Wilhelm knows something about being trotted out like a show pony. He knows all about the publicity machine with which the rich and powerful are armed. Recognizing this distraction for what it is, he nods.

"They love an excuse for ceremonial bullshit, especially if they can slap it over something ugly," he says with a sardonic bite, hands shoved in his pockets. "Like a fucking band-aid."

As for Lucifer's offer...he's reluctant to admit how much he needs it. He can hardly sleep without slipping in over his head, drowning in nightmares. Creatures stalk him in the dark. Vines strangle him and festering lesions tear apart everyone he's ever cared about. He has already tried to ration his potion to make it last longer. Turns out, it only works if you take the full dose.

After a step or two, he settles on: "If...you don't want it, sure."

His casual shrug is as transparent as this whole affair.