NuLla-II-

Everyone but Gabriel joined the toast. The echo of clinking crystal had barely faded when the Old Man—his gaze as ancient as weathered stone—rested his hands upon the table.

His voice, frayed yet resolute, cut through the tension:

“I propose the next topic,” he said. “The catastrophe of Vesuvius upon Pompeii.” He added, a shadow of sorrow in his eyes, “The Earth’s judgment upon Mankind.”

Lucifer let out a low laugh, like the drumming of claws on marble.

“Ah, Pompeii!” he exclaimed. “A gala interrupted by the blind rage of nature. No one to blame. No gods, no armies. Just the perfect indifference of a volcano yawning over human vanity.”

The redhead, with a smile that seemed to lick its own lips, stretched her feline back.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” she mused. “A city surrendered to pleasure, to excess, to the flesh… frozen in its final orgasm of existence. What better monument to lust than those bodies twisted beneath the ash?”

The woman in the suit, cold as surgical steel, did not miss her opening.

“Pompeii wasn’t a punishment. It was statistics. Settling at the foot of an active volcano is a calculation error. And like every error, sooner or later, the bill comes due.”

Gabriel, taking another bite of his apple, spoke with a melancholic lilt.

“They weren’t evil. They were simply living. Loving, laughing, weeping… oblivious to the monster stalking them. Like all men. They didn’t deserve to die like that—buried alive, turned into statues of their own ignorance.”

Lucifer leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the table like a shroud.

“And who said death must be just?” he whispered. “Death is savage art. Vesuvius was a blind painter, and his masterpiece was sublime.”

The Old Man, sipping his lukewarm orange juice, added:

“Pompeii was a mirror. A reminder that nature does not belong to us. That beneath our cities, our temples, and our palaces, chaos is always dreaming.”

The redhead gave a sidelong smirk. “And sometimes… chaos wakes up hungry.”

The woman in the suit interlaced her fingers, thoughtful.

“If we analyze the pattern… Pompeii was not unique. Every human flourishing carries its own ruin within. Civilizations do not fall solely to external enemies. They fall because they ignore the tremor beneath their feet. Because they believe they are eternal.”

Lucifer, licking a finger as if tasting the very conversation, tossed a question into the air. His voice was the caress of a blade.

“So, my dears… what truly killed Pompeii: Vesuvius, or its own pride?”

Gabriel lowered his gaze. The Old Man closed his eyes. The redhead let out a sharp laugh. The woman in the suit barely smiled. The question hung suspended in the limbo, like eternal ash, offering no easy answer.

Lucifer reclined in his chair, his face bathed in an expression of pure delight, like a predator sated before a feast that hasn’t quite ended. His eyes, two crimson embers, wandered shamelessly over the women’s bodies.

First, they lingered on the redhead. Conscious of the fire she ignited, she raised her glass slowly, letting the wine slip over her full lips. Then, his gaze embraced the woman in the suit; though colder, she offered a faint, lopsided smile, allowing a spark of vanity to crack her armor.

Lucifer spoke then, in a voice of dark velvet.

“Was it not Eros who created man long before any god of justice?” he purred. “Are you not, delicious creatures, the living proof that temptation is more powerful than any commandment?”

The redhead laughed—a low, wet sound that drifted through the hall like poisonous perfume.

“Perhaps…” she whispered in a tone of promiscuous offering, “we ourselves are volcanoes, Lucifer. What does it matter if Pompeii burned? There are cities that burn every night between our legs.”

The woman in the suit, ever measured, merely watched Lucifer over the rim of her wine glass, accepting the game with more subtlety.

“Control is also a form of pleasure; you should know that better than anyone,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass, letting the insinuation flow through every gesture.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, reveling in the invisible combustion he had sparked.

But then, a crash.

Not of something physical, but an explosion of wrath. Gabriel stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the marble floor. His eyes, usually serene, were now blazes of indignation. His voice rose like a war trumpet:

“Enough!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Lucifer and the women. “Enough dancing around lust as if it were a god to be worshipped! Enough turning tragedy into a brothel disguised as philosophy!”

The redhead let out an indolent laugh. The woman in the suit arched an intrigued eyebrow. Lucifer simply smiled, like one watching a child throw a tantrum.

Gabriel stepped forward, trembling with rage.

“While Pompeii lay dying and buried, you celebrate the sadism and the misery hidden beneath the ash!” he spat, his voice breaking. “While humanity bleeds out, you turn every wound into a feast for your desire!”

Lucifer rose slowly, approaching Gabriel like a lover about to kiss his victim.

“What do you fear, Gabriel?” he whispered silkenly. “Do you fear recognizing that even you, pure as you claim to be, feel that tug between your legs when you see beauty corrupted?”

Gabriel, shaking, clenched his fists. Tears of fury and sorrow fell from his eyes—the look of one witnessing an angel’s fall from the highest heights.

The redhead leaned forward, offering a daring glimpse of her cleavage, inviting him to lose both his posture and his resolve.

“Come, Gabriel,” she said, licking her lips. “Let yourself be consumed. One last time, before you are dust.”

The woman in the suit, always in control, added with a malevolent half-smile:

“There are no equations to bypass desire, Gabriel. Only variables you ignore at your own peril.”

The Old Man, forgotten by all, barely sighed, watching how human nature—and not Vesuvius—was capable of leveling everything without the need for lava or ash.

The hall vibrated now with a primal electricity. The line between philosophy and flesh, between reason and instinct, had shattered into a thousand pieces. It was pure survival. The dinner in limbo had transformed into a battle of “souls.”

While the words still burned in the air, while the tension was felt in the body, the skin, and every breath… the Old Man cleared his throat.

A dry sound. Cutting. Like a crack of thunder in the middle of an orgy of lightning.

Everyone turned toward him, irritated and surprised, as if they had momentarily forgotten the sage still breathed among them. With the calm of a grave, the Old Man spoke:

“The ritual must continue,” he said, like one reading an eternal sentence. “It is time to vote again. One must leave this table. One must be forgotten.”

Gabriel, still panting, closed his eyes tight. Lucifer chuckled, licking the taste of confrontation from his lips. The women, each in her own style, settled into their chairs like patient predators.

The Old Man, unhurried, added: “Let us vote. Here. Now.”

A profound silence fell, heavy as lead.

The Old Man votes: His voice rang clear and implacable: “Lucifer. Not for his sin, but for his infinite pride.”

The Redheaded Woman votes: With a husky, provocative laugh, caressing her wine glass as if it were a phallic object: “Gabriel. His purity is an insult to this table.”

The Woman in the Suit votes: Calculating and ruthless: “Gabriel. His emotional weakness makes him an unstable element.”

Gabriel votes: Gritting his teeth, his eyes still flashing with anger, predicting the outcome: “Lucifer,” he spat violently. “For corrupting everything he touches.”

Lucifer votes: Toying with a roasted potato between his fingers, looking at no one: “Gabriel,” he murmured, as if commenting on the weather. “Too human for this conversation…”

The Tally: * Gabriel: 3 votes (Redhead, Woman in Suit, Lucifer)

• Lucifer: 2 votes (Old Man, Gabriel)

The Old Man nodded solemnly. The decision was sealed.

Gabriel fell to his knees, a stifled cry escaping his throat. Lucifer approached, resting a hand on his shoulder like one comforting a wounded child.

“See?” he whispered. “There is no place here for those who still believe in innocence.”

Gabriel stood up, his dignity intact but his soul shattered into countless shards. He said no word. He asked for no mercy. He did not curse. He simply walked toward the door open into the void.

Every step was an invisible lament that made the walls of limbo vibrate. Before crossing, he turned one last time, looking at them with immortal sadness:

“Someday… your banquets will also turn to dust.”

And he vanished into the shadow.

The chair remained empty. Upon the table before it, nothing but a bitten apple…

…"

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