died. That isn’t him anymore.” “Died?” Rosier repeated it quietly, because he didn’t know what that meant; he had never gone to Earth or eaten a fish or allowed a fruit to rot. He’d only ever known monotony, the reassurance of it. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want to. I want to speak to Lucifer.” “No. He’ll hurt you.” “Lucifer is my friend.” “He is no one’s friend anymore.”
