I didn't need to ask Father twice.

The moment I stepped through the palace doors after our annual celestial bloodbath, he was already pouring wine and grinning like a devil who'd just tricked a saint into selling their soul for pocket lint.

"You saw him, didn't you?" he said, eyes glittering.

"Alastor?" I smirked, slipping off my coat and tossing it across the velvet lounge. "He was already spiraling the moment he spotted that one drop of blood."

"One drop," my father repeated with a bark of laughter, slapping the table. "What a dramatic little pest."

I giggled behind my hand. "He's probably got an entire wall covered in red strings and crime scene photos by now."

"Please," Father snorted. "He's got a corkboard shrine dedicated to your dress fabric."

I raised my glass. "To leading the deer into madness."

We clinked.

And so began Operation: Unhinge the Radio Demon.

The plan wasn't complicated. Honestly, it didn't even qualify as a plan—just a mutual agreement between a chaotic father-daughter duo to sow as much confusion as possible while looking absolutely innocent.

Father left a charred angel feather on the hotel balcony. Just one. Placed delicately under a flowerpot, like it had fallen in the middle of afternoon tea. The next morning, Alastor "casually" mentioned to me that "the wind was carrying odd things these days."

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Two days later, I slipped a burned rosary bead into the piano in the lounge. I watched Alastor's eyes twitch as I played a soft tune, the bead rattling in the keys like a hidden heartbeat.

He said nothing.

But his smile was sharp.

Later, Father delivered the pièce de résistance: a fake diary page written in a scratchy, blood-like ink—one that read like a prophecy from some unhinged cult priestess. He made sure it looked old, sanctified, and holy... then "accidentally" dropped it behind the bar where Husk would find it and pass it to Alastor.

"The blood sings. The angels scream. The lamb wears a crown soaked in fire."

Honestly, it was a bit dramatic, even by Hell's standards. But Alastor ate it up.

And the best part?

He still hadn't confronted me.

Not directly, anyway.

No, he was biding his time—watching, waiting, building his little puzzle wall. I could practically feel the static humming in his soul every time I passed him in the hallway. His smile always stretched just a little too far now. His laugh had an edge. His eyes flicked over my clothes like he expected a divine dagger to fall out of my pockets.

And I? I just smiled brighter.

"Oh, Alastor," I'd say sweetly, "you've been working so hard lately. Maybe you should take a break."

And he'd chuckle—low and smooth. "Oh, darling, I'm having the time of my life."

I bet you are.

Father and I started placing bets on how long it would take him to crack and corner me. I said two weeks. Father said one. So far, we were on Day Ten.

I'm starting to think Father's going to win.

But let's be honest: it's been kind of fun. Exorcising angels may give me the best adrenaline rush of the year, but this... this little battle of wits?

Delicious.

So go on, Alastor. Keep dancing with shadows. Keep scribbling your notes and replaying your tapes. Keep thinking you're getting closer.

Because this time?

We're watching you back.

Lucifers POV:

If there's one thing I've learned over the centuries, it's that nothing—nothing—brings me more joy than watching a control freak unravel.

Especially when that control freak is a deer in a vest with a God complex and a radio for a voice.

Oh, Alastor. You poor, twitchy, clever bastard.

I sipped my tea slowly, watching through a small enchanted mirror as he examined a holy-bead necklace Charlie had "accidentally" left hanging from a coat hook near the hotel lounge. His face didn't move. But his eyes screamed: "What the hell am I looking at?"

And I?

I was practically vibrating with glee.

Charlie and I hadn't planned this game for long—just enough to add spice to the post-slaughter week. Our little father-daughter bonding ritual had already ended in the traditional fashion: scorched wings, charred halos, and a kill count scrawled in blood on a church wall. (She beat me by two this year, the little hellion. I'm so proud.)

But afterward, when she casually mentioned the look on Alastor's face as he stared at one single blood drop on her collar like it held the secrets of the universe... well.

I just couldn't help myself.

"Do you think he's figured out we're behind the angel killings?" she asked, swirling her wine, cheeks flushed with mischief.

I'd scoffed. "Figured it out? He's halfway through writing a thesis paper about your divine murder rituals."

That's when the fun began.

The feather under the flowerpot was my first stroke of genius. Elegant. Mysterious. Just suspicious enough to spark his paranoia but vague enough to make him question himself. The moment he spotted it, I knew I'd hooked him.

And ever since?

He's been spiraling like a disgruntled playwright trapped in his own murder mystery.

He thinks he's solving something.

But truly, he's just dancing for us now.

Every odd glance, every passive-aggressive comment, every little radio static tick—he's trying to bait Charlie, corner her, peel her open like a puzzle box.

But she's my daughter.

You don't corner a Morningstar. You just get burned.

The way she plays along, pretending to be sweet and oblivious while subtly tossing him breadcrumbs wrapped in holy lies—magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. I've never been more impressed with her manipulation skills.

And me?

Well, I'm just in the background, twirling strings of false evidence, whispering nonsense to the wind, and occasionally dropping "accidental" relics in the dumbwaiter system so they show up in Alastor's room at random times of the night.

Last night? A scorched angelic prayer scroll with a single phrase burned into it:

"The Princess sings in tongues unknown."

I heard him pacing through the hotel walls after that one.

If I listen carefully, I can sometimes hear his crackling muttering.

"Too deliberate. Too neat. This isn't coincidence."

Good boy. You're catching on.

But what's truly delightful is this: He can't confront Charlie directly. He knows he's walking a tightrope. She's the Princess of Hell. If he pushes too hard and he's wrong? He loses face.

And if he's right?

Well... he still loses.

Because the second he tries to expose her, I'll be waiting.

And I don't take kindly to accusations against my daughter—true or otherwise.

So for now, he plays his little game.

And we play ours.

Frankly, I'm giving it a week before he starts whispering to the wallpaper and building a shrine out of holy salt and corkboard.

But hey, who am I to judge?

Everyone needs a hobby.