A brief moment, where he might've felt something when the wolf goes sprawling: a pitiful yelp as blood splashes across the stairs, the walls. It's gone quick. The foremost thought on his mind is, he can gauge how Lucifer moves. That little flit. It's faster than even his eyes can track, but it reminds him of how wraiths flicker in and out.

He'd be more at home out in the vast snowy grounds. Tight corridors are a hindrance for any sword, no matter how skilled he is. This is where they are, though. He can work with it.

His feet slide against his will. He goes with it, using the momentum behind the force already dragging him to slam hard into Lucifer—maybe to pin him against the wall if he can. Earns a hole in his side for that, piercing just under his ribs. He expects the cold pain, leans into it, and in return his sword slips between them at the same time.

Lucifer might be toying. Geralt has no inclination to do the same. When he moves next, it's to slice that throat open: no words, no hesitation, not even a real acknowledgement that Lucifer's been talking at him. But for how fast a Witcher can be, he's still more mortal than he isn't.