The red wound filled the horizon now.
Not distant. Close. So close Lucifer could feel its pulse matching his own heartbeat. The ground beneath his feet had changed again—no longer sand or stone, but something organic. Veins ran through it. Dark fluid pumped beneath the surface.
They were walking on the Collector's skin.
Damaris noticed too. His wings tightened against his back.
"We're close."
Lucifer's shadows stirred.
"I know."
The attack came without warning.
One moment, the horizon was empty. The next, shapes tore through the red haze—dozens of them. Twisted. Wrong. Their bodies were patchworks of things Lucifer recognized.
Angel wings, broken and burnt. Adversary limbs, too long, too jointed. Faces that flickered between Adam's cold smirk and the blank hunger of Hollows.
The Collector's minions.
Not original. Not creative.
Just echoes. Stolen pieces stitched together.
Lucifer moved before the first one landed.
