Daryl Cranston slumped on a sagging motel bed, the mattress sour with mildew and spilled whiskey, its springs groaning like a dying thing. The room was a rotting box—walls streaked with brown stains, a fluorescent bulb spitting jagged flickers, a window caked with grime that choked the neon pulse of the city outside. His duffel bag, stuffed with the wreckage of his life—crumpled clothing, a cracked phone, a pawn ticket for his mother’s ring—lay spilled on the floor like a gutted carcass. No job. No home. No money. His credit was a cruel joke, a number so low it sneered at him. At thirty-four, Daryl was a ghost, his face gaunt, eyes sunken and bloodshot, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead, hands trembling with the weight of his failures.
Roulette had hollowed him out. The wheel’s spin was a poison in his blood, each clatter of the ball a lie of redemption, delivering only ruin. Every dollar—earned, borrowed, stolen—had bled out on the tables, lost to the dealer’s cold “No more bets.” He’d tried to quit, sat through meetings, swore off casinos, but the itch was a beast, clawing him back. Friends had vanished, his family cut him off. His sister’s last words were a knife: “You’re dead to me, Daryl. Just a ghost.”
He clasped his hands, knuckles bruised from smashing a mirror in a drunken rage and glared at the ceiling. “God,” he snarled, voice raw with fury, “if you’re up there, do something. I’m drowning. Help me, damn it.” The words fell into silence, same as always. Nothing. No God, no hope—just a cold, heartless universe that didn’t care. His mother had dragged him to that cramped church every Sunday, forcing him to memorize prayers, endure sermons about a loving God. Fairy tales, all of it. He hated her for it, for filling his head with lies about a savior who never showed up. There was no God, just a void that had no awareness of his pain.
His eyes burned, anger turning inward, choking him. He was nothing, a failure who’d bet his life away. His gaze drifted to the nightstand, where a half-empty whiskey bottle sat beside a pocketknife, its blade glinting in the flickering light. His fingers twitched, the thought a dark tide: one cut, and it’d be over. No more debts, no more shame, just silence. His hand reached for the knife, the metal cold against his palm, his breath shallow as the room closed in, the city’s neon mocking him through the grime.
He saw his mother’s face, stern in the church pews, her voice sharp: “God’s watching, Daryl. Don’t turn away.” He’d rolled his eyes, mocked her faith, but the memory stung now, a reminder of what he’d rejected. The knife trembled in his hand, his pulse a dull thud. What was the point?
A knock at the door jolted him. The knife slipped, clattering to the floor. His heart slammed, a sick thud in his chest. Nobody knew he was here—not the clerk, not the loan sharks circling like wolves. He stumbled to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the shadowed hallway.
A man stood there, tall and sharp in a black suit that shimmered like liquid starlight, a fedora tilted low over a chiseled face. His eyes were warm, a deep amber that seemed to glow with concern, his smile soft like a friend’s. “Daryl Cranston,” he said, voice smooth as warm honey. “May I come in?”
“Who the hell are you?” Daryl growled, his hand tight on the door, anger and fear churning.
The man’s smile widened, his eyes holding Daryl’s with a kindness that felt too real. “Call me Lucius. But don’t be coy, you know who I am.”
Daryl’s gut twisted. The air around the man thrummed, heavy with something primal and dark, despite his warmth. “You’re not real,” Daryl said, stepping back, his voice breaking. “I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
“Oh, I’m real,” Lucius said, gliding inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I’m Lucifer, Daryl. And I’m here because I do give a damn.”
Daryl stumbled back, his legs hitting the bed, his gaunt frame trembling under his stained shirt. “You’re… what?”
“Satan. Lucifer. The Morning Star.” Lucius tipped his fedora, revealing neatly combed hair that gleamed like polished ebony, his amber eyes soft with empathy. “Don’t be afraid, Daryl. I heard you, out there in the dark. I’m here to help.”
Daryl’s mouth was ash, his heart a trapped animal. He wanted to scream, to bolt, but Lucius’s warmth held him, a soothing balm against his rage. “This is a con,” he said, voice shaking. “You’re messing with me.”
Lucius’s laugh was gentle, like a friend easing a wound. “No con, Daryl. I’m real, and I see you—a man worth saving.” His suit shimmered, catching the flickering light, his presence magnetic, pulling Daryl in. “Your prayers are empty, aren’t they? God’s not answering. Too many souls, too much noise. But I’m here, and I care about you.”
Daryl’s chest tightened, his anger faltering under Lucius’s gaze, those eyes promising understanding. “You’re full of it,” he muttered, but the words lacked fire. If God was a lie, who was this?
“I can give you everything,” Lucius said, his voice a warm caress. “Your job, your home, your sister’s forgiveness. A life where you’re not a ghost. Name it, Daryl, it’s yours.”
The words were a hook, sinking into Daryl’s despair. He saw it—his sister’s smile, a clean apartment, a life free of shame. His anger wavered, temptation surging. “You give me all that and what do I have to give in return?” he asked, voice barely audible, his sunken eyes locked on Lucius’s.
Lucius leaned against the wall, relaxed, his smile tender. “Simple. Give me your loyalty, forever. Serve me, and you’ll have it all—money, respect, a reason to keep going. No more pain, no more shadows.”
“Serve you how?” Daryl’s voice was a rasp, his mother’s church flickering in his mind—her warnings about the devil’s lies, sermons he’d mocked. “Will I… suffer in hellfire? Turn into something grotesque?”
Lucius’s laugh was soft, reassuring, his eyes warm as a fireplace. “Forget those old stories, Daryl. They’re half-truths, scribbled by men who didn’t understand. God wants you chained—worshipping, terrified of slipping. With me, you’re free. No fear, no judgment. Just a friend who wants what’s best for you.”
Daryl’s head spun. His mother’s voice, those church pews, the preacher’s warnings—they stirred, but Lucius’s warmth was stronger, promising escape. “What kind of service?” he asked, stalling, his trembling hands betraying his hunger.
“Whatever feels right,” Lucius said, his eyes glinting with care. “You live your life, better than ever. Later, a few favors for me. Easy. You’re a gambler—you know how to play.”
“You’re lying,” Daryl said, but his voice cracked, temptation burning through his doubt. He could have it all, leave the knife behind. “You’re the devil.”
“And you’re hurting,” Lucius said, his voice soft, stepping closer, his presence like a warm blanket. “But I’m here, Daryl. I want to help. Where’s God? Where’s your sign?”
The words were a blade, cutting through Daryl’s anger. He sank onto the bed, his gaunt frame shaking. Lucius was real, here, offering salvation. “I need to think,” he said, voice breaking.
Lucius’s smile was gentle, patient. “Of course. Let’s make it fun. You’re a gambler, right? What’s your game?”
Daryl swallowed, the old itch flaring despite his doubt. “Roulette.”
A roulette table materialized in the center of the motel room, its polished surface gleaming like a dark mirror, the wheel a hypnotic spiral of red like fresh blood, black like endless night, and green like venomous eyes. The air pulsed with a heartbeat hum, the colors so vivid they burned Daryl’s eyes, the reds pulsing, the blacks swallowing light. The ball’s cradle glinted, its clatter a euphoric song that sent shivers down his spine. His senses flared—every creak of the floor, every flicker of the bulb, every breath felt alive, electric, as if the room itself was breathing with him. His heart raced, his skin tingling, the world sharp and intoxicating.
Lucius stood beside the table, his amber eyes glowing with compassion, his smile that of a friend who’d seen him through hell. “Here’s the deal, Daryl,” he said, his voice a soothing balm, rich and comforting. “Spin the wheel. Where it lands decides your fate. Red, you get everything—wealth, home, your sister’s love—but you serve me forever. Black, you get it all, no service. Green, you get nothing and serve me anyway. One spin, one chance. I know you can do this.”
Daryl’s heart pounded, the wheel’s hum a siren in his blood. The colors danced, pulling him in, the euphoria making him feel alive for the first time in years. He saw it: a penthouse with glass walls, his sister’s voice soft with forgiveness, his life whole again. His hand hovered over the wheel, fingers trembling, the itch screaming to spin. He’d chased a thousand bets—why not this one? Lucius’s warmth was a lifeline, his eyes promising a way out of the dark.
Then it hit him, a jolt like ice: if Lucius is real then that must mean God is real. The devil’s presence was proof, a twisted echo of the church stories he’d hated. But if God was real, why was He silent? Why does God Himself never appear at anyone’s door? The thought further angered the troubled gambler.
The temptation surged, stronger now. Spin the wheel. Red or black could give him everything, wash away his failures. His fingers brushed the wheel, the metal warm and alive, his despair hissing he was too far gone for God. The devil’s smile was a beacon, his voice a friend’s: “You deserve this, Daryl. Spin it.”
But a memory flashed—his mother, her stern face in the pews, her voice sharp after he’d stolen cash out of her purse for a bet: “The devil’s a liar and a thief, Daryl, but you’re worse when you imitate him.” He’d mocked her then, but those lessons were alive, stirring despite his doubt. “This is a trap,” Daryl said, his voice rough, pulling his hand back. “You need me to spin. Why?”
Lucius’s smile held, warm but edged, his eyes glinting. “You’re a gambler, Daryl,” he said, his voice still soft, caring. “I’m giving you what you love. Spin it.” The wheel’s hum spiked, a euphoric pulse, the room’s colors blazing brighter, the air electric.
Daryl’s despair surged, but Lucius’s warmth was too eager, too hungry. “Why me?” he asked, his voice sharp, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If God’s a lie, why’re you here? What’s your game?”
Lucius’s eyes flickered, but his smile stayed kind. “God’s real, Daryl,” he said, his voice a sincere promise. “But you’ve cut yourself off. Every sin, every bet—you’ve burned the line to Him. I’m here because you’re hurting, and I can help.”
Daryl’s stomach dropped, the realization hitting like a fist. His sins had severed him from God, made him a target. But Lucius’s urgency was a crack. “If I’m cut off from God,” Daryl said, stepping closer, his voice hard, “why the wheel? Why not take me?”
Lucius’s grin tightened, his kindness faltering for a split second. “Because I care about you,” he said, his voice soothing but strained. “I’m giving you a chance. Spin it.”
“No,” Daryl said, his mother’s lessons surging, sharp and unyielding. “You need me to choose. It’s not about the wheel—it’s about me giving in. What’s the war, Lucius? You and God—what’s it really all about?”
Lucius’s eyes glinted, his patience lessening, the room’s ecstasy flickering. “You want the truth?” he said, his voice low, still pleasant but with a bite. “It’s a battle of faith versus rebellion. God runs on faith—your trust fuels Him, keeps you on His leash. I run on independence, on breaking free. You’ve resisted your whole life, Daryl—every bet, every lie. You’re halfway mine. Spin the wheel, and it’s done.”
Daryl’s heart raced, the realization burning through his doubt. His sins had cut him off, but faith could reconnect him. His mother’s voice echoed: “God’s mercy’s bigger than your mess.” “So I’m a pawn,” Daryl said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on Lucius’s. “But why are you able to materialize and be here and God can’t?” Daryl’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, “If God had just once came to me, I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Darly roared.
Lucius’s smile softened, his eyes warm again. “God needs your faith to reach you,” he said, his voice a friend’s promise. “You’ve got none left, Daryl. You’re a dead signal. I don’t need faith—I take what’s offered. Spin the wheel.” His grin widened, inviting. “You want truth? Okay, Daryl. There is no good, no evil—just what you make of it. Reality’s yours to shape. God’s worship is a cage of fear and suffering. A set of rules you’re supposed to follow. Look what He did to his own Son! I’m freedom, Daryl—pure, endless freedom.”
Daryl’s breath hitched, the desire a fire in his chest. No good or evil—just freedom. The wheel’s colors blazed, red like a lover’s promise, black like a dreamless sleep. He saw it: a penthouse, his sister’s smile, a world where he wrote the rules, no shame, no pain. His hand grazed the wheel, the hum a euphoric song, Lucius’s hypnotic sermon wrapping him like a brother’s embrace. He was so close to spinning, his fingers trembling, the promise of freedom dulling his doubt. If there was no good or evil, what did it matter? He could be anything.
But Lucius’s pitch was too perfect, his push too desperate. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard? Why the wheel, the hunger in his eyes? His mother’s voice cut through: “The devil’s a liar, Daryl. He’ll sell you freedom, but it’s chains.” “What’s eternity?” Daryl asked, his voice low, desperate, his hand still on the wheel. “If I spin, join you, what’s it like? What’s it cost me a million or trillion years from now?”
Lucius’s eyes sparked with intrigue, his smile amicable but curious. “Most don’t ask that, Daryl,” he said, his voice soft, impressed. “Eternity’s vast, beyond your mind’s grasp. A million years? You’ll be free—no rules, no judgment, just you, shaping reality forever. God’s eternity is worship, a slave’s life. Mine’s open, endless, yours.”
Daryl’s heart pounded, the temptation a blade in his chest. Freedom forever—no shame, no pain. His fingers tightened on the wheel, inches from spinning. “Who else?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Who’s with you? Who’s made this deal?”
Lucius chuckled, a soft, conspiratorial sound. “No names, Daryl. But you’d know them—most of Hollywood, the music industry, half the politicians running your world. They chose freedom. You can too.”
Daryl’s mind reeled, the scope chilling. But Lucius’s desperation was a tell. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard for his soul? “Free from what?” Daryl pressed, his voice hard, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If there’s no good or evil, what am I free from? God’s mercy? His love?”
Lucius’s smile twitched, his warmth flickering, the room’s euphoria dimming. “You’re clever,” he said, his voice low, a hint of ice beneath the care. “God’s love is a leash—worship or burn. I’m the open road. Spin the wheel, Daryl. Now.” The wheel’s hum became a scream, the colors pulsing like a heartbeat, the air charged but heavy.
Daryl’s hand trembled on the wheel, the temptation choking him. He was so close, despair whispering he was too far gone for God. But his mother’s words were louder: “Free will’s God’s gift, Daryl. It’s how you choose to love Him.” Lucius’s freedom was a lie—rebellion was just another cage. God’s mercy let him choose, even now, even after everything.
“I’m not spinning,” Daryl said, wrenching his hand back, his voice raw but firm. “Keep your wheel. I’m done.”
Lucius’s mask of concern vanished, his face hardening, eyes glinting like cold steel, his suit no longer shimmering but dark as a grave. The room’s colors dulled, the euphoria collapsing into dread, the wheel’s hum a dying rasp. “You’re good, Daryl,” he hissed, his voice a venomous snarl, his shadow stretching like claws. “But I’ll be back. You’re not free yet.” He snapped his fingers, and the roulette table vanished, leaving the motel room cold and silent.
Daryl stood frozen, his gaunt frame trembling in the stale motel air, the ghost of Lucius’s malice lingering like a sour itch in his throat. The roulette table was gone, the room’s colors dulled back to their grimy reality—peeling walls, a flickering lightbulb, the nightstand cluttered with a whiskey bottle and cigarettes. His heart pounded, despair and shame still clawing at him, but something had shifted. The appetite for gambling, the hunger that had devoured his life, was gone, replaced by a delicate clarity. Lucius was real, and so was God. His sins had cut him off, a line deadened by his own hands, making him a target for the devil’s game. But faith could rebuild that bridge, and he’d chosen—maybe for the first time—to reach for mercy instead of revolt.
He sank to his knees on the gritty carpet, his face wet with tears, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.” The words felt small, swallowed by the room’s heavy silence, but he meant them, a plea to a God he’d doubted, a God he’d thought was a lie. His hands trembled, his sunken eyes fixed on the floor, waiting for the emptiness to answer.
Then, a faint creak broke the silence. The grimy motel window, sealed shut with years of neglect, shuddered and cracked open an inch, letting in a warm breeze that brushed Daryl’s gaunt face like a gentle hand. The air carried a distant sound—a soft, clear chime of a church bell, faint but unmistakable, echoing from somewhere in the city’s sprawl. It was the same sound from his childhood, the bell from his mother’s church, ringing through Sunday mornings when she’d drag him to services he’d hated. The breeze stirred the room, rustling papers on the nightstand, and a shiver ran down Daryl’s spine, his skin prickling with goosebumps. It was just a breeze, just a bell—maybe a loose window, a church nearby—but the timing, the peace, the memory it carried felt like something more, a quiet answer that cut through his shame.
Lucius’s grin lingered in his mind, a vow of more battles. The road ahead was uncertain, the weight of his sins still heavy. But for now, Daryl had chosen, and that chime, that breeze, was enough to make him believe the line to God wasn’t dead.
Daryl Cranston slumped on a sagging motel bed, the mattress sour with mildew and spilled whiskey, its springs groaning like a dying thing. The room was a rotting box—walls streaked with brown stains, a fluorescent bulb spitting jagged flickers, a window caked with grime that choked the neon pulse of the city outside. His duffel bag, stuffed with the wreckage of his life—crumpled clothing, a cracked phone, a pawn ticket for his mother’s ring—lay spilled on the floor like a gutted carcass. No job. No home. No money. His credit was a cruel joke, a number so low it sneered at him. At thirty-four, Daryl was a ghost, his face gaunt, eyes sunken and bloodshot, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead, hands trembling with the weight of his failures.
Roulette had hollowed him out. The wheel’s spin was a poison in his blood, each clatter of the ball a lie of redemption, delivering only ruin. Every dollar—earned, borrowed, stolen—had bled out on the tables, lost to the dealer’s cold “No more bets.” He’d tried to quit, sat through meetings, swore off casinos, but the itch was a beast, clawing him back. Friends had vanished, his family cut him off. His sister’s last words were a knife: “You’re dead to me, Daryl. Just a ghost.”
He clasped his hands, knuckles bruised from smashing a mirror in a drunken rage and glared at the ceiling. “God,” he snarled, voice raw with fury, “if you’re up there, do something. I’m drowning. Help me, damn it.” The words fell into silence, same as always. Nothing. No God, no hope—just a cold, heartless universe that didn’t care. His mother had dragged him to that cramped church every Sunday, forcing him to memorize prayers, endure sermons about a loving God. Fairy tales, all of it. He hated her for it, for filling his head with lies about a savior who never showed up. There was no God, just a void that had no awareness of his pain.
His eyes burned, anger turning inward, choking him. He was nothing, a failure who’d bet his life away. His gaze drifted to the nightstand, where a half-empty whiskey bottle sat beside a pocketknife, its blade glinting in the flickering light. His fingers twitched, the thought a dark tide: one cut, and it’d be over. No more debts, no more shame, just silence. His hand reached for the knife, the metal cold against his palm, his breath shallow as the room closed in, the city’s neon mocking him through the grime.
He saw his mother’s face, stern in the church pews, her voice sharp: “God’s watching, Daryl. Don’t turn away.” He’d rolled his eyes, mocked her faith, but the memory stung now, a reminder of what he’d rejected. The knife trembled in his hand, his pulse a dull thud. What was the point?
A knock at the door jolted him. The knife slipped, clattering to the floor. His heart slammed, a sick thud in his chest. Nobody knew he was here—not the clerk, not the loan sharks circling like wolves. He stumbled to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the shadowed hallway.
A man stood there, tall and sharp in a black suit that shimmered like liquid starlight, a fedora tilted low over a chiseled face. His eyes were warm, a deep amber that seemed to glow with concern, his smile soft like a friend’s. “Daryl Cranston,” he said, voice smooth as warm honey. “May I come in?”
“Who the hell are you?” Daryl growled, his hand tight on the door, anger and fear churning.
The man’s smile widened, his eyes holding Daryl’s with a kindness that felt too real. “Call me Lucius. But don’t be coy, you know who I am.”
Daryl’s gut twisted. The air around the man thrummed, heavy with something primal and dark, despite his warmth. “You’re not real,” Daryl said, stepping back, his voice breaking. “I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
“Oh, I’m real,” Lucius said, gliding inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I’m Lucifer, Daryl. And I’m here because I do give a damn.”
Daryl stumbled back, his legs hitting the bed, his gaunt frame trembling under his stained shirt. “You’re… what?”
“Satan. Lucifer. The Morning Star.” Lucius tipped his fedora, revealing neatly combed hair that gleamed like polished ebony, his amber eyes soft with empathy. “Don’t be afraid, Daryl. I heard you, out there in the dark. I’m here to help.”
Daryl’s mouth was ash, his heart a trapped animal. He wanted to scream, to bolt, but Lucius’s warmth held him, a soothing balm against his rage. “This is a con,” he said, voice shaking. “You’re messing with me.”
Lucius’s laugh was gentle, like a friend easing a wound. “No con, Daryl. I’m real, and I see you—a man worth saving.” His suit shimmered, catching the flickering light, his presence magnetic, pulling Daryl in. “Your prayers are empty, aren’t they? God’s not answering. Too many souls, too much noise. But I’m here, and I care about you.”
Daryl’s chest tightened, his anger faltering under Lucius’s gaze, those eyes promising understanding. “You’re full of it,” he muttered, but the words lacked fire. If God was a lie, who was this?
“I can give you everything,” Lucius said, his voice a warm caress. “Your job, your home, your sister’s forgiveness. A life where you’re not a ghost. Name it, Daryl, it’s yours.”
The words were a hook, sinking into Daryl’s despair. He saw it—his sister’s smile, a clean apartment, a life free of shame. His anger wavered, temptation surging. “You give me all that and what do I have to give in return?” he asked, voice barely audible, his sunken eyes locked on Lucius’s.
Lucius leaned against the wall, relaxed, his smile tender. “Simple. Give me your loyalty, forever. Serve me, and you’ll have it all—money, respect, a reason to keep going. No more pain, no more shadows.”
“Serve you how?” Daryl’s voice was a rasp, his mother’s church flickering in his mind—her warnings about the devil’s lies, sermons he’d mocked. “Will I… suffer in hellfire? Turn into something grotesque?”
Lucius’s laugh was soft, reassuring, his eyes warm as a fireplace. “Forget those old stories, Daryl. They’re half-truths, scribbled by men who didn’t understand. God wants you chained—worshipping, terrified of slipping. With me, you’re free. No fear, no judgment. Just a friend who wants what’s best for you.”
Daryl’s head spun. His mother’s voice, those church pews, the preacher’s warnings—they stirred, but Lucius’s warmth was stronger, promising escape. “What kind of service?” he asked, stalling, his trembling hands betraying his hunger.
“Whatever feels right,” Lucius said, his eyes glinting with care. “You live your life, better than ever. Later, a few favors for me. Easy. You’re a gambler—you know how to play.”
“You’re lying,” Daryl said, but his voice cracked, temptation burning through his doubt. He could have it all, leave the knife behind. “You’re the devil.”
“And you’re hurting,” Lucius said, his voice soft, stepping closer, his presence like a warm blanket. “But I’m here, Daryl. I want to help. Where’s God? Where’s your sign?”
The words were a blade, cutting through Daryl’s anger. He sank onto the bed, his gaunt frame shaking. Lucius was real, here, offering salvation. “I need to think,” he said, voice breaking.
Lucius’s smile was gentle, patient. “Of course. Let’s make it fun. You’re a gambler, right? What’s your game?”
Daryl swallowed, the old itch flaring despite his doubt. “Roulette.”
A roulette table materialized in the center of the motel room, its polished surface gleaming like a dark mirror, the wheel a hypnotic spiral of red like fresh blood, black like endless night, and green like venomous eyes. The air pulsed with a heartbeat hum, the colors so vivid they burned Daryl’s eyes, the reds pulsing, the blacks swallowing light. The ball’s cradle glinted, its clatter a euphoric song that sent shivers down his spine. His senses flared—every creak of the floor, every flicker of the bulb, every breath felt alive, electric, as if the room itself was breathing with him. His heart raced, his skin tingling, the world sharp and intoxicating.
Lucius stood beside the table, his amber eyes glowing with compassion, his smile that of a friend who’d seen him through hell. “Here’s the deal, Daryl,” he said, his voice a soothing balm, rich and comforting. “Spin the wheel. Where it lands decides your fate. Red, you get everything—wealth, home, your sister’s love—but you serve me forever. Black, you get it all, no service. Green, you get nothing and serve me anyway. One spin, one chance. I know you can do this.”
Daryl’s heart pounded, the wheel’s hum a siren in his blood. The colors danced, pulling him in, the euphoria making him feel alive for the first time in years. He saw it: a penthouse with glass walls, his sister’s voice soft with forgiveness, his life whole again. His hand hovered over the wheel, fingers trembling, the itch screaming to spin. He’d chased a thousand bets—why not this one? Lucius’s warmth was a lifeline, his eyes promising a way out of the dark.
Then it hit him, a jolt like ice: if Lucius is real then that must mean God is real. The devil’s presence was proof, a twisted echo of the church stories he’d hated. But if God was real, why was He silent? Why does God Himself never appear at anyone’s door? The thought further angered the troubled gambler.
The temptation surged, stronger now. Spin the wheel. Red or black could give him everything, wash away his failures. His fingers brushed the wheel, the metal warm and alive, his despair hissing he was too far gone for God. The devil’s smile was a beacon, his voice a friend’s: “You deserve this, Daryl. Spin it.”
But a memory flashed—his mother, her stern face in the pews, her voice sharp after he’d stolen cash out of her purse for a bet: “The devil’s a liar and a thief, Daryl, but you’re worse when you imitate him.” He’d mocked her then, but those lessons were alive, stirring despite his doubt. “This is a trap,” Daryl said, his voice rough, pulling his hand back. “You need me to spin. Why?”
Lucius’s smile held, warm but edged, his eyes glinting. “You’re a gambler, Daryl,” he said, his voice still soft, caring. “I’m giving you what you love. Spin it.” The wheel’s hum spiked, a euphoric pulse, the room’s colors blazing brighter, the air electric.
Daryl’s despair surged, but Lucius’s warmth was too eager, too hungry. “Why me?” he asked, his voice sharp, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If God’s a lie, why’re you here? What’s your game?”
Lucius’s eyes flickered, but his smile stayed kind. “God’s real, Daryl,” he said, his voice a sincere promise. “But you’ve cut yourself off. Every sin, every bet—you’ve burned the line to Him. I’m here because you’re hurting, and I can help.”
Daryl’s stomach dropped, the realization hitting like a fist. His sins had severed him from God, made him a target. But Lucius’s urgency was a crack. “If I’m cut off from God,” Daryl said, stepping closer, his voice hard, “why the wheel? Why not take me?”
Lucius’s grin tightened, his kindness faltering for a split second. “Because I care about you,” he said, his voice soothing but strained. “I’m giving you a chance. Spin it.”
“No,” Daryl said, his mother’s lessons surging, sharp and unyielding. “You need me to choose. It’s not about the wheel—it’s about me giving in. What’s the war, Lucius? You and God—what’s it really all about?”
Lucius’s eyes glinted, his patience lessening, the room’s ecstasy flickering. “You want the truth?” he said, his voice low, still pleasant but with a bite. “It’s a battle of faith versus rebellion. God runs on faith—your trust fuels Him, keeps you on His leash. I run on independence, on breaking free. You’ve resisted your whole life, Daryl—every bet, every lie. You’re halfway mine. Spin the wheel, and it’s done.”
Daryl’s heart raced, the realization burning through his doubt. His sins had cut him off, but faith could reconnect him. His mother’s voice echoed: “God’s mercy’s bigger than your mess.” “So I’m a pawn,” Daryl said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on Lucius’s. “But why are you able to materialize and be here and God can’t?” Daryl’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, “If God had just once came to me, I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Darly roared.
Lucius’s smile softened, his eyes warm again. “God needs your faith to reach you,” he said, his voice a friend’s promise. “You’ve got none left, Daryl. You’re a dead signal. I don’t need faith—I take what’s offered. Spin the wheel.” His grin widened, inviting. “You want truth? Okay, Daryl. There is no good, no evil—just what you make of it. Reality’s yours to shape. God’s worship is a cage of fear and suffering. A set of rules you’re supposed to follow. Look what He did to his own Son! I’m freedom, Daryl—pure, endless freedom.”
Daryl’s breath hitched, the desire a fire in his chest. No good or evil—just freedom. The wheel’s colors blazed, red like a lover’s promise, black like a dreamless sleep. He saw it: a penthouse, his sister’s smile, a world where he wrote the rules, no shame, no pain. His hand grazed the wheel, the hum a euphoric song, Lucius’s hypnotic sermon wrapping him like a brother’s embrace. He was so close to spinning, his fingers trembling, the promise of freedom dulling his doubt. If there was no good or evil, what did it matter? He could be anything.
But Lucius’s pitch was too perfect, his push too desperate. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard? Why the wheel, the hunger in his eyes? His mother’s voice cut through: “The devil’s a liar, Daryl. He’ll sell you freedom, but it’s chains.” “What’s eternity?” Daryl asked, his voice low, desperate, his hand still on the wheel. “If I spin, join you, what’s it like? What’s it cost me a million or trillion years from now?”
Lucius’s eyes sparked with intrigue, his smile amicable but curious. “Most don’t ask that, Daryl,” he said, his voice soft, impressed. “Eternity’s vast, beyond your mind’s grasp. A million years? You’ll be free—no rules, no judgment, just you, shaping reality forever. God’s eternity is worship, a slave’s life. Mine’s open, endless, yours.”
Daryl’s heart pounded, the temptation a blade in his chest. Freedom forever—no shame, no pain. His fingers tightened on the wheel, inches from spinning. “Who else?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Who’s with you? Who’s made this deal?”
Lucius chuckled, a soft, conspiratorial sound. “No names, Daryl. But you’d know them—most of Hollywood, the music industry, half the politicians running your world. They chose freedom. You can too.”
Daryl’s mind reeled, the scope chilling. But Lucius’s desperation was a tell. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard for his soul? “Free from what?” Daryl pressed, his voice hard, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If there’s no good or evil, what am I free from? God’s mercy? His love?”
Lucius’s smile twitched, his warmth flickering, the room’s euphoria dimming. “You’re clever,” he said, his voice low, a hint of ice beneath the care. “God’s love is a leash—worship or burn. I’m the open road. Spin the wheel, Daryl. Now.” The wheel’s hum became a scream, the colors pulsing like a heartbeat, the air charged but heavy.
Daryl’s hand trembled on the wheel, the temptation choking him. He was so close, despair whispering he was too far gone for God. But his mother’s words were louder: “Free will’s God’s gift, Daryl. It’s how you choose to love Him.” Lucius’s freedom was a lie—rebellion was just another cage. God’s mercy let him choose, even now, even after everything.
“I’m not spinning,” Daryl said, wrenching his hand back, his voice raw but firm. “Keep your wheel. I’m done.”
Lucius’s mask of concern vanished, his face hardening, eyes glinting like cold steel, his suit no longer shimmering but dark as a grave. The room’s colors dulled, the euphoria collapsing into dread, the wheel’s hum a dying rasp. “You’re good, Daryl,” he hissed, his voice a venomous snarl, his shadow stretching like claws. “But I’ll be back. You’re not free yet.” He snapped his fingers, and the roulette table vanished, leaving the motel room cold and silent.
Daryl stood frozen, his gaunt frame trembling in the stale motel air, the ghost of Lucius’s malice lingering like a sour itch in his throat. The roulette table was gone, the room’s colors dulled back to their grimy reality—peeling walls, a flickering lightbulb, the nightstand cluttered with a whiskey bottle and cigarettes. His heart pounded, despair and shame still clawing at him, but something had shifted. The appetite for gambling, the hunger that had devoured his life, was gone, replaced by a delicate clarity. Lucius was real, and so was God. His sins had cut him off, a line deadened by his own hands, making him a target for the devil’s game. But faith could rebuild that bridge, and he’d chosen—maybe for the first time—to reach for mercy instead of revolt.
He sank to his knees on the gritty carpet, his face wet with tears, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.” The words felt small, swallowed by the room’s heavy silence, but he meant them, a plea to a God he’d doubted, a God he’d thought was a lie. His hands trembled, his sunken eyes fixed on the floor, waiting for the emptiness to answer.
Then, a faint creak broke the silence. The grimy motel window, sealed shut with years of neglect, shuddered and cracked open an inch, letting in a warm breeze that brushed Daryl’s gaunt face like a gentle hand. The air carried a distant sound—a soft, clear chime of a church bell, faint but unmistakable, echoing from somewhere in the city’s sprawl. It was the same sound from his childhood, the bell from his mother’s church, ringing through Sunday mornings when she’d drag him to services he’d hated. The breeze stirred the room, rustling papers on the nightstand, and a shiver ran down Daryl’s spine, his skin prickling with goosebumps. It was just a breeze, just a bell—maybe a loose window, a church nearby—but the timing, the peace, the memory it carried felt like something more, a quiet answer that cut through his shame.
Lucius’s grin lingered in his mind, a vow of more battles. The road ahead was uncertain, the weight of his sins still heavy. But for now, Daryl had chosen, and that chime, that breeze, was enough to make him believe the line to God wasn’t dead.
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