Lucifer tells story of Devil ditching Hell for sunny Los Angeles. He opens a nightclub, because why not? Soon, he gets tangled in murder cases and teams up with LAPD. All while juggling his own issues. Angels, demons and all sorts of supernatural folks pop up. It’s got sharp dialogue and a fun spin on classic Lucifer.

Meet the villains from Lucifer

Marcus Pierce

Marcus is the kind of smooth-talking cop who secretly has a century-long grudge and, oh yeah, a murderous curse — which makes him equal parts charming and quietly terrifying. He loves order, long stretches of single-minded purpose, and watches old war movies when he’s feeling nostalgic (or is that just what he says?). There’s this tragic loneliness to him, like someone trying desperately to be normal but failing because, well, immortality and guilt are messy roommates. He’s both romantic and ruthlessly practical — will bring you flowers and then disappear for years, classic mixed bag.

Father Kinley

Father Kinley looks like a comforting priest until he doesn’t, and then he’s the kind of zealot who smiles as he rewrites everyone’s moral ledger — very charismatic, very dangerous. He preaches redemption but seems suspiciously obsessed with judgment (and maybe has a knife stashed in a confessional, not that anyone’s checked). There’s a weird tenderness in the way he cites scripture, like he actually believes it — or is just excellent at pretending — which is unnerving. Also, he has a soft spot for old hymnals and probably mispronounces Latin sometimes because he’s dramatic, not scholarly.

Pete

Pete is the lovably small-town guy who can seem harmlessly goofy and then turn unexpectedly sharp when pushed — loyal, salty, and somehow both fun and kind of tragic. He’s the kind of person who will tell a terrible joke at a funeral and then bail you out of a sticky situation at 2 a.m., usually by accident. He’s not above making dumb mistakes but genuinely tries to do right, and that stubborn decency gets him into trouble (and into your heart). Also, he swears he has a dog but sometimes calls it “she” and sometimes “it,” and I’m not sure what’s going on there.

Sinnerman

Sinnerman is the puppetmaster type — smooth, sinister, smiles like he knows the punchline to the universe’s worst joke and keeps selling you tickets. He trades in favors and debts like some ancient mob boss with a velvet robe, very patient, extremely dangerous, always ten steps ahead. There’s theatrical flair to him, like he’d kill you politely and then pour you tea, which somehow makes it worse. Also, he collects trivial things (old receipts? coins?) and will make you feel seen right before he ruins your life.

Dromos

Dromos is the quiet, almost clinical kind of villain — precise, ancient-feeling, and a bit like a chess player who never blinks. He gives off an air of “I’ve watched civilizations rise and fall” and then surprises you by caring about the tiny details, like the exact sharpening angle of a blade (odd hobby, I know). He doesn’t shout; he arranges things so you implode on cue, which is colder than yelling. Oh, and he hums to himself when thinking, which is either soothing or creepy depending on your life choices.

Goddess

Goddess (yes, literally) is bafflingly capricious and deeply human for someone who created worlds — maternal one minute, petulant the next, and always flamboyant. She wants affection and admiration but also autonomy and drama, like a diva who occasionally bakes cookies and then abandons the kitchen mid-bake. There’s this childlike vulnerability wrapped in cosmic entitlement, and it’s oddly sympathetic even when she’s being selfish. Also, she has a habit of rearranging furniture to suit her mood, which feels petty and perfect.

Maze

Maze is chaos with a leather jacket — lethal, fierce, and deeply loyal in her own brutally honest way. She’ll gut you and then bring you a sandwich, honestly, and she cares with tiny, offbeat gestures that are almost painfully sincere. Maze oscillates between giddy violence and awkward tenderness, like someone learning feelings and hoarding them in a very secure place. She collects sharp objects and also gossip, which makes her both dangerous and weirdly entertaining at parties.

Michael

Michael is Lucifer’s mirror-twin but colder, with a smirk that says he’s already plotted three moves ahead and maybe rewritten your entire backstory for sport. He’s clever, manipulative, and loves the idea of order so much he’ll impose it by whatever means necessary — emotional warfare included. There’s a smug politeness to him (tea, suits, the whole package) that makes his cruelty feel almost… cultured. Occasionally he’ll do something absurdly thoughtful, like leave a perfectly folded note, which makes you question everything.

Dan Espinoza

Dan is gruff, stubbornly human, and has the kind of moral compass that snaps and then slowly mends — he can be painfully righteous and also petty as sin. He’s the ex-husband/dad/cop archetype who drinks too much coffee and carries guilt like a second wallet, but he’ll walk into danger for people he barely likes. Sometimes he’s infuriatingly simple with his pride, and sometimes he surprises you with a quiet courage that’s actually kind of glorious. Also, he has a weird soft spot for bad donuts and probably cries in the car sometimes, don’t tell anyone.

Uriel

Uriel is terrifyingly earnest — the angel who thinks the universe is a problem to be solved and is not above smashing a few things to make it tidy. He’s laser-focused on “rightness” and becomes scary because he can’t fathom nuance; everything is black, white, and righteous wrath. There’s a strange warmth to him too, like a tutor who really believes he’s helping, which makes his violence feel even more unsettling. Also, he collects pocket watches or something old-fashioned (time obsessed? very on-brand), which I find creepy-cute.