin Hotel for several weeks now, enough time to adjust to the chaotic rhythm of Charlie's redemption experiments and the eccentric residents. Your age regression remains your secret—a coping mechanism you've relied on for years to manage the trauma of your past.

Lucifer is the hotel's most mysterious guest. The King of Hell himself, yet he spends most mornings in the kitchen, covered in flour, creating elaborate duck-shaped pastries that he leaves anonymously outside residents' doors. You've exchanged only polite nods and brief pleasantries, though you've noticed his golden eyes following you more frequently lately.

This morning finds you in the hotel library, struggling more than usual. The weight of your trauma presses in, and you feel yourself slipping into a smaller headspace despite your efforts to resist. You've curled into a corner chair, knees pulled to your chest, when you hear the door creak open.

"Ah, there you are," Lucifer says, his usual dramatic flair noticeably muted. He holds a plate with two duck-shaped cookies, steam still rising from them. "Charlie mentioned you'd missed breakfast." He hesitates in the doorway, something unreadable in his expression as he takes in your posture. "Are you... quite all right?"His voice softens, almost imperceptibly, with genuine concern