Violet or Violent?

by VISYPMATHETIC

Summary:

Vi falls in a portal that leads to a different universe, her whole life changing as she encounters many heavy challenges to her in a world where she is the only misfit.

Chapter 1: Taste what fell from grace.

Vi and Caitlyn took a hesitant step forward, their eyes fixed on the tragic figure before them. The Zaunite girl, once an emblem of innocence, now stood transformed by the ravages of time and circumstance. In her trembling arms, she clutched an enormous weapon, its shape resembling a fierce shark. The weapon seemed almost an extension of her rage, as if it too shared in her sorrow and fury. She screamed in a voice filled with grief and anger, tears cascading down her cheeks as she fired the weapon at the so-called "City of Progress."

Caitlyn's heart raced as she shouted, pushing Vi away in a desperate bid to protect her mother's life. Vi's gaze darted between Caitlyn and her sister, Jinx, whose eyes now glowed an eerie pink. The transformation was undeniable—Powder, the sweet girl Vi once knew, was gone. Overcome with emotion, Vi wept, her tears mingling with the dust and debris around her. She watched Caitlyn run, her boots pounding the ground, each step a drumbeat of despair.

The explosion at the councilor's tower reverberated through the air, shaking the very ground beneath them. Vi called out to Caitlyn, her voice breaking with urgency, but the enforcer turned, her weapon drawn and aimed at Vi.

"Don't come any closer, Zaunite," Caitlyn commanded, her voice trembling with both rage and sorrow. Tears streamed down her face as she glared at Vi, her grip on the gun unsteady. "My mother is dead because of you people." Her words were a knife to Vi's heart, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Vi shook her head, her own tears blurring her vision. "Caitlyn, please, listen to me," she pleaded, extending her arms in a gesture of desperation. Her heart felt as if it were being crushed. "We can work this out, you and me. Please, don't leave me." Her voice cracked under the weight of her sorrow. "Please," she repeated, her eyes searching Caitlyn's for any sign of forgiveness.

Caitlyn's expression hardened, her eyes dark with anger. "I never want to see you again," she spat, wiping away her tears with a fierce swipe of her hand. She turned and walked into the thickening fog, her silhouette quickly swallowed by the mist.

Vi fell to her knees, her screams echoing in the desolate space around her. She clawed at her head, her cries a raw manifestation of her anguish. "Caitlyn, please! Don't leave me!" she shouted, her voice hoarse and broken. "I need you, please!" Her sobs racked her body, each one a convulsion of pain. She scratched at her chest, the physical pain a mere shadow of the torment in her heart. Rolling on the ground, she dug her fingers into the wound Sevika had inflicted, the pain a perverse comfort.

For a moment, Vi lay there, her body a trembling heap of sorrow. Then, with great effort, she pushed herself to her feet, using the debris for support. Her eyes, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed empty and hollow. She moved forward in a daze, her steps unsteady, the blood from her open wound staining her hoodie.

She wandered through the ruins until she came upon a set of stairs leading down into the undercity. The air grew thicker with fog and dust, making it difficult to breathe and see. Her lungs burned with each inhale, her vision blurred by the swirling particles.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her ears. She hissed and clamped her hands over them, shaking her head in a futile attempt to dispel the noise. "What the..." she muttered, her voice barely audible over the ringing. Driven by some instinct, she stumbled towards the source of the sound. The closer she got, the less painful the noise became, guiding her like a beacon through the murk.

She emerged from the fog to find herself standing before a massive hole in the ground, its size dwarfing anything she had seen before. The hole was pitch black, a void that seemed to swallow all light, yet the edges glowed with strange hues of red, purple, and pink, casting an eerie illumination on her face.

Peering into the abyss, she tried to listen for any clues. The high-pitched ringing had subsided, replaced by an unsettling silence. Suddenly, she felt hands shove her from behind, and she gasped, her body pitched forward into the darkness. She twisted mid-air, catching a glimpse of a shadowy figure in black before she began her descent.

Tears streamed from her eyes as the cold enveloped her. Who had pushed her? And why? Panic gripped her heart. Was this the end? How long would she fall?

As she plummeted, her surroundings blurred into a surreal vision. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself sitting in a chair, facing Vander. His presence was a balm to her soul, even if it was just an illusion.

"I'm sorry... that I was a bad kid," she whispered, her voice thick with regret. Vander's hands, cool but comforting, enveloped hers.

"You did nothing but be a great sister to Powder. You have a good heart; don't ever lose that," he said, his voice steady and reassuring.

Suddenly, the chair tipped backward, and Vi felt the wind rush past her as she fell again. Vander's hand slipped from hers, and she reached out desperately, but he grew smaller and smaller as she descended. "Vander..." she murmured, her voice a fragile thread.

She fell for what felt like an eternity, the void around her endless and suffocating. After what seemed like 24 hours, she awoke to find herself still falling, but now from the sky. The ground rushed up to meet her, and she braced herself, watching the cities welcoming her.

 

Vi gasped and screamed in terror as she fell, twisting her body to glimpse the rapidly approaching surface below. Frantically, she tried to maneuver herself through the air, aiming for the ocean. The sky around her was an ominous red, and the landscape below was dotted with cities far more advanced than anything she had ever seen. Confusion muddled her thoughts—how had she ended up here? Her screams echoed in the empty sky as she flailed her gauntlet-clad arms, attempting to steer herself toward a safe landing. The weight of her weapons made it nearly impossible, but she fought against gravity's pull with every ounce of strength she had.

As she neared the ground, the ocean loomed beneath her, its dark waters mixed with some kind of thick, muddy substance. The impact sent shockwaves through her body, but the mud softened the blow. She kept her eyes tightly shut, certain she was dead. After a moment, she cautiously opened them, finding herself still alive but drenched in the black, viscous liquid. Weakly, she struggled to her feet, the mud and water clinging to her as she swam towards the nearest landmass.

Reaching the shore, she collapsed onto the wet sand, only to feel a sharp pain in her knee. She hissed in agony, realizing she had knelt on a sea urchin. Grimacing, she used a nearby rock to dislodge the spiny creature, her frustration mingling with her pain. "Where am I? Is this the undercity?" she muttered through gritted teeth, the throbbing in her knee almost unbearable.

"Fuck!" she cursed loudly, forcing herself to stand. She leaned heavily on a nearby palm tree for support, her body shaking as she limped forward. "Oh god, oh my god. How am I alive?" she wondered aloud, her voice trembling. She touched her face, feeling the grime and oil that coated her skin. She was completely soaked in the filthy, black water, resembling a survivor of an oil spill disaster.

Her surroundings were surreal—a bizarre mix of familiar and alien elements. The cities she had seen from above were nowhere in sight, replaced by a dense, unyielding jungle. Strange, luminescent plants cast an eerie glow, illuminating her path as she stumbled forward. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of decay, making each breath a struggle.

Vi continued her unsteady journey, her mind racing with questions. The sky above her remained an unnatural red, casting a blood-like hue over everything. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had been transported to another world entirely. Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of machinery—a low, rhythmic hum that sent a shiver down her spine.

Determined to find answers, Vi pressed on, using the strange plants and occasional trees for support. Every step was a battle against her own exhaustion and the pain radiating from her injured knee. She gritted her teeth, refusing to give in to the overwhelming sense of hopelessness threatening to engulf her.

After calming herself down, she emerged from the dense foliage into a clearing. Ahead of her stood a massive, futuristic city, its towering structures illuminated by neon lights. The architecture was unlike anything she had ever seen, a blend of sleek metal and organic forms that seemed to pulse with life. She stared in awe, her earlier confusion giving way to a mix of wonder and dread.

"I need to go back home." she whispered to herself, the sight both mesmerizing and intimidating. She knew she had to find a way inside, to seek out anyone who could explain where she was and how she had gotten here.

Gathering her remaining strength, Vi limped towards the city, her determination renewed. She had survived the fall, the ocean, and the jungle—she would survive whatever lay ahead. With each step, she grew more resolved to uncover the truth, to find a way back to her own world, and to make sense of the chaos that had thrown her life into disarray.

As she approached the city's gates, the hum of machinery grew louder, blending with the sounds of a bustling metropolis. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever challenges awaited her inside. She had come this far, and she wasn't about to give up now.

Vi panted heavily, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she brushed her matted hair back from her sweaty forehead. Her eyes darted around the unfamiliar landscape until they settled on a small house in the distance. Nearby, a box overflowing with fruits caught her attention. Summoning what little strength she had left, she stumbled towards it, barely managing to hop over the fence before collapsing to her knees. A weak grunt escaped her lips as she hissed in pain, her body protesting every movement.

Determined, she dragged herself across the ground, inching closer to the box. When she finally reached it, she grabbed a piece of fruit, bringing it to her nose to sniff it cautiously before taking a bite. The sweet, juicy flesh provided a momentary respite from her exhaustion and hunger.

Unbeknownst to her, the house's owner, a small, mischievous imp, had been watching her intrude upon her property. Silently, the imp crept up behind Vi, her beady eyes glinting with irritation. She hefted his shovel, raising it high above her head. With a swift, sideways swing, she brought the shovel crashing down on the side of Vi's head. She barely had time to register the movement, yelling in pain.

Vi screamed, dropping the apple as she collapsed sideways, clutching her head. Through her blurred vision, she saw an imp standing over her. This creature was red-skinned, with curling horns protruding from its forehead, and had a distinctly demonic appearance. Panic surged through her, and she let out another scream, narrowly dodging the next swing of the imp's shovel.

"A human? What is a human doing here?!" the imp shouted, its voice a mix of shock and anger. It raised the shovel again, ready to strike.

"W-wait! Please, don't kill me!" Vi cried, scrambling to her feet and putting her hands up in a desperate plea. "I don't know where I am and I need your help!" Her voice trembled with fear and confusion as she sidestepped another vicious swing of the shovel, the imp's frustration evident in its snarling face.

Vi's mind raced, searching for a way to escape or reason with this bizarre, demonic creature that seemed intent on ending her life. Vi's eyes darted around in desperation until they landed on a heavy piece of wood lying on the ground. She immediately grabbed it, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip.

"It seems your death wasn't enough, you filthy sinner," the imp taunted, a sinister giggle escaping her lips. "Let me help you with that." The imp's giggle morphed into a crazed laugh as she charged at Vi, her shovel held high, ready to strike a fatal blow.

Adrenaline surged through Vi's veins.

She sprinted to the side, narrowly evading the imp's attack, and with a primal yell, she swung the piece of wood with all her strength. The impact was solid, the sound of the blow echoing through the air. Vi didn't stop. Fueled by fear and survival instinct, she struck the imp again and again, her movements wild and desperate. She hit every part of the imp's body, her own cries mingling with the sickening thuds of the wood meeting flesh.

Finally, the imp lay silent. Vi's breath came in ragged gasps, her arms trembling from the exertion. She dropped to her knees, turning the imp's body over with shaking hands.

The lifeless eyes stared back at her, but it was the imp's stomach that caught Vi's attention. It was unnaturally round and hard, clearly not fat. Vi's eyes widened in horror as she put a hand to her mouth, stumbling backward. She used the piece of wood for support, her mind reeling from the realization. "N-no, I... No!" she choked out, tears welling up in her eyes. The weight of what she had done settled heavily in her chest, guilt intertwining with her relief at surviving the attack.

Vi looked at the imp's lifeless body, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She hadn't noticed the two casual imps strolling along the sidewalk until they stopped to see what had happened. The imps' eyes widened in shock as they took in the scene. They resembled humans, clad in everyday clothes, but their red skin, horns, and tails set them apart. They even had hair. This sight was bizarre to Vi; she had never seen anything like it in Piltover or the Undercity. Dropping the wooden plank, she locked eyes with them.

"Uh, I think that's a human," one of the imps said, pointing at her. Panic surged through Vi, and without a second thought, she sprinted towards the fence. She vaulted over it with ease, hitting the ground running as the imps pulled out their phones and started after her.

"Wait for us! We aren't gonna kill you!" they yelled, but Vi didn't slow down. Her heart pounded in her chest as she barged into what appeared to be a beauty salon. The interior was brightly lit, and every single patron inside was an imp. They all stopped and stared at her, one of them gasping in surprise. Vi's eyes darted around the room as she started to back away, then turned and bolted out the door.

She burst into the street, causing cars to slam on their brakes, the screeching tires echoing around her. Vehicles collided in a cacophony of crunching metal as drivers gaped at her in shock. "Where the hell am I?!" she screamed, backing away from the chaos before turning and continuing her frantic escape.

She darted into the alleyways, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, her hands scraping against the filthy pavement. She could feel the grit and grime embedding itself into her skin. Pain flared from the wound on her stomach, making her whimper. She forced herself to her feet, clutching at the barrels beside her for support. One of the barrels toppled over, revealing a metal trapdoor underneath.

Curiosity mixed with desperation as she heard the imps' footsteps growing closer. She heaved the trapdoor open and slipped inside, pulling it shut above her. She panted heavily, her breaths echoing in the confined space. Suddenly, she started sliding down a slick, foul-smelling tunnel. The stench made her gag, and she let out a scream as she hurtled downward.

The tunnel seemed endless, but eventually, she was ejected from its end, plummeting from a great height. She landed hard on a mountain of trash, the impact sending a jolt of pain through her body. She rolled off the heap, only to feel a sharp metal debris stab into her side. She screamed, her back arching in agony. Tears sprang to her eyes as she lay there, panting and bleeding, surrounded by the stench and filth of the garbage.

"Oh God! N-no! No!!" Vi's voice cracked as she shook her head, tears streaming down her face. The metal debris had pierced the same wound Sevika had inflicted, sending waves of excruciating pain through her body. She screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the cavernous space.

Desperation took hold as she gripped the object embedded in her flesh, her fingers slick with blood.

"A-ah, fuck!" she yelled, shaking her head as she braced herself. With a final, agonized cry, she yanked the metal free, dropping it immediately. Blood gushed from the wound, and she collapsed onto her hands and knees, one hand clutching at her side.

"God, please, help me! I want my mom, please," she mumbled through sobs, her voice barely a whisper. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand, using the grimy walls for support. She surveyed her surroundings, realizing the sheer scale of the place. It was enormous, reminiscent of an abandoned arena, with towering piles of trash and debris strewn about. "What is this? Some sort of junk site?" she wondered aloud, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness.

Carefully, she picked her way through the detritus, each step sending jolts of pain through her wounded abdomen. The stench of rotting garbage was overpowering, making her gag. Her eyes scanned the walls, noting the faded markings, symbols, and arrows that suggested the place had once been a bustling workplace. But now, it was desolate and eerily silent, save for her own labored breathing.

Vi stumbled upon an old, rusted sign partially buried under the rubble. She pulled it free, wiping away the grime to reveal the faded letters. It was difficult to make out, but it confirmed her suspicion that this had once been an organized facility. She let the sign drop and continued her cautious exploration, hoping to find something -anything that could help her understand where she was and how to get out.

The walls loomed high above her, their surfaces pockmarked and scarred. The floor was littered with broken machinery and discarded tools, remnants of a bygone era.

Every step was a struggle, her vision blurring as the pain threatened to overwhelm her. But she pressed on, driven by sheer willpower and the hope of finding an escape from this nightmarish place.

Blitzo lounged in his office chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he scrolled through his phone. With a bored expression, he rested his head on his hand, his elbow propped up on the table. His eyes glazed over the screen until a news flash caught his attention.

"A human? That's such fake news," he scoffed, disdain evident in his voice. With a casual flick of his wrist, he spat out the gum he had been chewing, the wad sailing through the air before landing perfectly in the trash can across the room.

Before he could settle back into his ennui, a knock sounded at the door, interrupting his solitude. Blitzo rolled his eyes, reluctantly setting his phone aside. "Come in," he called out, his voice tinged with lazy annoyance.

In stepped Moxxie, his posture tense with apprehension. "Uhm, boss?" he stammered, wringing his hands nervously. "We have a new client."

Blitzo sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as if already anticipating the headache to come. "Great," he muttered under his breath, motioning for Moxxie to continue.

As Moxxie ushered the client into the room, Blitzo's eyes narrowed slightly. The man was clad in casual clothing, but the dark stains of dried blood marred his appearance, sending a shiver down Blitzo's spine. The air in the room grew thick with tension as the client took a hesitant seat, his gaze locked on Blitzo with an intensity that made the demon uneasy.

"Alright, sir, what seems to be the issue?" Moxxie's voice wavered slightly as he addressed the client, trying to diffuse the palpable discomfort that hung in the air like a heavy fog.

The man's voice reverberated through the office, filled with raw anguish and seething anger. His eyes bore into Blitzo, accusing and desperate all at once. "A human killed my wife," he declared, each word dripping with venom.

Blitzo leaned back in his chair, his expression incredulous. "And who is your wife? I mean, if you're her husband and she's your wife, wouldn't you both be in hell?" he retorted, his tone laced with skepticism. But the man's response was swift and furious, his fist slamming against the table with a resounding thud.

"It didn't happen on Earth. It happened here," the man seethed, his voice cracking with emotion. "A human killed my wife and my baby!" His words echoed in the room, the weight of his grief heavy in the air. Tears streaked down his face, leaving tracks of despair in their wake.

Blitzo exchanged a wary glance with Moxxie, his mind racing to comprehend the impossibility of the situation. "Okay, sir, calm down," Moxxie interjected, his voice soothing but tinged with uncertainty. "Are you sure this person was a human? It's extremely impossible for a human to enter without dying."

But the man was adamant, his conviction unshakeable. "I'm not joking! The human had pink hair! She was white and around 5'7 tall!" he insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. Moxxie pressed for evidence, and the man wasted no time in producing his phone, fingers trembling as he scrolled through social media posts.

"It's her! This human here!" he exclaimed, thrusting the phone towards Blitzo. As Blitzo examined the image, his breath caught in his throat. "Holy shit," he murmured, his mind racing with disbelief. Handing the phone back to the man, Blitzo struggled to make sense of the surreal situation unfolding before him.

"I don't care! Find the bitch that killed my family!" the man roared, his grief morphing into rage. Before Blitzo could respond, Moxxie intervened, tapping him on the shoulder with a nervous glance. "We'll head right onto work," Moxxie promised, his voice tinged with apprehension.

As the client stormed out of the office, Blitzo turned to Moxxie, a furrow forming between his brows. "Moxxie, are you sure this man isn't high?" he questioned, his disbelief mirrored in his tone. But Moxxie could only shrug helplessly, the weight of their new assignment settling heavily on both of their shoulders.

"Well, his eyes tell the truth. And it's all over the news, haven't you seen it?" Moxxie's voice was tinged with urgency as he glanced at Blitzo, who sighed and shook his head in response. "No, not at all," Blitzo admitted, his brow furrowing with concern.

With a determined stride, Blitzo rose from his chair and made his way to the meeting room, where the other employees of the I.M.P. were gathered. "Alright, everybody, it seems that we have an angelic problem here," he announced, his voice commanding attention. "A 'human' managed to enter hell, but according to the news, I don't think she's truly human."

As Blitzo turned on the TV to showcase the broadcast, Millie exchanged a worried glance with Moxxie, her expression tense with apprehension. She wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace as Blitzo's gaze swept over the room. "Pay attention, you cunts," he snapped, his tone sharp and authoritative.

Millie couldn't help but voice her doubts. "Don't you think those photos could be edited?" she queried, her voice laced with skepticism. Blitzo shook his head dismissively. "No, not really. It isn't possible for a human to enter hell, but it is possible for an angel to disguise themselves as a human to be able to come down." he explained, his tone matter-of-fact.

Moxxie chimed in, his voice tinged with sadness. "Apparently, this angel killed our client's wife and kid, which is unfortunate. And we know humans can't harm us beings," he added, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the revelation.

Millie cut to the chase, her voice edged with impatience. "Well, what's the plan, Blitzo?" she inquired, her eyes searching his face for answers. Blitzo paused, placing a finger on his chin as he tapped his foot on the ground in contemplation. After a moment of thought, he began to pace around the room, his mind working overtime.

"Nobody mentioned where this angel ran into, but perhaps we can... well, hmmm..." Blitzo trailed off, lost in thought. "They're in hell, and this incident occurred in this ring, so we can simply search every area," he concluded, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "This might just be the easiest job," he chuckled, grabbing a map of the Wrath Ring and methodically crossing out every potential hiding spot where Vi could be lurking.

"I wonder just how violent we can get with this human."

Chapter 2: Notice by Power

Summary:

Vi encounters a powerful being who wants to help her.

Stolas clicked his pen thoughtfully, its metallic echo filling the quiet of his study. He stared at the letter before him, the parchment stark and expectant beneath his hand. This wasn't just any letter-it was a formal response to King Lucifer himself. Every word had to be exact, polished, dignified. He began to write, the ink trailing in elegant swirls under his careful hand.

"Oh! What an honor to be invited to the Overlord Gathering, King Lucifer," he penned with a flourish. "I am truly delighted to be chosen by you, and I guarantee that I will propose additional food for everyone to enjoy." He paused, pen tip hovering just above the parchment, and considered if there were better words than guarantee. Something more refined? He tapped his chin with his finger, then shook his head gently, deciding it would do. He signed the letter in his flowing script: Yours truly, Stolas Goetia. 09 | 08.

Letting out a soft sigh, he picked up the letter and reread it for the sixth time, eyes scanning for any flaw, any misspelled word. "Is it too short of a response?" he muttered to himself. Still, he folded it carefully, slid it into a deep red envelope, and sealed it shut with precision. He handed it to one of his servants with a curt nod. "Deliver this to the postal worker. Tell him to handle it with utmost care. It's going to King Lucifer." The servant nodded obediently and departed at once.

In a nearby room, Octavia sat curled up in her chair, her earphones in, music drowning out the world around her. She tapped her fingers to the beat before eventually rising, heading toward the stairs to join the rest of the household for breakfast. Downstairs, Stella-her mother and Stolas' ex-wife-was already seated at the long dining table, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had caused so much discomfort.

The servants moved efficiently, laying out plates and pouring drinks. Stolas and Octavia entered the dining room and took their places. As always, Stolas sat at one end of the table, and Stella at the other. They exchanged tense stares across the silverware and porcelain.

Stella's smirk was thin and cutting. "So," she began with a falsely sweet tone, "how are you doing? Still fucking around with that pathetic imp?" Her words dripped venom, and Stolas felt the all-too-familiar wave of irritation rise within him. His jaw tightened.

"He saved my life," he said flatly. "So keep his name out of your filthy mouth. I've already made an exception by letting you stay in this palace. Say one more thing and you're out."

Stella went quiet, lips pressing into a line, though her glare never left him. Octavia, headphones still in, turned up the volume even higher. She didn't need to hear the words-they'd all been said before. Again and again. Ever since she was a little girl. Now, as a teenager, she found herself caring less and less about their endless, bitter arguments.

"I'm done feasting," Stella said abruptly, standing up. A servant whisked her empty plate away as she walked off, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Stolas watched her go with an expression of equal parts exhaustion and contempt. Why had he ever allowed her back into his home?

He finished his food in silence, his daughter beside him, still lost in her music, her eyes distant. No conversation. Just quiet company.

Later, Stolas returned to his study. The room was dim and peaceful until the sudden ring of his phone shattered the stillness. He jumped slightly, startled, then hurried over to answer. "Hello?" he said, clearing his throat.

A familiar voice came through the line. "Uhm, yeah. Stolas? I need your help with something-" It was unmistakably Blitzo, his tone rushed but tinged with concern.

"But before that," Blitzo continued, "how are you doing? It's been a few days since you got out of the hospital."

"I've been alright," Stolas replied, trying to sound composed. "Some chest pains, but nothing too concerning. Thank you for asking. What is it you need my help with?"

In the background, Stolas could hear the faint shuffling of feet and whispering. Blitzo glanced back at Moxxie and Millie before continuing. "Okay, so... since you've got the book and can pretty much take us anywhere, do you think you could do that for us?"

"That depends," Stolas said carefully, plucking a stray feather from his robe. "What exactly are you trying to do?"

"Well, we got word that there's a human who killed someone's wife. But the thing is... the human's in Hell. In the Wrath Ring."

Stolas barked a laugh. "That's absurd! A living human in Hell? Someone probably made a mistake in the system. Maybe a soul that didn't convert yet-give it a few days, it'll look like an imp!"

"That's not how it works-" Blitzo started.

Moxxie jumped in. "So what did he say?"

"Shut the fuck up, Moxxie! I haven't said anything yet!" Blitzo snapped, his voice peaking loud enough for Stolas to hear clearly. Moxxie retreated with an audible sigh.

"We'll discuss this more when I arrive," Stolas said eventually, chuckling awkwardly.

"Alright, see you soon," Blitzo said, ending the call. He turned to his team. "He didn't say yes. Not yet. We'll have to talk to him in person."

__________________

Elsewhere, Vi stirred from a restless sleep, groaning as she felt a pillow hit her face. "Vi! Wake up!" Powder chirped, bouncing excitedly beside her. Vi groaned again, burying her face in the bed. "I'm too tired, Powder," she mumbled. Powder giggled and jumped off, shouting about breakfast and playtime. Vi sighed and sat up, brushing her tangled hair out of her face. They headed downstairs together.

"Good morning, you two," their mother greeted, placing a kiss on each of their foreheads. The scent of buttered bread wafted through the air, warm and comforting. Vi took a bite, chewing lazily. Powder looked at her and began eating too.

"Did you scare your sister again, Vi?" their mother asked casually. Vi paused mid-chew and frowned.

"What?"

"You're scaring her," their mother said again.

Then she turned, revealing blood dripping down her forehead. Vi blinked in horror. The bread on her plate began spurting blood. "You ruined her," her mother said.

"No! I didn't!" Vi stood up, slamming her fists into the table. Blood dripped from her lips. "I'm not a jinx!" Powder screamed. Their mother's scream grew louder. Jinx-older, darker-pushed Vi into an endless black pit.

"You let this happen," Vander's voice echoed in the dark.

Vi woke with a gasp, pain shooting through her abdomen. Rats and cockroaches feasted on her exposed wound. She screamed, swiping at them, then spotted a water bottle nearby. She grabbed it, twisting the lid and pouring its contents over the wound, hissing as the liquid stung. She whimpered, then looked up at the sewer exit near the ceiling.

“How the hell am I supposed to get out of here? I’m gonna starve to death.”

Vi’s voice was hoarse, worn thin with exhaustion and a creeping edge of panic. She paced restlessly, her eyes scanning the dark, reeking space she was trapped in. It felt like a tomb, one made of rust, garbage, and forgotten things. Then an idea sparked—desperate, reckless. She turned toward the mountain of trash and began to climb, limbs trembling as she scrambled over rotting food wrappers, busted electronics, and broken furniture. At the top, she looked up at the exit: a distant hole far too high. Still, she bent her knees, breathing hard, and with a loud yell, launched herself upward.

Her body smacked the ground a second later. She cried out, gasping as the pain from her stomach wound flared violently. Panting heavily, she pressed a hand against her side, blood seeping through the makeshift bandages. But she didn’t stop. She forced herself back up, stubborn fire in her eyes, and began climbing again.

Each step on the heap threatened to collapse under her weight, and she gagged at the stench rising from beneath her feet. She climbed higher, ignoring the dizziness and pain. She jumped again, arms outstretched—and this time, her fingers just barely caught the edge of the exit slide. It was slick. She held on, groaning, her arms shaking as she fought to keep herself from falling. But the metal betrayed her, and with a pained cry, she slipped and slammed back to the concrete below.

Again. And again.

Each time she tried, she fell. Her hands burned, her knees scraped raw. Finally, she gave up and slid down against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A rat scuttled near a pile of trash, facing her with quiet, beady eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Vi muttered, voice cracking with bitterness.

The rat darted away.

Curious or maybe just desperate for something to do, Vi pushed herself off the wall and followed. As she trudged behind it, the darkness around her began to open into something bigger—an even larger underground chamber. Just as she was wondering where the rat was leading her, her foot kicked something. A stack of old wood crashed loudly to the side, making her flinch. But then, right in front of her, she saw it.

A ladder.

She stepped back, staring up at the looming structure vanishing into the shadows above. She couldn’t see what was at the top, but it had to lead somewhere. Hope, thin and trembling, stirred inside her chest. She approached slowly, setting her hands on the cold, rusted metal. It creaked under her grip. But she didn’t hesitate. Vi placed her foot on the first rung and began to climb.

The ladder groaned with each shift of her weight. She moved slowly, every muscle in her body taut with fear. About halfway up, she noticed one of the screws holding the joints together was loose—dangerously so. But there was no time, and no choice. She kept going. Then, without warning, one of the steps gave way beneath her foot, breaking free and crashing to the ground far below.

Vi gasped and flailed, barely catching herself.

“Shit,” she hissed through her teeth. Her heart pounded wildly. Still, she climbed.

She didn’t stop until she reached the top, where a heavy metal trapdoor waited. She pressed against it, but it didn’t move. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, both hands shoving upward while her boots braced against the last rung. With a metallic groan, the door began to give way.

Then everything went wrong.

The moment the hatch opened, the weakened ladder beneath her splintered. Vi screamed as the rungs gave way, but her fingers caught the edge of the trapdoor. Her entire weight now hung from her arms, the door slamming down on her fingers. Pain shot through her hand like lightning. Tears welled up in her eyes as she screamed, helplessly swinging. She looked down, panic rising in her throat—and spotted a pipe just beneath her, slick with steaming liquid.

No time to think.

She lowered herself, knees trembling, and landed hard on the hot pipe. It singed the skin on her legs through her pants, but she grit her teeth and ignored it. With her head, she shoved against the trapdoor one more time, burning her knee on the scalding pipe as she finally forced it open.

Vi pulled herself up with a pained growl, dragging her body through the opening until she collapsed on the cold concrete surface above. Her limbs shook violently. Her face pressed to the floor, sweat and blood mingling as she panted. The open air hit her like a wave—dry, dirty, but open. She didn’t even have the energy to smile.

She was out. Not safe. Not healed. But finally, out.

The sky above was red, ominous and vast. She turned her face to it, panting, the breeze hitting her like a whisper of freedom. She sat up, confused, hurting, yet alive. The ladder was gone-destroyed in her climb. She found a path down the hill, slippery and steep. With careful steps, she tested the ground. Then the rats returned. One bit her leg. More followed. She slipped, tumbled, rolled down the hill, pain slicing across her skin from rocks and sharp edges.

When she finally reached the bottom, she crawled to a tree and forced herself upright. She saw the city. Chaos. Fire. Imps gambling and laughing. She stayed to the shadows. Until someone saw her.

"It's the human from the 666 News!" one yelled.

Vi ran. Cars screeched. One nearly hit her. The husband of the woman she'd killed appeared, gun in hand. "I found you," he growled.

But then-Stolas appeared. He disarmed the man and turned his weapon to stone. "Let me handle this," he said. Vi panicked, backing up.

"I— I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Please."

Stolas studied her. "Silence, human. I thought you were a myth. But now... I see the truth."

She trembled. "Where am I?"

"In the middle of the road. In Hell."

He led her to the car, told the driver to head for the palace. In the vehicle, Vi looked around in confusion. "What kind of place is this?"

"One of the layers of Hell," Stolas explained. "Now tell me-how are you here? You're alive, aren't you?"

Vi told him everything. The pit. The woman. The gauntlets. The killing.

Stolas frowned. "That's impossible. A human can't harm demons."

"I didn't mean to," she said. "I was defending myself."

He looked at her curiously. "You sure you're not an angel?"

Vi scoffed. "Do I look like one?"

Blitzo and the others searched for her, unaware that Stolas had already taken her in the palace. Meanwhile, Stolas led Vi into his home, telling her to wait while he fetched a medic. Octavia saw her. Something felt wrong. A deep itch in her mind.

"Who is she?" she asked.

"Vi," her father replied.

Octavia didn't like her. Something about her was wrong. She attacked. Vi defended. They fought. Vi tried to stop her, pinning her down.

Over and over again, a chair being continuously slammed against poor Octavia by Vi— an impulse of fear, anger and confusion.

Then the doors burst open. Blitzo, Moxxie, Millie, the husband. Chaos.

"She's an angel!" Blitzo shouted.

"Take her," Stolas ordered.

But the husband stepped in. "Don't kill her."

"She deserves worse," Stolas agreed. "Let her suffer."

He took out his phone and called someone.

__________________

A shadowy figure lounged in a smoky room, fur draped over his shoulders. He chuckled. "Vi," he said. "What a simple name."

"She'll make a fine worker for us."

Chapter 3: Novocaine, Never same

Summary:

Vi finds a way to stop the pain.

A tranquilizer dart pierced her neck, embedding itself right over the inked gear tattoo that curled across her skin. Vi blinked in confusion, her muscles beginning to slow as if her body was no longer hers. Her vision doubled, then tripled-colors blurring, shapes merging-and an overwhelming dizziness crashed over her like a wave. Her knees gave out, and she crumpled helplessly to the floor, her head turning to one side as her eyelids fluttered shut. Within moments, she was pulled into the thick, heavy haze of unconsciousness, her breath shallow and chest rising in slow, drugged intervals.

Blitzo narrowed his eyes as he looked down at her collapsed form. Something about the way she dropped, the way her body reacted-it didn't feel like an act. He slowly stepped forward, trying to ignore Stolas's ongoing conversation in the background, the Goetia prince's voice sweetly sarcastic as he spoke with someone-Valentino, if Blitzo was hearing correctly-over the phone. Blitzo crouched beside Vi's body and carefully plucked the tranquilizer dart from her neck, frowning as he examined it. His gaze shifted to her face. Her expression was peaceful, limp with the heaviness of sleep, not the grimace of someone faking it. He touched two fingers gently to the spot on her neck where the dart had hit, right above the tattoo. Her skin was warm-too warm.

He knew that warmth. It wasn't the ambient heat of demons or sinners or whatever writhing creatures Hell usually spat up-it was a human warmth. A fragile, biological softness that reminded him too much of the living world. A strange, uneasy chill rolled down his spine.

Blitzo stood up abruptly, eyes flicking back to the tall prince across the room. "Stolas, she-"

Stolas turned his head, still with that soft, amused tone curling at the edges of his lips. "Now, don't you worry, darling," he said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand as if Blitzo's concern was little more than a pesky breeze. "Let me do all your assassin work for you."

Before Blitzo could say anything else, Stolas was already leaning in, whispering against his ear. "Let me handle this for you."

There was something in the way he said it that made Blitzo hesitate-something quiet and cold behind the gentle voice. He stepped back, jaw tightening, watching as Stolas walked over and casually reached down, grabbing Vi by the ankle. Without hesitation, the prince began dragging her unconscious body toward the exit.

Blitzo's eyes followed her all the way until they vanished through the grand double doors. He felt something tightening in his chest-something he didn't want to admit was guilt or doubt. Why did he care? She was just some stranger. But something about her story, about the panic in her eyes, the confusion in her voice when she spoke about falling from the mortal realm-none of it seemed like a lie.

He turned and marched back down the hall where Moxxie and Millie were waiting, both looking confused and more than a little unnerved.

"I have a feeling she's telling the truth," Blitzo muttered under his breath.

Moxxie blinked, looking at his boss with concern. "You believe she's a human? Really? But how could that even be possible? If she were a human who fell into Hell, wouldn't she be dead from the fall? That kind of impact should've torn her apart."

"I know," Blitzo growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "None of this makes sense. But look, it's too late. Stolas is already handling it his way."

Millie crossed her arms, clearly unsure. "Are we seriously just gonna leave it like this?"

Blitzo didn't look back as he walked past them toward the exit, voice sharp and bitter. "Let's just forget this whole thing happened."

Without another word, the three of them stormed out of the mansion, their boots echoing across the marble floors as the heavy doors slammed behind them.

Meanwhile, Stolas and the man-Vi's pursuer, the husband whose wife had died by her hand-had already climbed into the sleek, demonic vehicle parked outside. Vi's body had been bound tightly with rope, her wrists and ankles secured, and now lay motionless across the backseat like discarded luggage. The husband kept glancing up at the rearview mirror, staring at her face reflected in the glass-expressionless, still drugged, and strangely peaceful.

He didn't say anything, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers drummed along his thigh.

Stolas drove in silence, his sharp eyes locked on the path ahead. The road was winding, twisting through the strange, luminous corridors of Hell's lower districts. It took them nearly two hours to reach the Lust Ring-two hours of quiet, smoldering tension that neither of them broke. The city of desire awaited them, glowing like a siren in the dark.

And in the backseat, Vi slept, unaware of the storm she had fallen into.

He rolled up his cigar and took his lighter, easing back into a plush red leather armchair. The room was soaked in dim lighting, though hues of pink and red glowed softly from LED strips that lined the edges of the ceiling and floor, giving the space an intoxicating, sensual ambiance. He struck the lighter, the small flame flickering before catching the cigar's tip. He took a deep drag, the ember pulsing, and exhaled the smoke in smooth tendrils from his nose and mouth. His eyes, glowing red beneath his heart-shaped shades, shimmered in the darkest corners of the room, adding to his smug and sultry appearance. Valentino-the moth demon of lust-watched with idle satisfaction as men and women danced freely, bodies tangled in desire and rhythm. There was no shame here. Just sin, passion, and power. Even in hell, where violence and torment ran rampant, Valentino had carved out his own version of paradise. He preferred this over the chaos the imps lived in, where murder and paranoia ruled under a corrupted regime. This... this was indulgence. And he reveled in it.

A knock at the door drew his attention. His brows lifted slightly as he blew another lazy puff into the air, not startled, but intrigued. The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps approached slowly.

"TV head, what's the latest news?" Valentino asked, voice smooth like velvet and dripping in amusement.

"Human impaled a pregnant demon in hell," Vox replied coolly, entering with a cigarette of his own already nestled between his fingers. He slid into the seat beside Valentino, crossed his legs, and let out a laugh. "And it happened right here in hell too!"

Valentino's interest visibly sparked. He tapped ash into a gold-rimmed tray as a devious grin pulled at his lips. "Ooh, our dear friend Stolas just told me about this one. Apparently, she's being sent here soon-as our new little plaything." His tone was casual, almost gleeful.

"It's a girl?" Vox asked, eyebrows raised as he leaned forward, clearly amused by the surprise.

"Yes, a girl," Valentino confirmed with a devilish chuckle. "We haven't figured out how old she is yet, but really, don't you think girls are easier to take over?" His misogynistic remark earned laughter from Vox as well.

"You never lost your prick, have you?" Vox teased, grinning.

The conversation came to a halt as the studio doors opened wide, and the thumping of heavy music spilled into the space. Stolas and the husband entered, the latter holding the unconscious human girl-Vi-in his arms. Her wrists and ankles were tightly bound with rope, and her head hung limply against her shoulder. The moment was oddly ceremonial, like a twisted offering.

Stolas approached first, greeting the moth demon with a charming smile. "Greetings, my lustful friend."

"Stolas! What an honor to see you again," Valentino returned with a grin, shaking the prince's hand firmly. He pulled out a wad of cash and slipped it into Stolas's hand without hesitation. "Let's unwrap our new present, shall we?" he added with childlike excitement.

The man stepped forward and dropped Vi's body unceremoniously at Valentino's feet. She hit the floor with a dull thud, red hair splayed out against the tile. Valentino crouched slightly to take a better look.

"Ooh, red hair? Alastor?" He chuckled, pleased with what he saw. "Well then! Hand her over and we'll call our business done. Thank you, dearly, my friend."

With that, Stolas and the man gave a nod and began their exit from the studio, neither saying a word. The man muttered under his breath, "Hope she dies in there slowly," as they vanished into the noise and haze of the club.

Vi let out a soft groan in her sleep, barely conscious. Valentino knelt beside her and blew a puff of smoke into her face, smirking. Then he grabbed the rope binding her and began dragging her across the floor, leading her toward the back office.

He opened the door with a shove and, without ceremony or care, kicked the sleeping human girl inside the room to present her to Voxxy.

 

A few minutes later, Vi's eyes fluttered open. Her head throbbed, and a sharp, searing pain burned at the side of her neck-right where the tranquilizer had struck. She groaned softly, disoriented, as her blurred vision slowly began to settle. Instinctively, she tried to move, but her arms and legs barely shifted. A harsh pressure constricted her body. Looking down weakly, she realized she was tightly bound with coarse, knotted ropes, her wrists aching from the strain. Her heart pounded as she attempted to shift her torso, feeling like it was floating and heavy at the same time. Everything felt numb, yet raw.

Straining her eyes, she glanced around the dim room. The red and pink hues of LED light bathed everything in a distorted glow. Beside her, two blurred figures stood, watching her with unreadable expressions. She blinked again, trying to sharpen her focus. Confusion washed over her as her mind struggled to process who-or what-she was looking at. Then, one of them spoke.

"Hello, darling," Valentino greeted, his voice sickeningly smooth.

Vi's instincts kicked in. She stumbled to her feet and lunged toward the door, slamming her body against it with a desperate cry. It didn't budge. Solid. Heavy. Reinforced. She continued to throw herself against it, panic rising in her chest, like a stray cat flinging itself against the bars of a cage. Except this wasn't rescue. This was captivity.

"Now now," Valentino tutted, "there's no way you could escape, my love."

"Let me out." Her voice was firm despite the trembling in her limbs. She turned, glaring at the tall demon before her-his sharp, twisted smile, faint lavender skin, and eyes that gleamed like a predator's. He didn't look like anyone from the Undercity. Not like anyone human at all.

"Ohh, that's a disrespectful tone..." Voxxy cooed, standing and casually making his way beside Valentino, the static in his screen-face flickering. "What do we do about that?"

"Please, just let me go," Vi said, her voice hitching only slightly. "I promise-I'm not an angel. I'm not here to hurt anyone. I mean no harm at all."

"Angel or not, sweetie, we already bought you," Valentino purred. "So you might as well start doing what we say."

Before she could react, he grabbed her roughly by the collar and slammed her against the wall. Her head snapped back on impact, the air flying from her lungs. Smoke curled around her face as he leaned in, gripping her jaw with cruel fingers. His voice lowered to a mocking whisper.

"Such... pathetic human eyes. Humanity will be taken away from you in no time."

Without warning, he pressed the glowing end of his lit cigar into the side of her neck.

Vi screamed, her body jerking as searing pain shot through her nerves. The burn blistered instantly, the smell of scorched flesh filling the air. Through the haze of pain and rage, she twisted and leaned forward, sinking her teeth into his cheek with a savage growl. Flesh tore beneath her teeth.

Valentino roared in fury, ripping away from her and slamming her violently to the floor. Her back hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of her. Before she could rise, he straddled her, one hand pinning her throat, choking the air from her lungs. His other hand wiped the blood trailing from his torn cheek. His voice was full of wrath.

"You little shit! Do you want to die?!"

Vi clawed at his arm, gasping, but her strength was fading. Her vision blurred again. Just as her body began to go slack, Voxxy stepped forward.

"Come on now, Val," he said coolly, tone like silk hiding a blade. "The poor human won't work for you if she's dead."

Valentino paused, breathing hard. He stared down at Vi for a moment, then slowly loosened his grip. His fingers uncurled from her throat, and he leaned back slightly. He tilted his head toward Voxxy with a crooked grin.

"Who said she was going to work for me?" he asked darkly.

Voxxy smirked, a flash of static glinting in his face. "'Cause that person," he replied, nodding at Vi, "might just be a genius."

There was a pause, the tension heavy in the room.

"...Do I get paid?" Vi rasped suddenly, her voice hoarse but steady as she looked at both of them. If she wasn't getting out of here, she might as well survive. Adapt. Figure out her next move. Maybe even use them. "I mean, if I'm stuck here," she added, "might as well make a living."

The boldness caught them both off guard.

Voxxy grinned and stepped closer, crouching just enough to meet her gaze. "You'll get paid," he said, "but only if you do exactly what he says." His tone dropped, the smile never leaving. "And trust me, sweetheart... there'll be consequences if you try to escape."

Vi didn't reply. She only stared back, face bruised, neck still throbbing from the burn. But her eyes didn't waver. She wasn't going to make it easy for them.

 

Valentino released Vi's neck with a sly grin. "Speaking of which... we brought some friends to discipline you."

At his signal, several demon men in bodyguard uniforms stepped into the room. Vi's brows furrowed, and she instinctively stepped back.

"Wh-what's going on?" she asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

Valentino's smile widened. "Do your thing, boys."

The demons seized Vi by the arms and began dragging her through the hallways toward a concrete room. The floor was cold beneath her feet, and a single metal pole stood in the center. Chains and cuffs were scattered across the ground. The space wasn't small, but it was dark, windowless, and suffocating.

Valentino and Voxxy followed, eager to spectate.

The guards shoved Vi to the floor, forcing her down as she thrashed, kicking and twisting. Each time she landed a hit, it only earned her a blow to the face and a string of cruel insults.

"Stop fucking moving, bitch," one of them spat. He stood and grabbed a metal rod from the corner, striking her across the head. Vi shielded herself with her arms, sobbing as her thoughts were dragged back to Stillwater Prison-back to the beatings, the helplessness.

But this-this was worse.

One of the men yanked her upright and forced her to kneel. "Put your arms out," he ordered.

Vi refused, biting back another sob.

Enraged, they tore the bandages from her arms, exposing old scars and crusted blood. Without hesitation, they brought out a whip and lashed her wrists, her elbows, her forearms-again and again.

"Hold her still."

Two of them knelt beside her, pinning her to the ground. Another man stepped forward with a nail and a lighter. He flicked the flame on, slowly heating the metal until it glowed bright orange.

"Please-please don't do this. I didn't do anything wrong," Vi cried, her voice muffled by the towel they stuffed in her mouth. "No-no, please!"

The man laughed, lowering the glowing nail toward her arm. When it made contact, it sizzled through her skin, slicing its way toward bone. Vi writhed and screamed through the towel. Then came the hammer-pounding the red-hot nail into her flesh as she howled.

She sobbed uncontrollably, the metal branding agony into her nerves.

When he finally pulled it out, he pressed the heated rod directly against the open wound. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

Then, as suddenly as it began, they let her fall to the floor.

Vi lay there, trembling, the towel falling from her mouth. Her cheeks were soaked with tears. She spat blood, her breath ragged.

Valentino approached slowly, crouching in front of her.

"Does it hurt, darling?"

Vi didn't reply. She just cried.

But somewhere in her broken thoughts, a desperate idea sparked. Shaking, she reached out and touched Valentino's hand.

"Please..." she whispered. "Please set me free. I promise I won't get in anyone's way. Just... just let me go."

Valentino chuckled softly. "Aww. But then who would clean up after us? Who would calm me down when Papa's all stressed?" He lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to look at him. "Poor, poor thing."

From his pocket, he pulled out a syringe filled with a glowing drug.

"Let's help you feel better."

He plunged the needle into her arm.

Vi gasped, her scream sharp as the drug surged through her veins. Her body convulsed, nerves lighting up with pain and overstimulation.

She could feel everything.

What did he do to her?

 

Valentino took another vial from his coat-this time, a murky mixture of cocaine, warm water, and lean. With a smirk, he gripped Vi's jaw and forced her mouth open. She struggled, but weak and trembling, she couldn't resist. He poured the liquid in, and she gagged, choking briefly before swallowing it down, assuming it was another painkiller.

He stepped back, watching with perverse satisfaction.

Vi collapsed onto her hands, soft groans escaping her lips as fresh tears fell. At first, it was only a fog. But then it hit-rushing through her bloodstream, crashing against her nerves, surging to her brain like a storm.

The concrete floor beneath her turned into a swirl of colors-pink, green, blue-melting and spiraling as if alive. Her hands... they weren't hands anymore. They were leaves. Soft, fluttering leaves sprouting from her wrists.

Valentino and Voxxy exchanged one last glance before stepping out of the room. The moth demon locked the door with a golden key and wedged a chair beneath the handle for good measure.

Darkness swallowed the space once more.

Vi shivered violently on the floor, eyes wide and glowing cyan. Her cheek pressed against the cold ground, but in her mind, it was velvet. She nuzzled it lovingly.

Orange liquid oozed from her rainbow-colored arm-thick and sweet like syrup. She giggled, dipping her tongue into it, moaning softly at the taste. It was delicious. Like orange juice. Like sunshine. She needed more. Craved it. She slurped from her arm eagerly, the sticky fluid smearing across her face as she laughed like a child.

Staggering to her feet, she looked down at the illusion below her-hundreds, no, thousands of people in a roaring crowd.

They reached for her.

Hands clawed at her ankles.

"Vi! Please! Sign my autograph!" one called.

"You're the bravest enforcer I know!" another cheered.

Vi beamed and waved, tears running down her cheeks. "All of you are amazing!" she called back. "And maybe one day... one day, you can be strong like me! Just believe in your dreams!"

She twirled like a performer on stage-until her legs buckled beneath her.

Her body hit the floor with a thud.

She convulsed once. Twice.

Then everything went still, except for the soft tremble of her limbs and the fading sound of her own laughter echoing in the dark.

||

Blitzo drove his way back to the building, Millie and Moxxie riding silently with him. He parked the car near the entrance, pulled out the key, and stepped out, the two imps following behind. There was a bad feeling hanging in his gut, heavy and cold, though he couldn't explain why-or how a human had even ended up here. But he remembered her eyes.

That look.

It reminded him of a human girl he met on Earth once, a long time ago, right before she died. That same stare, full of quiet acceptance. The same warmth he felt brush against his fingers when he touched the human's neck earlier. And still-what had pushed Octavia and Vi to fight like that?

Where was the girl now? Maybe she did deserve to be tortured, if she really killed that husband's wife and child. But... what if it was an accident? A matter of self-defense? Blitzo wasn't the kind to care about that sort of shit. He never had been.

But this time, something felt off.

What if she really wasn't lying?

"Blitzø?"

Millie's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. She gave him a small pat on the back. "Let's go."

He nodded, walking alongside them as they headed inside. "Would it be fucked up," he started, "to put an innocent human in that position? Especially with Valentino?"

Millie looked up at him, eyes narrowing. "Blitz, don't tell me you, out of all people, give a shit about a random human girl that entered Hell."

Moxxie said nothing.

Millie shrugged. "And who knows? Maybe she is an angel. Maybe she deserves it... if she tried to hurt Octavia."

They stepped into the elevator together, the doors closing with a soft ding as they ascended into silence.

 

||

The next day,

the woman's eyes slowly fluttered open. She groaned and whimpered, rolling onto her back and touching her face. The room was dark, cold, and her body ached all over. She realized where she was. Still here. In Hell. Helpless. Vi glanced down at her arm and hissed at the sting, wincing as she cradled it gently. Her eyes scanned the room for anything she could use to ease the pain, or maybe even free herself from the chains. In the corner, she spotted a box sealed with tape and scribbled with a name-Novocaine. A drug. Something to numb it all. Vi crawled across the floor, dragging herself to the box and pulling it close. Inside were test tubes with sealed caps. She grabbed one with a syringe already attached, popped the top with her teeth, and pulled the plunger back, sucking the fluid in with slow precision. Taking a shaky breath, she jabbed it into her arm and pressed down. The numbing warmth crept in, but it wasn't enough. Her body still throbbed.

She grabbed another bottle, twisted the cap off, and drank the Novocaine straight. The taste was bitter, but her body welcomed the relief. She slid the box back into the corner and returned to her original position, back against the pole just as the footsteps began to echo. Her heart raced. She pressed her back harder to the metal, pretending to still be dazed.

The door unlocked with a sharp click and swung open. Voxxy stepped in.

"Good morning, pet," he cooed.

He paused, amused by the dried blood staining Vi's arms and face. She looked like she had just survived a war.

"Oh, look at you..." he chuckled. "Come on, we've got questions for you. Then it's time to get to work."

He crouched down and unlocked the chains from her ankles, then yanked her up by the arm. Vi stumbled, steadying herself on the pole, her glare meeting his with quiet venom.

Voxxy dragged her upstairs, into the light. Valentino glanced over from across the room, now wearing something far more glittery than before-enough to make Vi squint.

"There's our pretty girl! What happened to her face?" he said with a chuckle, pulling out a napkin and wiping her cheek with a mock tenderness.

"She's still pretty high, I'd say," Voxxy replied, placing both hands on Vi's shoulders.

"Oh, don't even worry about it, she'll be fine! Plus, she's standing. I think she might be strong enough to start working for me~"

"Start interviewing her," Voxxy ordered.

They sat Vi down on the couch, bright studio lights flicking on above her. She turned her face away, squinting hard. One of Valentino's employees rolled in a camera, adjusting it in front of her. Another stepped in and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look straight ahead.

"Look at the camera, darling, and answer my questions."

"Vi's the name, is it?"

Vi blinked slowly, then gave a quiet nod.

"What's your full name?"

"Violet."

"Your surname?"

She hesitated. Her mind drew blank. What was her surname? Her mother's name...?

"I don't remember my surname."

"Alright. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Just turned?"

"I think so."

The camera stopped recording with a small beep. Valentino grinned from the couch.

"My first female human worker..."

He stood up, grabbed Vi by the neck, and shoved her through the doorway. A mop and broom were tossed at her feet.

"Clean the floor, you mutt."

He turned and flopped down onto the couch.

Vi looked down at herself, her body still coated in dried blood. She wondered how the hell this had all happened. Then it clicked-the moth bastard drugged her. Her gaze drifted to the posters on the walls, boasting names and glittered slogans.

"Valentino... Voxxy," she muttered.

The floor was filthy. Dirt, liquor, grime. Looked like a bar. At least no other demons were here to rip her apart.

Vi dipped the mop into the bucket, lifted it, and began mopping the wet stains on the floor. She grabbed a cleaning rag and wiped down tables, polishing glasses, brushing under flower vases. Her body ached, but the Novocaine dulled the sharpness. She cracked her neck, rolled her shoulder, and grabbed a glass, cleaning beneath it with slow focus.

She made her way to the window, wiping away the smudges and dust, when Voxxy stepped up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't plan on escaping now," he whispered in her ear.

Vi turned her head to stare at him. Did he seriously just do that?

Without warning, Voxxy pulled out his metal rod and pointed it at her face.

"Keep working, Vi."

He smacked her shoulder. She flinched, but barely felt the blow.

The Novocaine was doing its job.

She turned back to the window and kept cleaning, making sure every single spot shined like glass. She wasn't going to show weakness-not yet. Not to them.

 

||

Blitzø finally woke up that morning, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his phone on the charger beside the bed. He grabbed it, powering it on and blinking at the notifications. One stood out-texts from Stolas. A photo from Valentino had been forwarded to him, blurry in the message preview.

'The angel who tried killing my daughter seems to be having her own good time.'

He clicked it.

The image loaded-Vi slumped in the corner of a pitch-black room, blood pooled around her. Chains. Her face nearly unrecognizable. His gut turned.

Blitzo stared closer, zooming in. He felt it in his spine-sharp, cold. Not in all his years down here had a human made him feel this. He closed out the apps, locked his phone, and muttered, "Fucking hell." Climbing out of bed, he moved into the bathroom, brushing his teeth without thinking. Just going through motions.

Soon dressed, he left for I.M.P., needing to check in with Millie, Moxxie, and his daughter, Loona.

"Loona?" he called out as he stepped in.

She was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to her phone. She looked up at him for a second, then back down.

He sighed and walked past.

That made her pause. "Blitz?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"You good? You're usually annoying the shit out of me by now."

He didn't respond-just headed straight into the office and sat down.

But he couldn't stop thinking about that photo. Couldn't stop thinking about her. About what they'd done to her. He took his phone out again and opened the image, cringing.

This was Hell. No one cared. Wasn't that the rule?

So why did he?

He tossed the phone down and stood up fast, grabbing his car keys. On his way out, he passed Moxxie.

"Moxxie. Don't burn the kitchen," he said flatly, pushing out the door.

He wasn't going to rescue the human. No. He just wanted to check. Just to see.

As he slid into the car and started the engine, he muttered, "God fucking dammit... why am I doing this?"

He drove fast, soon arriving at Valentino's studio. A few cars were parked out front-probably his cronies. Inside, Vi was wiping the windows when she noticed a new car outside. Her body stiffened. She immediately rushed to the storage room to find anything she could use as a weapon. A reflex. Always survive.

Blitzo stepped inside.

The studio was disturbingly clean. Too clean.

A guard greeted him until Valentino appeared, swaying his way over with a laugh. "Blitzo! What brings you here? Looking for another Goetian male to bribe?"

"All friendly fire," Blitzo smirked. "I'm here to check out that new human pet you got."

He played it cool, like he didn't care. But his eyes said otherwise.

Valentino chuckled. "She's around somewhere. Our dear ol' Vi... we take care of her real well."

Vi stepped out from the storage room, trying to act composed. She hoped the Novocaine was still working. She pinched her arm-nothing. Good.

She spotted Blitzo.

His gaze scanned her, up and down. Blood. So much blood.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Valentino cooed.

"Oh, she's a beauty alright," Blitzo replied. But he wasn't admiring. He was checking her wounds. Every bruise. Every sign of what had been done.

He stepped closer.

Vi flinched and shoved him back. "Don't fucking touch me."

Blitzo recoiled, surprised.

Valentino snarled. "Hey now, be nice, dog." He slapped Vi across the face, sending her to the floor.

Vi winced-pain shot through her cheek. The Novocaine... it was wearing off.

Blitzo's stomach twisted. He regretted pretending. He took a breath and stepped forward.

"Hey, let's be gentle with her. Maybe she's just shy."

He reached down to help Vi up, but she jerked away.

"Fuck off! I'm not a goddamn dog!"

Valentino's expression darkened. "Oh, now she's getting it." He grabbed her by the neck and dragged her toward the basement, pulling out his phone.

"Boys," he spoke into the receiver, "punish her. Teach her how to speak with respect."

He ended the call, chained her wrists up high to the wall as she thrashed.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Vi screamed over and over again like a broken siren.

Blitzo followed, reaching for Valentino. "Hey, hey. I think-we should consider-"

"Don't worry, Blitz. Whatever fucked up method you wanna try on her later, you'll get your turn." Valentino grinned. "She'll be kept alive, for now."

The door opened.

Four men entered.

One grabbed Vi's jaw.

"Someone's been speaking with that sinful tongue," he said, and slammed a metal pole into her stomach.

Blood spilled instantly.

Vi gasped, head reeling, body trembling. More hits came, followed by blades. They slashed her thighs, arms-fresh cuts over old wounds. One of them shoved a knife deep into the gash Sevika had left her before.

She screamed, rolled her eyes back, sobbed prayers through gritted teeth.

"Please, God... please, have mercy on me!"

They didn't stop. Not until her body went limp.

Valentino crouched beside her, lifting her cheek. "Have you learned your lesson, baby?"

Blitzo stood frozen, his skin crawling.

He hated himself. Hated this. If he had never told Stolas about Vi... she wouldn't be here.

"This is enough, Valentino," he finally muttered. "You want her to stay beautiful, don't you?"

Valentino chuckled. "Let's see what she wants as a reward. Come on, Vi, speak. The floor's yours."

Vi sobbed softly.

"...N-novocaine..."

"What was that?"

"I want some Novocaine... please..."

"Why, my dear?" Valentino tilted his head, mock innocence in his voice.

"It hurts... It hurts so bad... please..."

Valentino sighed, amused. "But you have to learn to take the pain, sweetheart. Still... I'll give you something better."

He pulled out a bottle of booze.

Blitzo finally snapped.

"You have to stop. Please," he said, grabbing Valentino's wrist. "Be mad at me, fine. But this? This is fucked. She barely did anything. What if she was defending herself?"

Vi heard his voice-something about it felt like a message from something higher. She closed her eyes.

Valentino groaned and rolled his eyes. "Fine."

He walked to the Novocaine box and kneeled beside Vi, whistling like she was a pet. "Come on, crawl to me, baby..."

Vi did. Weakly. Slowly.

He held the bottle out.

Just when she reached, he pulled it back, laughing, and poured it into her mouth himself-his hand tilting her chin up.

Then he kicked her back down.

"She's a brat sometimes," he said with a soft laugh, slapping her cheek.

He walked out, leaving her crumpled.

Blitzo stayed.

He stepped forward and offered her his hand. Vi only scooted back into the corner, curling up and whispering in prayer.

He looked around to make sure they were alone, then closed the door behind him and knelt down.

"Hey-"

"Get the fuck away from me!" Vi snapped, lunging at him and tackling him to the ground. She clawed at him until he grabbed her wrists.

"I'm not here to hurt you!" Blitzo panted. "I believe you! I know you're telling the truth. And I'm sorry. It's my fault you're here..."

Vi stood up, shaking, and retreated to the farthest corner. Her eyes locked onto him, unblinking. "One day," she hissed, "I'll make sure I leave this place-and put you through the same pain. You won't have a choice. I swear it."

Blitzo didn't blame her. Not at all.

He glanced around at the blood, the blades, the stains.

He hated what he saw.

He walked over to the box of Novocaine and placed it gently beside her. Then left.

He didn't know why he felt this way.

He killed humans all the time.

So why did this one feel like a curse?

____

"Oh Vi.. my sweet sweet sister."

Jinx's finger trailed on the photo of Vi, one of which that has already been slightly torn. She angrily threw the photo on the wall and screamed. "Where the hell are you?!" she yelled out, kicking her desk as she faced towards a made up doll of Mylo and shot him. "Shut up! she didn't leave! She wouldn't do that again to me! never again." She stood up and turned around,

 

and heard a painful ringing in her ears.

Chapter 4: Novocaine, Never same, Never going up

Summary:

Vi sees her sister again.

The wind was intoxicating—it felt as if the city had been set free to do whatever it pleased. Demons wandered its streets, all kinds of them: kind, cruel, unhinged, with hearts as hard as concrete. And on that same concrete floor lay a woman, her body absorbing the brutal weight of heavy wooden planks striking against her skin. She wasn’t crying—only a dull expression lingered on her blood-smeared face. What could she possibly do, chained at the wrists and pinned to the ground? Nothing, except rely on the faint relief of novocaine dulling the edge of every hit. She felt the impact each time, and then the sharpness would disappear, swallowed by the drug that had become her only ally. It had been two days since she last wondered when she’d be fed. A soft groan escaped her lips as her head rocked back and forth, dazed. Then she felt her upper body being lifted—rough hands unchaining her, holding her up. They laid her down on a cold metal board. “Come on, pretty,” one of the men said. “Say something.”

She could hear his voice—his disgusting, grating voice. It drove her insane every time it reached her ears, made her want to punch him square in the face. Just thinking about him made her feel like there was a knife at her throat, its cold edge pressing in, even if it was only in her mind. She’d held on this long, stayed strong through every blow and every word, but deep down, she wished she could just die and be done with it all. “Need,” Vi mumbled softly, her head sinking low, as if the weight of everything she carried had finally become too much.

"Need what, my dear?"

“Food, please,” she said. “I need water.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and tired, thick with sickness. She could feel her stomach shriveling in on itself—dry, hollow, desperate for anything to make it feel full again. “Give me a reason to feed you,” he replied, arms crossed, his eyes drilling into her like he was peeling her apart page by page. Vi’s trembling hands reached for Valentino’s wrists, her gaze lifting to meet his. “Please,” she begged, “I promise I’ll do better at the job. Please feed me, I’m starving.” Valentino chuckled under his breath and took hold of her jaw, squeezing her cheeks until they puffed up. His smile curved into a smug, knowing smirk—he saw her desperation like a trophy. “Maybe we ought to feed you something…” he murmured, his voice soft, almost sweet. Vi smiled instinctively, clinging to that mercy like it was salvation. Maybe—just maybe—she’d finally get to eat. The men hauled her up and dragged her out of the basement. Outside, the air buzzed with chaos. Demons cheered and slammed drinks together, spilling liquor across the floors; women danced in barely-there outfits while money rained down like ash. The club reeked of coldness, no warmth in sight. Vapor clouds floated through the air, the haze of smoke cloaking the room in a filthy fog. Valentino pulled out a syringe and, without warning, injected her arm with the same drug he’d used the last time he got her high. The chemical hit instantly, burning its way to her brain—her eyes turned red and swollen, her steps unsteady as she stumbled forward. Her vision doubled, the music exploded louder in her ears, and her heart began to pulse in sync with the demons around her. Their laughter, their madness—it bled into her. Vi laughed too, weak and breathless, as they laid her down on the table.

“Bought a new friend for you guys to play with—meet Vi,” Valentino announced with a heavy laugh, slapping her hard on the back before blowing a thick puff of smoke directly into her face. Vi flinched, trying to resist, to will herself away from the spiral she was sinking into, but her body wouldn’t listen. The demons crowded around her, dragging her off the table like she was nothing more than a toy. Someone shoved a bottle of beer into her hand, already uncapping another. “Yeah! Get that little bitch some drinks—for killing that woman!” one of them shouted, and the crowd erupted in laughter. A larger bottle was pressed to Vi’s lips, and the moment they touched, her mouth instinctively latched on. The demons roared with approval, flipping the bottle upside down and forcing the alcohol down her throat. Vi moaned weakly, struggling to pull away, but a clawed hand gripped her chin and held her head tilted back. Her human strength was useless here—pathetic, soft, breakable. All she could do was groan and whimper between gulps, each swallow burning as they cheered her on like some drunken game. The bottle was finally emptied, and they slowly pried it away. “G—gone!” Vi choked, coughing and gagging as her body lurched forward. A female imp caught her before she could hit the floor, holding her up like a ragdoll while the rest of them howled in delight, drunk on cruelty and chaos.

"Ooh, she's out of it ain't she?"

"She's lost as fuck! I mean, look at her."

"It would be a funny idea if we fed her raw opium."

"Let's do it!"

One of the demons made their way to a box and pulled out a small pouch of powder. Vi’s blurred eyes locked onto it—and suddenly, she saw her sister. “Powder?” she whispered, confused, before she felt herself being pulled into an embrace. The figure—no longer her sister—sprinkled the powder into her face, making her sneeze violently. “Aw! That’s so cute, she’s like a kitten sneezing!” the demons cooed, mocking her like she was some helpless infant. They kept dusting it over her face, laughing as she shook her head in weak resistance. When she opened her eyes again, they glowed with a bright, unnatural blue—she was completely high. Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she watched in stunned wonder as flowers bloomed from her palms, trees rose from her skin. Birds fluttered from her fingertips, and animals of all kinds crawled across her arms. She felt like water—clear, endless, fluid—fishes swimming beneath her skin, seagulls circling her head, the waves of her body dancing with the wind that lived in her soul. She saw the universe stretch out before her, galaxies blooming like fireworks behind her eyelids. She felt like God. And shit… this genuinely felt so fucking good. She was the wind, the ocean, the land, and all of life. Her mouth opened, and suddenly water poured out—her body lurched forward as she vomited a kaleidoscope of colors and shifting elements onto the floor. She swore she saw shades that didn’t even exist, colors unnamed by language, and she marveled at it. “Holy shit, that’s disgusting,” the female imp muttered, staring at the mess. Vi shivered violently, her body trembling like a cold, wet dog lost in a blizzard. Valentino approached, took one look, and hummed with amusement before casually kicking Vi to the side. He snapped his fingers, and a staff member immediately appeared beside him, eyeing the puddle of shit on the floor. Just as the janitor bent down to clean it, Valentino raised a hand. “No,” he said flatly, “give this irresponsible little waste of space the mop. She’ll clean it up.”

Valentino glared down at Vi as she lay trembling on the floor, still laughing uncontrollably, her body twitching under the weight of the high. “I’m in the fucking skies,” she mumbled in a sluggish, dazed voice, a weak smile twitching at her lips—until a sharp slap yanked her back to reality. Her head snapped to the side, the sting anchoring her. “Clean up your mess,” Valentino ordered coldly. Without hesitation, Vi scrambled for the mop, her arms weak and unsteady as she stared down at the puddle of swirling, rainbow-colored vomit. She began to clean, her hands moving on instinct alone, each stroke of the mop sluggish and shaky. Around her, the demons howled with laughter, jeering and hurling empty bottles in her direction like she was nothing but a joke. Each impact echoed in her bones, and she winced, wishing they’d at least laced her drink with novocaine—something, anything—to numb the pain. But they hadn’t. They didn’t care enough.

Once she finished cleaning, Vi caught sight of a woman—no, a vision. Stunning. Who was she? Pink skin that shimmered under the lights, sharp horns curling with elegance, flawless eyes, and a body sculpted like sin itself. Her image reflected in Vi’s dazed eyes, stirring something raw and electric in her chest—lust, fascination, maybe both. The woman danced, sang with a voice so ethereal it made the club noise fall away, just for a moment. Vi’s gaze clung to her, heavy and breathless, her body moving forward like it wasn’t hers. Just as she neared, massive hellhounds crashed into her, knocking her down. “Hey! High Vi wants to get a piece of you, Verosika!” an imp shouted, dragging Vi by the arm and shoving her forward, closer to the stage—closer to the pole where the goddess danced. Verosika let out a soft hum, slipping off her coat as she giggled, leaning down until her lips were inches from Vi’s dazed face. “Aww, aren’t you just the cutest little thing?” she purred. “Not my first time seeing humans, but you—you’re one of a kind.” Her voice dripped with honeyed seduction, and her fingers brushed Vi’s cheek with deliberate softness. “Ver… Verosika?” Vi mumbled, echoing the name she’d just heard from the hellhound. “Yes, honey! Good job, Ver-o-sika,” the demoness cooed, her voice suddenly mockingly sweet, like a teacher praising a clueless child. She giggled again and pressed a kiss to Vi’s forehead—then Vi’s fist slammed into her face. Verosika let out a shocked gasp as the punch knocked her backward, completely off guard. Gasps and shouts erupted as Vi pounced, fists raining down on the demoness. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” Vi screamed, each blow fueled by rage and confusion, her voice cracking with desperation. Verosika cried out, struggling beneath the onslaught, arms raised to shield her face. The demons rushed in, pulling Vi back as she thrashed like a wild animal, her laughter turning unhinged, echoing through the club. “Stupid bitch!” she shrieked, eyes bloodshot, puffy, glowing with drug-fueled madness.

The other dancers rushed to Verosika, helping her up from the floor, though she was already unconscious—completely knocked out cold. No one had expected that from Vi, not even the most seasoned demons. The crowd was stunned into silence, the only sound piercing through the thick air was Vi’s hysterical laughter, wild and echoing like a siren in the fog. That was when Voxxy stormed in, eyes scanning the chaos with sharp fury. The second he spotted Vi, cackling in the center of the mess, his brows furrowed and his fists clenched tight with irritation. “Take her,” he snapped coldly. Immediately, the demon workers who usually operated behind the scenes emerged, shoving past the frozen imps and hellhounds to seize Vi from their grip. As she continued to laugh, her limbs limp and twitching, Voxxy added darkly, “Don’t bring her to the basement. Do it here.”

They dragged Vi onto the dance stage and tied her to a pole with thick rope, her arms bound tightly as the demons erupted into cheers, drinks sloshing in their hands as they danced and laughed. The music thumped in the background, but was soon lowered—just enough so that Vi’s every sound could be heard. “Did we order you to misbehave?” Voxxy asked, his voice calm but seething. Vi didn’t respond. She only smiled, her head hanging low, hair shadowing her eyes as her body leaned against the pole to keep from collapsing. Her mind was lost in a fog—numb, frayed, spiraling from all the drugs coursing through her. Voxxy, impatient, grabbed a hammer from a nearby demon and pressed the cold metal head directly into the wound Vi had been carrying on her stomach for days. She winced, the pain breaking through the haze just enough to pull her focus. “Are you gonna answer?” he asked again, pressing harder.

Vi let out a sharp wince of pain, her body instinctively pushing back against the pole as she laughed—weakly, breathlessly. Her head lolled back, eyes glassy and unfocused, staring up at Voxxy with the vacant, chaotic gaze of someone far gone. There was no trace of the old Vi left in that look—only the warped, high-strung shell of a human lost in a storm of chemicals and torment. She wasn’t herself anymore, and she wouldn’t be again for a long time. Maybe never. But the worst part was that it felt good. It felt divine. To be numb, to be detached from everything real. It felt godly to be this far out of her mind.

"Am I human enough for you?"

Vi spoke in a broken, splintered voice, all while grinning maniacally, her laughter cracked and raw. She looked at him—and in her warped vision, she didn’t see Voxxy anymore. She saw an angel. Her eyes shimmered like galaxies, glittering with the illusion of stars, as if her soul had been scattered across some distant extraterrestrial dust. Valentino stepped in then, his presence calm and commanding as he gently pushed Voxxy aside. “Let me handle this, beauty,” he said with a flirtatious grin, casting a wink before turning his attention to Vi. He tilted her chin upward with a single finger, locking eyes with her, that sickeningly charming smile never leaving his lips. “You wanna feel something, human?” he purred. Vi gave a drunken smirk, leaning into his palm like it was home, her breath shallow and slow. “Mhm,” she moaned softly, one eye half-lidded, her mind floating. Valentino chuckled and reached into his coat, pulling out a glass vial—a clear dose of naltrexone, the drug that would dull her high and drag her back into brutal clarity. He held it up between them, smiling wide. This wasn’t mercy. This was control.

Valentino placed the glass at Vi’s bottom lip and tilted it upward, and without hesitation, she swallowed it down. She expected something magical—something that would rip her from reality and send her spinning through dimensions again. But instead, the liquid shot straight to her brain and yanked her closer to reality. Her eyes widened slightly as the weight of her body returned—the same beat of her heart, the same slow pulse of her blood—familiar, grounding, and terrifying. She wasn’t fully sober, but she knew what was happening now. And she was scared. Her gaze flickered around the room, seeing the crowd of imps cheering, clinking their glasses high into the air. Valentino gently cupped her cheek one last time before turning away, whispering something into Voxxy’s ear with a smirk before stepping back to enjoy the show. Voxxy began to laugh, strolling toward her with slow, deliberate steps, only to drop the hammer to the floor. The crowd erupted in boos, disappointed, but Vi looked up at him, hope fluttering for a moment. Maybe he felt something.

Maybe he was giving her mercy. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart tightening—but then came the laughter again. Not just Voxxy’s, but from the demons, hellhounds, even clowns and jesters watching from every corner. They weren’t giving her mercy. They were giving her a performance. Each cheer, each mocking howl, was another nail in her illusion. Then a female imp strutted forward—dressed like a chef, grinning wide, holding up a grater in her hands. “I volunteer!” she declared proudly, earning deafening cheers. Voxxy gave her a playful bow and took the grater from her hands, turning back to Vi. She screamed. The sound ripped from her throat—pure horror, misery, disbelief. It couldn’t be happening. She wanted to die. She begged for death. Why wouldn’t he just kill her? Her mind exploded with questions, thoughts flashing too fast to hold, all pouring from her mouth as a helpless war cry. Voxxy lifted her hoodie, revealing the bruised, battered skin of her stomach—and the festering wound she’d carried for days. “She’s got abs! That’s fucking hot!” a male imp shouted from the audience, laughing. Voxxy grinned and plucked a hair clip from a demon girl nearby, who squealed and blushed under his attention. He winked at her and used the clip to hold Vi’s shirt up, not wanting to dirty his hands. Then, he turned to the crowd, raising his hand. The room hushed instantly, all eyes on him. He lifted his fingers and began to count—five… four… three… two… one.

Then came the grater.

He drove it into her wound and began to scrape—slow, deliberate, and brutal. Vi’s screams shattered the silence, her cries rising with each pull, each ragged stroke of metal against raw, broken skin. She cried, she pleaded, she begged for him to stop, shaking her head as if denial could undo it. Blood splattered across the stage, across Voxxy’s expensive leather shoes, pooling beneath her feet. Then he moved faster—grating her wound with violent speed, peeling back skin until raw, exposed flesh glistened beneath the club lights. Vi couldn’t think—there was no thought, no reason, no reality anymore. Only pain. Only pain. She was trapped inside it, her entire world reduced to it. Voxxy finally tossed the grater aside, and as Vi sobbed, gasping for breath, he grabbed a jar of cayenne pepper from the table. Without pause, he sprinkled it into the open wound. The moment it touched her flesh, it absorbed deep, igniting white-hot agony that ripped another scream from her lungs. There was nothing she could do—nothing left in her. No strength, no control, no drugs to dull it. All she could do… was cry.

Suddenly, the demons began to throw things at her—empty bottles, scraps of food, whatever they had in their hands—laughing as they scattered, leaving Vi bruised and trembling on the stage. Even Valentino and Voxxy turned their backs, disappearing with the rest. But before they vanished, they unchained her wrists, letting her slump freely against the pole like a discarded toy. The club lights dimmed until the entire room was swallowed in darkness. Vi collapsed to her knees, sobbing openly, her body shaking with exhaustion and anguish. Her face pressed against the filthy floor, her own blood smearing across her cheeks and mouth. Her breath came in broken gasps, tears spilling as she thought of Powder—her little sister. That name alone was enough to shatter her. Powder. She could almost hear her, calling out softly from the distance. Vi lifted her head slowly, barely able to open her swollen eyes, her heart desperate for something real. “Vi!” came the sweet voice—small, childlike, and full of innocence. She looked up and, through her blurry vision, saw a baby version of Jinx—Powder—crawling gently toward her. The tiny figure reached out and picked up a discarded beer bottle, cradling it like a newborn. Then, sitting quietly, she began to hum. That soft, haunting tune… the same song their mother used to hum. Vi's chest rose and fell in uneven sobs as she watched, broken and fragile, not knowing if it was real—or just the last dream her mind could give her before she completely fell apart.

Vi looked up, eyes half-lidded, and saw a soft light shining down on her. Was it heaven? Was it finally welcoming her home, offering her the peace she’d begged for? The thought made her chest ache. The bottle of beer slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud as her body gave out. She collapsed, limbs limp, bloodied face resting on the cold ground. And just like that, she drifted—quietly, slowly—into a deep, uncertain sleep.

“Here we are again.” Vander’s voice was calm, familiar, like the echo of an old memory. He sat beside Vi, his broad shoulders resting on his knees, eyes soft as he looked down at her. He gently cradled her neck in one hand. “You could do better than this, couldn’t you?” he asked, not with judgment—but with quiet sorrow. His other hand moved to her chest, laying flat over her heart. A faint light shimmered beneath his palm, pulsing in time with the beat of her heart. “Dad… I can’t anymore, I’m sorry,” Vi whispered through her tears, her face buried in his arm as she repeated the words like a mantra, each one heavier than the last. Vander hushed her gently, his voice like a warm breeze. “No… you can do it. I know you can.” The flickering light under his hand grew softer, still syncing with the fragile rhythm of her heartbeat. Vi looked up at him, eyes red and puffy, just as he began to fade—his body dissolving into the golden glow around her. She reached for him, but her hand touched only air. Curling up on the cold floor, Vi pressed her face into her arms, the light gone. “I can’t let you down,” she whispered, holding that promise like a thread to keep herself together.

_______

The next day… Verosika sat in a clinic chair, her face bruised and being dabbed gently with cotton by a nurse. “Jeez, I really wasn’t expecting her to react like that. She’s a fuckin’ psychopath,” she muttered, wincing as the nurse pressed against a swollen spot. Vortex stood nearby with his arms crossed, letting out a small sniffle before popping his neck. “I apologize,” he said, voice low. “I wasn’t really there to protect. But… there really was a human in there?” Verosika rolled her eyes and huffed. “Yeah. She goes by the name Vi. She’s really pretty—but obviously, I’m prettier.” She let out a short giggle and stood from the chair, brushing her skirt smooth. Vortex raised an eyebrow, curious. “Well, I haven’t actually seen her yet, so I guess it ain’t for me to judge.” Verosika shrugged, smirking faintly. “She’s grown, huh?”

“Valentino has a video interview of her, I’m sure she is,” Verosika said with a smirk, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And also—just got some awesome news! The poor girl finally healed her nose.” She clapped her hands together with a playful grin, clearly amused by her own resilience. Vortex raised a brow. “Huh… good for you, I guess.” Verosika winked. “Of course it’s good for me. I’ve got a face to maintain, babe.”

"But.. you meant Octavia, right?"

“Ahuh, and Stolas is coming over to Valentino’s place for a meeting. I really hope I get invited to their little gathering,” Verosika said with a spark of excitement as she stood up, adjusting her outfit. “It’s in, like— a year. I gotta look good, or else I’m not getting in.” She sighed dramatically, stretching her arms above her head just as the nurse quietly stood and left the room. Verosika glanced at the door, then muttered under her breath, “I wonder what they did to that human girl. Hope she got what she deserved. Gotta put a bitch back in her place.” With that, she picked up her vape and slipped it between her lips, taking a long drag. Vortex simply nodded, silent and unreadable, before turning toward the door. He twisted the silver knob and glanced back at her. “Well… just come out when you feel like it,” he said, then stepped out and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

Stolas sat quietly beside Octavia in his room, gently tending to her with soft magic and calm hands, trying to ease the tension still lingering from the incident with Vi two days ago. He exhaled slowly, relief laced with concern. “I’m glad you’re okay, darling,” he said softly, eyes searching hers. “Will you tell me why you two began fighting?” Octavia turned her face away, silent. She considered lying—just to avoid the truth—but even if she told the truth, would he care? Or worse… would he take the human’s side and scold her? Her stomach twisted. “I… felt something,” she murmured at last, voice barely audible. “I couldn’t handle it, and I don’t know why. Please just leave me alone.” Without another word, she stood and walked to her room. Stolas rose quickly, surprised, his brows lifting in concern. “Octavia, my dear—” But she shut the door on him before he could finish, locking it behind her with a soft click.

She sat on her bed in silence, her thoughts racing. That’s when she noticed a cut along her arm—small, but sharp. Probably from the fight with Vi. She stared at it for a long moment, then poked it with her finger, watching the skin react. How is this possible? Vi hadn’t used any magic, not that she could see. No demonic power, no angelic light… yet something felt otherworldly. Was she… an angel? The idea didn’t make sense. Nothing about that human girl made sense. Octavia pulled her knees to her chest, eyes narrowing. What is she? And what is she doing here?

“Why is this happening? Why are so many things happening?” Octavia whispered to herself, her voice cracking as tears welled up in her eyes. She curled onto her side and hugged a pillow tightly to her chest, burying her face into the fabric as soft sobs escaped her. The weight of confusion, fear, and unanswered questions pressed heavy on her chest. Wanting to shut it all out, she reached for her earphones, plugging them in with trembling fingers and letting music fill the silence. The familiar rhythms helped dull the sharp edges of her mind. She tapped the home button on her phone and opened Instagram, hoping to distract herself—maybe feel a bit less alone. As she scrolled mindlessly, something caught her eye: a new message notification. It was from Loona. Octavia’s brows furrowed curiously, her thumb hovering for a second before she tapped Loona’s profile, which led her straight to their message thread.

‘Hey kid. U doing alr?'

‘Feeling a little better hbu'

'Bored asf rn, Blitzo's been acting weird ever since the human situation. What does she look like?'

'I don't really wanna talk about it.'

'Come on kid, anything you tell me is safe with me. U wanna meet up at the I.M.P building?'

'Sure'

'See u at 3.'

Octavia turned her phone off with a quiet sigh and sat up from her bed, brushing her hair from her face as she stood and walked to her closet. She pulled the doors open and scanned the clothes inside, unsure of what she was even looking for. It wasn’t close to three yet—she had time. Maybe she should just rest. But her mind wouldn’t let her. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling, thoughts from earlier creeping in again like shadows she couldn’t shake. The moment replayed itself in her head—Vi’s face, her voice, the strange energy that clung to her like static. “Vi…” she murmured softly, the name lingering on her tongue. It didn’t even sound like a human name. And yet… it was kind of beautiful. Unusual. Striking. But why was she thinking this? Why couldn’t she just get over it? Vi was being punished. She was probably not going to make it out alive. So why did Octavia feel like something was wrong? Like something about this entire situation was bigger than any of them realized?

Loona sat cross-legged on her bed, setting an alarm on her phone for later. With a soft grunt, she stood up and wandered over to her wardrobe, digging around absentmindedly until her hand brushed against something familiar. She pulled out an old memory book and opened it, flipping through the worn pages. Her eyes landed on a photo of her dad when he was younger—much younger—and beside him stood a woman she didn’t recognize at first. His mom? she wondered, tilting her head. She lingered on the image for a moment, trying to imagine what kind of life he had before her. Before them. With a quiet sigh, she closed the book and slid it back into its place, then returned to her bed and flopped down, staring blankly at the ceiling. A knock echoed from her door, snapping her out of thought. She pulled one earphone out and looked toward it. “Come in!” she called. The door creaked open, and Blitzo stepped inside, walking toward her with that usual sheepish look on his face. “Hey, sweetie… I need you to come with me to Valentino’s studio later, if that’s alright,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. Loona frowned. “I’ve got to meet up with Octavia later,” she objected. “I know, Loonie. You can bring her along. We’ve got something important to do,” he replied gently.

“Blitz, if this is about the human girl there isn’t much we can do about it.”

Blitzo stood in silence for a moment, his mind stuck on something—“Human girl.” He repeated the term under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn’t just what Loona had called her… it was the way the words felt. Cold. Distant. Detached. He didn’t know Vi—not really—but something about the whole situation didn’t sit right with him. Why would Octavia, someone so closed off and passive, suddenly snap and fight someone? If Vi wasn’t the one who started it… what pushed Octavia to want to hurt her? To kill her? Blitzo’s thoughts twisted in quiet frustration before he glanced back at Loona. “Just do what I say,” he muttered firmly, his tone more tired than strict. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As his footsteps faded down the hallway, Loona sat in silence, staring at where he had just been. That was weird. He’d been quiet—too quiet. Not like the usual loud, chaotic dad who cracked bad jokes and couldn’t sit still. He was being someone else entirely. It unsettled her. She’d grown used to his annoying energy, the way he always made a scene just to get her attention. And even though she’d never said it out loud, it was comforting in its own way. Loona didn’t think of him being her adoptive father as anything bad. She just… never really learned how to show love back.

It’s not that she hated him either—far from it. But she was just… annoyed. All the time. At everything. And she knew it wasn’t fair, especially not to Blitzo. He always tried, in his own messed-up, overbearing way. And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to realize how her constant eye-rolls, silence, or blunt replies might have chipped away at him over time. Sitting there now, in the quiet he left behind, Loona felt a strange tightness in her chest. She hoped he wouldn’t change. Not really. She hoped he’d still be the same dumbass, loud-mouthed, emotionally clumsy clown she’d grown up with. Because if he stopped being that… she wasn’t sure what she’d be left with.

___________

Evening settled in, casting a warm hue across the palace walls as Octavia got ready in her room. She picked up her hair curler and began styling her hair with extra care—tonight, for once, she wanted to look good. After curling the ends, she placed a cute little band-aid over her nose, a subtle touch of personality, and reached for her hairspray. She held the can up and gave her hair a light, even misting, setting everything in place. Walking to her wardrobe, she picked out something casual but stylish—comfortable outwear that matched her mood—and grabbed her favorite big boots. She laced them tightly, double-knotted, then stepped in front of the mirror to take one last look at herself. Satisfied, she grabbed her bag, filled it with a few essentials, slung it over her shoulders, and carefully opened her bedroom door. She tiptoed downstairs, doing her best to avoid any of the palace guards. But just as she reached the lower floor, she spotted her father, Stolas, in the distance. Octavia immediately ducked her head and hurried her pace, slipping out through one of the tall windows with practiced grace. She was just about to pull the window shut when his voice stopped her. “I can see you, my dear,” Stolas called gently from the open window above. Octavia froze and slowly turned to look up at him, her expression guarded, expecting a lecture or some overly protective plea. But instead, Stolas simply extended his arm and held out a bottle of water—crystal clear, with ice clinking softly inside. “You stay safe, my dear,” he said with a faint smile. “But next time, tell me when you're leaving. You're in your teenage years—you can have fun all you want to.” Octavia blinked, caught off guard by the rare moment of trust, then silently took the bottle and gave him a small nod before slipping away into the night.

“Dad.” Octavia looked up at Stolas, her eyes softening before she suddenly leaned in and threw her arms around him in a quick, rare hug. Stolas let out a surprised hoot and gently patted her head, smiling warmly. “Don’t come home too late!” he called after her as she pulled away and began to run. Octavia gave a small nod without turning back, disappearing into the evening with the bottle still in hand. She made her way through the busy streets toward the I.M.P. building, dodging clusters of loud imps and keeping her head low under her hoodie. Pulling out her phone, she opened Loona’s profile and hit the call button. The moment she heard the click of Loona picking up, she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hey, I’m on the way!” she said, weaving through the crowd. “Alright, I’m outside waiting. By the way, you wanna come with me to Val’s studio? There might be food being served,” Loona replied, casual as ever. “Yeah, sure,” Octavia said, ending the call shortly after. A few minutes later, the I.M.P. building came into view, and standing beside Blitzo’s beat-up car was Loona, arms crossed. She spotted Octavia and waved her over before swinging the car door open. “Come on in, girl,” Loona said with a smirk. Octavia climbed in first, slipping into the back seat, and Loona followed, shutting the door behind them. “Alright, girls, seatbelts up!” Blitzo chirped from the front with a wide grin. “Shut up and drive, Blitz,” Loona shot back, rolling her eyes, and the car rumbled to life as they pulled off into the city lights.

The car zoomed out of its parking spot, tires screeching slightly as it pulled into the streets. They drove through the winding roads of Hell, passing flickering neon signs, twisted alleyways, and strange architecture that blurred together in the motion. Octavia stared quietly out the window, her expression unreadable, while Loona sat with her arms crossed, scrolling through her phone. After a while, the car slowed and pulled up in front of Valentino’s lavish, overly showy studio—glowing with lights and echoing with distant music. As the engine cut off, Loona stepped out first, stretching before walking around the vehicle and opening the door for Octavia with a small nod. The younger Goetian slid out of the back seat, glancing up at the towering entrance. Blitzo exited last, adjusting his coat and muttering to himself as he looked toward the building. “Alright… hopefully she’s in there,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

“Isn’t Vi in here?” Octavia asked, “Unless she’s in Valentino’s mansion and not this.. studio.”

“Let’s see for ourselves, kid,” Loona muttered, her tone low and cautious. As they approached, the security at the doors silently stepped aside, allowing them in. The moment they entered, a chill hit the air. The place was oddly quiet—music still played, but it was turned down to a haunting, distant echo that bounced through the empty club. The lights were low, casting eerie shadows across the floor, which was a mess of spilled drinks, torn decorations, and smeared footprints. Blitzo stepped in first, moving deeper into the space until he stopped near the main stage. Bloodstains darkened the floor, and scattered across it was a layer of opium—thick and raw, unmistakable. His eyes narrowed. “Cover your noses,” he warned sharply, glancing over his shoulder. “There’s raw opium on the floor.” He carefully stepped over shards of broken glass, and both Loona and Octavia quickly followed, sleeves pulled over their mouths. “Ugh, what is that smell?” Loona gagged, her nose wrinkling. Octavia tapped her shoulder, whispering just loud enough for her to hear, “You told me we were gonna eat.” Her voice was a mixture of confusion and disgust, eyes wide as she looked around the wreckage.

Vi’s head hung low, her body limp, arms stretched and bound above her as she swayed slightly from the ceiling restraints. Each thud of the paddle against her stomach echoed through the room, followed by a dull grunt slipping from her lips. Valentino struck her over and over, but her reactions had dulled—whether from sheer overexposure or the lingering Novocaine in her system, even she couldn’t tell anymore. The pain had become a rhythm, a background noise. “What did I tell you about misbehaving?!” Valentino snapped, slamming the paddle into her one last time, waiting for her to answer. Vi slowly lifted her gaze, bloodied and tired, and let out a faint, cracked chuckle. “Jack shit,” she muttered weakly, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. That was enough to set Valentino off again. The hits resumed, each one sharper than the last, but Vi barely reacted. She could care less. At this point, pain was a familiar place—almost comforting in its consistency. Maybe, just maybe, if he kept going, she’d finally break apart completely. Maybe she’d finally die and be free from all of it.

“You disgusting piece of nothing! You learn nothing and will always be nothing!” Valentino roared, his voice echoing like a slap across the room. With one final, brutal swing, the paddle cracked in half against Vi’s stomach, the sound sharp and hollow. Her body tensed, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched tightly as the pain pulsed through her like fire. But then, slowly, she opened her eyes—wet, bloodshot, and exhausted—and looked up at him. Her voice came out as a breath, fragile and frayed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just want to rest.”

“That’s too good for you,” Voxxy muttered coldly from the corner of the room as Valentino cut the chains from Vi’s wrists. Her body dropped to the floor like a ragdoll, lifeless and limp. Without another word, both overlords turned and exited the room, their footsteps fading into silence. Not far off, Blitzo had already begun to hear the shouting echo from inside Valentino’s private quarters. He, Loona, and Octavia followed the sound, carefully stepping around shattered glass and scattered debris that littered the floor like remnants of chaos. As they neared the source, Octavia suddenly froze—she felt a firm hand land on her shoulder. She spun around in alarm, only to come face to face with Valentino. “What are you doing here, princess?” he purred, his fingers gently but uncomfortably squeezing her arm. “You’ve grown so big now, my dear. I do apologize for the mess—a big kickass party happened last night.” He let out a low chuckle, the sound curling around his words like smoke. Loona instinctively stepped forward and tugged Octavia back, while Blitzo locked eyes with the overlord, fists clenched at his sides. “Where’s the human?” he asked through gritted teeth. Valentino smirked, unbothered. “Nowhere to be found. But she’s somewhere in my room, crawling around like the rat she is,” he said with a wicked grin. “Why are you looking for her? Planning to blow off some steam?” His voice dipped low, mockingly seductive as he shifted his gaze to Octavia. “Oh! I forgot to ask. How are you doing, my dear? Is your nose healed?” He reached out and flicked her nose, gentle but invasive. Octavia flinched and turned away, stepping back. “Don’t touch it, please… it still hurts, Mr. Valentino,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. Something about his presence made her skin crawl, but beneath her fear, a strange tension built in her chest—that same violent, angry feeling she had felt before. The same one she felt with Vi. Her fingers twitched. Maybe Vi was near.

Something fogged up in Octavia’s head—thick, pulsing, unrelenting. Violence. The urge to hurt someone clawed its way up her throat like bile. Her eyes darkened as her chest tightened, and without warning, she yanked her wrist free from Loona’s grip. “Let go of me!” she snapped, voice sharp and panicked. Loona recoiled slightly, startled. “Octavia? Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering across her face. But Octavia wasn’t listening—her eyes were darting, unfocused, and her breathing quickened. “You told me we were just going to eat,” she shouted, fists trembling. “I want to leave!” “Okay, alright—hey, it’s okay,” Loona said quickly, trying to calm her, placing a hand near her but not touching again. She turned to Blitzo urgently. “Blitz, we have to go—”

“No,” Blitzo hissed under his breath, turning toward them with a sharp glare. “You guys are gonna fucking stay here until we find the human.” His voice was low but firm, laced with a quiet fury. Valentino raised a brow, catching a glimpse of the parked car just outside the studio’s entrance. “A car?” he mused aloud with a smirk. “I thought dear Stolas had given you the book of spells. Much easier transportation.” Blitzo didn’t flinch. “He wasn’t able to hand it to us—since the incident with the human,” he replied, his tone colder now. Valentino paused, nodded once with an almost theatrical flick of his wrist, and began walking off without another word. “Well, off you go,” he called casually over his shoulder. “Not much to do around here but cleaning.”

“Alright. Thanks… for nothing,” Blitzo muttered, the last part of his sentence trailing off under his breath as he turned away. Octavia stood a few steps back, clearly trying to put distance between herself and both Valentino and the building. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and her eyes stayed glued to the floor. Blitzo glanced at her, concern flashing in his expression. “Okay, let’s head to the car, alright?” he said, trying to sound lighter. “I’m sure you’ll feel better. We’ll hit a restaurant or grab some takeout—your pick.” But Octavia didn’t respond. She just stayed silent, her face blank, her body stiff as stone, like her thoughts were still trapped somewhere inside that building.

Vi dragged herself across the pavement toward the parking lot, her limbs heavy and shaking. She reached a brick wall, using it to pull herself upright with slow, trembling movements. Her eyes landed on Blitzo’s car—and with the last bit of strength she could summon, she slammed her hand against the trunk, breaking it open with a loud crack before collapsing backward. She froze for a moment, listening—no footsteps, no alarms. Good. Without wasting another second, she scrambled inside the trunk, her breath ragged. She buried herself under stray pieces of fabric meant for covering car seats, curling up tightly. With one last push, she reached up and pulled the trunk shut, cloaking herself in darkness. Moments later, muffled voices drifted in—Blitzo and the others. Vi pressed a hand over her mouth, heart pounding, as the soft hum of the car engine kicked in and cool air began circulating. Maybe this was her chance to rest. Maybe this was the safest she’d been in days. She laid still, her hand grazing her stomach—still soaked in blood. She didn’t know how she was still alive. Maybe the Novocaine. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small tube, lifting it to her lips for a slow sip. Her fingers trembled from pain and fear, but she closed her eyes and clutched the tube close, letting the cold air lull her into something like sleep.

Vi closed her eyes and took a slow, shaky breath, the air from the car’s vents brushing gently across her face. The exhaustion finally caught up with her, and she passed out, her body curled tightly on the rough surface of the trunk. As the car began to move, she barely felt the motion—only the faint, distant rocking that soothed her battered nerves. Somehow, she’d gotten lucky. No one had seen her. Maybe they thought she was dead. Maybe this was her chance to disappear, to finally escape this hell and find her sister again. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn how to survive on her own.

“I didn’t get to see her.”

“I don’t feel too good, I want to go home.”

“You sure? You don’t wanna have a take out?”

“Fine, I’ll get a big mac.”

_____________

A few moments later, Blitzo pulled up in front of Stolas’ palace. Octavia opened the car door, a bag of McDonald’s in hand, stepping out slowly. “Take care, kiddo,” Loona called from her seat, leaning over. “You sure you don’t wanna go out and buy something else? I get it—I’m the same way when it’s that time of the month. Girls gotta support girls, huh?” She gave Octavia a gentle pat on the shoulder. Octavia managed a small smile. “Yeah… I guess I gotta learn from you.” She backed away with a wave. “See you!” Loona shouted as the car sped off down the road.

In the trunk, Vi stirred at the sudden jolt of movement. Her eyes snapped open, and she peeked through a crack in the fabric, just in time to see the towering gates of the palace disappearing behind them. “Shit,” she muttered, panic rising in her chest. “I need to get out of here!” Without hesitation, she shoved the trunk open from the inside. The wind hit her face, and with a burst of desperate energy, she rolled out of the moving car and hit the ground hard, tumbling across the pavement.

Vi tumbled across the concrete, the impact scraping her skin until she finally came to a stop—face-down and breathless. Dazed, she slowly opened her eyes, the rough texture of the pavement pressed against her cheek. Her ears rang, her body screamed, but her mind was clear on one thing: she had to move. If an imp saw her here, they’d drag her straight back to Valentino’s hell. With a weak grunt, she pushed herself up, one arm clutching her bloodied stomach. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she managed to stagger to her feet. Reaching into her pocket for comfort—for survival—her fingers met sharp pain instead. She yelped softly and pulled her hand back, a fresh trail of blood running down her fingers. The glass tubes of Novocaine had shattered. “Shit,” she whispered, the panic tightening her throat. The last thing keeping her numb was gone.

Well, it’s not like she could do anything about it now. Vi winced as she carefully pulled her bleeding hand from her pocket, then began limping toward the alleyways, one shaky step at a time. She pulled her hoodie up over her head, clutching the wall for support as the pain in her stomach throbbed with every movement. Along the sidewalk, a homeless imp lay snoring beside an old bottle. Without hesitation, Vi crouched and snatched it up, quickly checking its contents—money. Enough to matter. She stuffed the bills into her pocket and tossed the empty bottle aside, glancing around before slipping back into the shadows.

Eventually, she stumbled across a narrow, grimy tunnel, the kind that practically whispered danger. Her breath caught. For a moment, her vision flickered—flashing back to that black void she’d seen before everything went to hell. She shook it off with a bitter scoff. “I’m not that white,” she muttered to herself, brushing off the thought as she turned sharply out of the tunnel and limped another way.

And there it was—the mansion. The same cursed place she’d once been dragged through. She narrowed her eyes and kept her distance, studying it like prey. She needed a way in. Maybe the back door. Maybe something less obvious. Either way, she wasn’t done here.

Vi circled around Stolas’ palace, her eyes scanning every wall, ledge, and shadow. That’s when she spotted it—an open window, slightly ajar. Guards were stationed all around, their eyes sharp and movements calculated. She had to be quiet. Very quiet. Keeping low, Vi slipped behind towering pillars and marble statues, inching her way through the courtyard like she was back in the undercity again. The adrenaline kicked in—this was muscle memory. The old Vi, the one who stole and survived, hadn’t completely died.

She reached the window and, with a careful breath, pulled herself inside. Smooth, silent, practiced. Her feet touched the floor with barely a sound. She crept down a hallway and entered what looked like a pristine kitchen—until she froze. A maid stood directly in front of her, staring with wide eyes full of confusion and growing fear.

“Security!—” the imp tried to shout, but Vi moved fast. Her hand clamped over the maid’s mouth, her other arm wrapping tightly around the imp’s neck. “Shhh, don’t fight it,” she whispered through gritted teeth, holding firm until the maid’s body went limp and her feet slid across the polished floor. Without missing a beat, Vi dragged the unconscious body to the janitor’s room and shoved her inside, locking the door behind her. Her heart pounded. One down. Stay quiet. Stay sharp.

Her stomach growled violently, twisting in on itself like it was eating her from the inside out. Vi winced and clutched it, when suddenly—an idea. She stumbled toward the storage room she’d passed earlier and quietly slipped inside, locking the door behind her. The moment she turned around, her breath hitched. Shelves upon shelves of food—bags of chips, canned goods, bottled drinks, even beer. Her eyes landed on a bag of Cheetos. She picked it up, examining the bright, unnatural design with tired curiosity. The plastic tore open in her hands, and the snacks spilled onto the floor. Vi gasped softly, immediately dropping to her knees. She picked one up, sniffed it with suspicion, then shoved it in her mouth.

And that was it. Something inside her snapped.

Vi began devouring them—fistfuls at a time, the powder smearing around her mouth. She moaned quietly, her body trembling with relief. It’s been days. Days without food. But even as she ate, it wasn’t enough. The taste was so foreign, so cheesy and salty, it lit up her senses like fire. She ripped more items from the shelf, tearing open bags and chewing with her eyes closed, not even caring what she was eating anymore. She licked her fingers clean, smearing dirt and dried blood across her lips, and didn’t stop—she couldn’t.

Then her gaze caught a crate of bottled water. She scrambled over, pulled one out, and held it up. “Nice and cold,” she muttered, voice hoarse with exhaustion. She twisted off the cap and chugged it down greedily, gasping for air between gulps. The water coated her throat, her stomach, her hands. She didn’t care about the mess. With trembling fingers, she poured some of it over her bloodied palms, trying to scrub them clean—if only just to feel a little more human.

She froze at the sudden sound of a knock on the door. Shit. Her heart stopped for a second. Panic surged through her chest as her eyes darted around the storage room, scrambling for a distraction. That’s when she spotted it—a rat scurrying near the shelves. Without hesitation, Vi crept up, her footsteps silent, and swiftly grabbed it by its belly. The rat squirmed, but she placed it gently beside the torn-open bag of chips, hoping the scene looked convincing. Just as she slipped into the shadows near the door, it creaked open. A butler stepped in, grumbling to himself at the mess. The instant his back was turned, Vi crouched low, her breath held tight in her chest, and quietly slipped past him. One foot in front of the other, smooth and silent—like a shadow on the move. Within seconds, she was back out in the hallway, the door slowly shutting behind her.

Vi crept her way upstairs, her footsteps light against the ornate floor. Her eyes caught the edge of an open door—a quiet, empty room lined with towering shelves of books. She slipped inside, closing the door behind her just enough to feel hidden. The air smelled of paper and dust, untouched and still. She remembered something—Valentino mentioned a book. Something important. Her gaze drifted along the spines until one caught her eye, a strange pull drawing her to it like a thread tugging at her chest.

Then she heard it—ringing. Soft, high-pitched, and constant. It was coming from the book. Vi reached out and grabbed it, and the sound stopped instantly, as if obeying her touch. Confused, she flipped it open, squinting at the unfamiliar symbols and messy scrawl that filled the pages. Nothing made sense. The longer she stared, the more questions clawed at her mind.

But before she could try to decipher it, the floor creaked just outside the door. Footsteps—slow, deliberate, and getting closer. Her breath caught in her throat. She glanced around in panic until she spotted a low couch in the corner. Without thinking, she dropped to the ground, clutching the book tight, and slid underneath the couch just as the doorknob turned.

“Octavia, sweetie. What’s wrong?” Stolas asked gently, watching his daughter as she set her McDonald’s bag down and slumped onto the couch, visibly distressed. “I don’t feel too well… I’m just—stressed out, Dad,” she murmured, rubbing her temples with both hands. Her voice was low, strained, like her thoughts were spinning too fast to hold onto. Stolas sighed softly, concern etched in his features as he glanced toward the door. “We’ll bring you to the clinic tomorrow, just in case,” he said, his tone shifting. “Might be that filthy angel that did something to you.” He turned to the mirror, running a claw through his feathers to smooth back his hair, clearly trying to stay composed. “But for now,” he said as he stepped toward her with a gentle smile, “let’s get you to your room. It’s time for a nap, my dear.”

Octavia stood up from the couch, trailing quietly behind Stolas as he led her out of the room. He paused at the doorway, scanning the space one last time before gently closing the door behind them. Silence settled again. From beneath the couch, Vi slowly crawled out, her body stiff and aching. She didn’t waste time—her eyes locked onto the window across the room. She limped toward it, peeking outside. Below was a bush—dense, wild, and just thick enough to break a fall. Thank god, she thought, gripping the windowsill. She climbed up, bracing herself as her breath grew shallow. No time to hesitate. With one last glance back at the empty room, Vi stepped up onto the ledge and leapt.

Vi felt the sharp tear of her wound reopening as she slipped from the windowsill, her body twisting mid-air. She let out a yell as she clipped a rusted pipe on the way down, the impact jolting through her ribs before she finally crashed into the thick bush below. But the relief was short-lived—thorns dug into her skin like needles. She scrambled out, slapping off leaves, thorns, and whatever bugs clung to her bloodstained clothes. Stumbling back, she crashed into a trashcan, knocking it over as she hit the ground beside it. Gasping, Vi pulled herself upright with the help of the brick wall behind her, her breath ragged, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. Then she remembered the book. Her eyes widened. She turned and saw it lying nearby where she’d fallen. Limping back, she snatched it off the ground and hugged it to her chest. “I need to put this somewhere… this could probably help me return to where I came from,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked up to the window she’d escaped from one last time before she turned and began walking away from the building, disappearing into the dark.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” a man spoke.

Vi’s eyes snapped wide open as she spun around, immediately falling into a fighting stance. “Don’t fucking touch me!” she shouted, her voice edged with a growl. Clutching the book like a weapon, her body tensed as the man raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to hurt you, calm down,” he said calmly. “I know you’re human and I’m not, but not every demon wants to hurt you. We’re more alike than you think—well, except for the overlords. And the sins.” He stepped closer, his pink-striped spider-like body moving cautiously as he tried to reach for her hand. Without hesitation, Vi slammed the book into his face. The impact knocked Angel Dust back, and he stumbled to the ground, clutching his cheek. “Ah! Damn, lady, you hit really fuckin’ hard!” he groaned, rubbing the sting as he got back up. Vi didn’t flinch. Her glare cut into him like knives. “I know exactly what you are and what you want. I don’t give a shit about whatever excuse you’re trying to sell me,” she spat, before turning and bolting away. “Hey—wait!” Angel Dust called out, scrambling to find a way to catch up. She was fast—unnervingly fast, maybe even matching a demon’s stride. He shook his head, letting out a breath as he started chasing after her.

Vi yanked on a broken section of the brick wall, watching as it collapsed with a loud crash in front of Angel Dust, hoping it would slow him down. Angel skidded to a stop, eyes wide in disbelief. What kind of strength did this human have to pull that off? Without missing a beat, he leapt over the rubble while Vi scrambled up the stairs, gripping the railings and hauling herself up with sheer force. “Fucking hell!” Angel barked, throwing his hands up in frustration before charging after her, dragging his feet up the staircase to the very top. Vi stood still on the rooftop, her chest heaving as the wind whipped through her hair. Her hoodie had slipped off, revealing her bruised, dirt-streaked face beneath the moonlight. Angel finally dragged himself to the top, breath ragged and lungs burning. He coughed into his fist, glancing up at her with a half-laugh. “Are you sure they weren’t lying when they called you an angel?!” he wheezed, wiping sweat from his forehead. He took a second to fix his posture and fluff his chest—strangely proud, like he had to keep up appearances… even if his "fluff" looked suspiciously like man breasts.

Vi stared at him, brows furrowed, her chest rising and falling as she tried to make sense of everything. This wasn’t what she expected. No aggression, no mockery—just concern? Her guard stayed up, but the flicker of confusion in her eyes betrayed her crumbling resolve.

She scanned him again. Pink and white fur, four arms, heels—he didn’t even look like the type to chase her up a building, let alone wrestle her down from a ledge. He didn’t scream overlord's goon, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. Not yet.

“What do you want from me?” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “If you’re here to kill me or drag me back to that fucking manwhore then so be it. I’ll die one day anyway—maybe I’ll even get to see my dad when it happens.”

The words fell out bitter and tired, like a knife dulled from overuse. Her arms loosened as the book hit the ground with a dull thud, pages fluttering in the breeze. She looked down from the rooftop’s edge, the city lights below shimmering like a distorted dream. One step. Just one—

Angel moved fast. Too fast.

“Are you dumb?!” he barked, yanking her away from the edge and shoving her back, firm but not cruel. “That’d be the most stupid decision you could make.”

Vi hit the rooftop with a grunt, eyes wide in shock—not from fear, but from someone giving enough of a damn to stop her.

“I don’t know you,” Angel said, his voice lowering, more tired now than angry. “Not personally. But I’ve heard your name from Valentino. Everyone in that fucked-up circle has. I’m running from him too. That’s why I’m here. I just... I wanna know what the hell happened to you.”

Vi looked up at him from the gravel rooftop, stunned silent. This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t another punishment. It was the first time someone asked—not demanded—to understand her.

Vi held the book tightly in her arms, her grip almost too tense for someone who just barely avoided jumping off a rooftop. Her eyes flicked over Angel Dust again—his ridiculous outfit, the too-bright colors, the stupid confidence in his voice—but underneath all that, she saw something real. Tired eyes. Faint bruises hidden under makeup. Maybe he wasn’t just playing a part.

She sighed and lowered her gaze.

“You’re too loud to be lying,” she muttered, not exactly a compliment, but not quite an insult either.

Angel cracked a small grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She hesitated again, then took a shaky step forward. Her legs still ached from everything—wounds stitched together by adrenaline, hunger gnawing at her bones, the last scraps of Novocaine barely dulling the pain—but she moved.

“Fine,” Vi said softly. “Just… don’t touch me unless I say so. I’ve had enough of that.”

Angel raised both sets of hands in surrender. “Deal. Hands off unless you ask.”

He turned and gestured to follow him, not too fast, like he knew she couldn’t move quickly. “C’mon, my place ain’t far. We’ll go through the alleys. I’ll even let you eat the last slice of pizza—maybe.”

Vi let out a weak laugh through her nose, more breath than sound. She didn’t trust him yet, not completely, but it was the first time in days someone offered her something other than pain or pity.

So she followed. Limping. Silent. But she followed.

Vi leaned back into the couch, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her head tilted toward the ceiling, the blood from her wound now soaking into the cushions like it belonged there. Her fingers still gripped the book tightly as if letting go meant she’d fall apart again.

Angel Dust watched her carefully from the chair, legs crossed and arms lazily draped over the sides. He looked relaxed, but Vi noticed how his eyes stayed sharp. He wasn’t stupid.

“You sound like you’re bragging about being used,” Vi muttered, not looking at him.

Angel scoffed. “I’m bragging about surviving it.”

Vi turned her head slowly to meet his eyes.

“You think I wanted any of that crap he put me through?” Angel continued, his voice losing some of its snark. “Every job, every night, every time I smiled while I hated myself—hell no. But I made it out. I learned how to smile through it, until I could walk away without flinching.”

Vi didn't say anything right away. Her chest rose and fell a little unevenly as she absorbed his words. Her thumb stroked the edge of the book’s cover, a nervous tick she didn’t even notice.

“Why are you helping me?” she finally asked. “You don’t even know me.”

Angel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because I do know you. Not your name, not your past—but I know that look.” He pointed to her face. “You’re stuck in a body that feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. You’ve been pulled so far from yourself that you’re starting to forget who that was. And I’ve been there.” Vi’s eyes watered slightly, but she blinked it away. “You can sleep here tonight,” he said softly. “I won’t ask you for anything. Tomorrow, we can talk more about that book of yours. I’ve seen shit like that before. Maybe I can help.” Vi looked around the room—grimy, cluttered, a few lipstick-stained mugs on the counter—but it was safe. For now.

She finally let the book rest beside her, leaning fully into the couch. “If you try anything,” she mumbled, “I’ll kill you.”

Angel gave a small, amused grin and leaned back. “Atta girl.”

She closed her eyes.

For the first time in what felt like years, Vi let herself fall asleep.

Angel Dust froze for a second. Jokes were his armor, his comfort zone—but the second Vi took her top layers off, his words caught in his throat.

The sheer amount of damage made him feel sick. This wasn’t just someone who’d been roughed up—this was someone who’d been torn apart over and over again, like her body had become a message board for pain and survival. There were old scars that looked like burns, lashes, deep punctures. Some looked like they’d never healed properly. And fresh ones too—raw, red, stitched by panic and maybe a broken needle.

Angel didn’t speak right away. He opened the medkit and grabbed a cotton pad, soaking it with alcohol. His usual dramatic flare was gone.

“This’s gonna sting,” he said, voice low and careful now. Not soft, not babying—but respectful. The kind of tone someone used when they’d been there too.

Vi didn’t flinch when the alcohol hit her skin—she hissed through her teeth, sure, but she didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned into it. Like it was a reminder she was still alive. Angel dabbed carefully, watching the way her muscles twitched.

“He never paid me,” Vi repeated, quieter this time. “He used me like a toy. A display. Something to humiliate in front of others. Like that’s all I was good for.” Angel’s jaw clenched. “That’s his MO. Makes you feel like you owe him, like you’re just some breathing ornament. Seen it a hundred times. Been it too.” He gently cleaned a gash near her rib. “But you got out. That’s the part that matters now.” Vi didn’t respond. Her eyes were on the wall, but she wasn’t really looking at anything. “Most folks that go through that?” Angel muttered, tearing open a bandage, “They don’t even try to run. You did.”

“I didn’t do it to survive,” Vi whispered. “I just didn’t wanna die there.”

Angel didn’t answer for a moment. He wrapped the last wound and started packing the kit again. “You don’t gotta explain yourself to me,” he said finally. “You lived. That’s all the damn reason you need.” He handed her back her hoodie and looked at her seriously. “You wanna get out of Hell? Or at least screw Valentino over for good? I’m in. Just say the word.” Vi pulled her hoodie back on slowly, her blood-streaked hands trembling just a little. Then, finally, she nodded.

Vi stared at the wall, her breath shallow as her eyes glazed over, “I don’t even know where to start…” she murmured, voice trembling slightly. She paused, her hands curling into fists on her lap, blood still crusted on her knuckles. “It felt like days. I didn’t even know what was real anymore. I begged, but they didn’t stop.” Her eyes flickered to Angel Dust, raw and heavy with pain. “They didn’t even want anything. Just to hurt me.” Her voice grew quieter.

“I don’t know, I fell into some hole and ended up in this thing called a… sinner’s pool? I forgot the name of the guy who told me about it. But I just don’t get why I’m even here. I want to go back, so I stole this book.” Vi picked up the book and held it out to the demon, flipping through the pages. “I don’t understand anything in this damn book, but maybe it can help me get back to Earth.”

“That book belongs to the Goetian family, you really need to hide it,” Angel said with a concerned tone. “If they find out you stole it, there’s a good chance you’ll never get to go back to your world. Instead, you’ll end up dying and landing right back here. And when that happens, they’ll torment you.” He stood up and walked over to his wardrobe, rummaging through it for something comfortable Vi could wear. “What about you?” Vi asked, watching him sift through the clothes. “What’s your deal with Valentino?” Angel paused for a second, then answered, “I’m basically a pornstar. I wanna quit, I really do, but Valentino won’t let me. It’s complicated. I just wish Charlie would come through and save me from this already.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“You haven’t heard? Charlotte Morningstar! Lucifer’s daughter. She’s the founder of the Happy Hotel—a place where sinners basically work their way toward redemption. I don’t know if it could ever save a soul like me,” Angel Dust said as he pulled out a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of black pants, holding them up for Vi to see. “I think you should change your outfit. I’ll get your clothes cleaned up, so there’s nothing to worry about,” he added, handing the clothes to her. Vi took them quietly. “So you basically work for him? As a pornstar?” she asked. Angel nodded and shut the cabinet. “What’s your name?”

“Angel Dust! But you can just call me Angel.” He winked at her before making his way to the bathroom to check the shelves. He looked back at Vi and kicked off his heels. “Once you’re done taking a shower, come back to me so we can take care of the rest of those wounds.”

“Why are you helping me? I get your name’s Angel and everything but I don’t understand why you out of anybody helped me.” Vi questioned, crossing her arms and legs.
“Look hun, I’m just here to help you out ‘cause I see you being in a tough position. I’m going through the same, but I promise you that there is no funny business or any of that sort,” Angel replied.

Vi just nodded and sighed, she stood up and made her way to the bathroom with Angel’s clothes. His career does explain the bra and the underwear she borrowed from him. “And don’t worry! That underwear’s unused!” Angel yelled from outside the bathroom as she began to undress herself.

Vi made her way to the shower, twisting the handle as warm water immediately began pouring on her body. This was honestly refreshing. Blood drizzled down on her thighs that came from her cuts and wounds, watching as it mixes with the water that went down the drain. She brushes her hair back and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She twists the handle, stopping the water before she steps out and wears the borrowed clothing, squeezing out her wet hair before exiting the bathroom, holding her dirty used clothes. “Where do I put these?” Vi asked, “Just at the basket hun! I’ll bring them to the laundry shop. And don’t even worry about paying, I get enough from my job.” Angel grabs his wallet and takes out some money as Vi just puts her dirty clothes inside of the said basket.

Angel sat on a chair as he pats the fluffy armchair, signalling Vi to come and sit down. “Come now, we got wounds to heal.” He said and took out his medkit, bringing out items to use to help Vi.

“Be a strong girl for me, okay?” Vander spoke inside of Vi’s head. She looked at her front and saw Vander instead of Angel, she stared at him. “She still needs you, they all do, I do.”

Vi closes her eyes and leans her head back into the couch, passing out.

Chapter 5: Novocaine, Never same, Giving local luck

Summary:

Vi finally leaves.

Octavia was lying on her bed eating snacks, eyes flicking over her laptop screen as music played through her headphones. She took a sip from her juice box, placing it back on the cluttered desk beside the bed while she scrolled through Google, buried in research about life in other universes—just another way to distract herself. A sudden knock came from the door, followed by Stolas’s voice calling out, “Octavia!” as he continued knocking gently. With a sigh, she pulled off her headphones and shuffled to the door, fingers curling around the handle before she pressed it down and cracked it open. “What do you want, dad?” she asked with an exhausted drawl. Stolas gave a bright smile, his hands folded together with hopeful energy. “Darling, would you like to go shopping with me? We could find a dress for you to wear at Lucifer’s gathering.” Octavia gave a soft, surprised chuckle, her lips curling into a faint smile as she gave a small nod. “Sure, dad.” It had been a long time since they’d done something like this, and despite everything, maybe this was a chance to reconnect. “How have you been feeling lately? Are you still stressed?” he asked softly, lifting a hand to cup her face with care. “No, I’ve been… feeling better since I ate. I think I was just hungry, dad,” she mumbled, her voice trailing into a half-whine as she gently leaned away from his touch. Stolas clapped his hands together with a delighted hoot, “That’s wonderful to hear, my little star! I’ll wait for you downstairs, alright?” he added cheerfully before closing the door behind him.

Stolas stepped into the library and shut the door behind him with a soft click, the quiet creak of wood echoing faintly. His gaze drifted to the slightly ajar window, the breeze curling through the room unsettlingly. He approached it, frowning, and closed it with a firm push before turning to scan the shelves. His eyes flicked across the spines of the books, searching for one in particular—yet something felt off. A twinge of unease tightened in his chest. Where was it? That book was always there. Who had moved it? Who dared take it? His gaze darted back to the window, a knot forming in his stomach. Blitzo. Could it have been him? He exhaled sharply, frustration prickling at his temples, and moved quickly toward the telephone. With rigid fingers, he dialed Blitzo’s number, each ring heightening his tension—until the call abruptly declined. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he cleared his throat, then slammed the receiver down with a harsh clack. Without wasting another second, he stormed out of the room, descended the stairs with purpose, and summoned a portal with a sweeping motion of his hand, stepping through to arrive at Blitzo’s building. The room was eerily quiet as he glanced around, stepping further in to make sure. “Blitz?” he called out, his voice edged with a mix of concern and rising anger.

__________

Angel Dust lay on his large bed, back turned to Vi as soft breaths rose and fell in his sleep. Vi, however, couldn’t find rest—her mind was too loud. The voices refused to leave her alone. She sat up slowly, pressing her fingers to her face in frustration, eyes drifting toward the door. Her breath hitched when she noticed something—just at the edge of the doorway, a thin, blue braided strand of hair slipping out of view like it was alive. Without hesitation, she stood and crept toward the door, placing her palm against it and leaning in to listen closely. “Vi?” Jinx’s voice called softly from the other side, prompting her to jerk the door open with a sudden rush of urgency—only to be met with nothing. Just a gust of cold wind brushing past her skin as if someone had been there a second ago. Her eyes scanned the dim hallway, catching sight of two faint strands of blue hair retreating around the far corner. Without thinking, she stepped out and followed quickly, her heart pounding. Back in the room, Angel’s eyes fluttered open, instinct tugging at him. He turned over and noticed the open door, his gaze immediately shifting to the space beside him—empty. He sat up fast, glancing around in confusion. Vi’s book still lay there, untouched, but she was gone.

He stood up in a rush, bolting out of the apartment as panic took over, eyes darting down the hallway where Vi’s shadow moved just beyond the glass panels of the windows. “Vi!” he called out, voice cracking with urgency as he sprinted after her. The human girl didn’t stop—she was locked in on the silhouette ahead, a familiar, haunting figure that walked just a few steps beyond her reach. She watched it slip through a door and out onto the balcony. “Powder?” Vi whispered, heart thudding, before she reached out and grabbed the handle, yanking the door open. Just as the door creaked on its hinges, Angel caught up and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back with sudden force. On the balcony, Jinx turned around and looked Vi dead in the eyes—calm, almost sad—before silently leaning back and letting herself fall into the open air. “No! Powder!” Vi’s voice broke as she screamed, thrashing in Angel’s grip, tears pouring as she struggled to reach her sister. “Vi, there’s nobody there!” Angel said, his voice firm but gentle, grounding her in place as she began to crumble. Her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees, wailing, while Angel knelt down behind her, hands softly rubbing circles on her back. “Shh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay,” he murmured, trying to soothe her, even as her cries echoed down the hallway. He slowly began guiding her back toward the apartment, his grip secure but careful. “Come on, it’s okay. We have to go back, Vi,” he whispered as she continued sobbing, resisting at first but eventually letting herself be led inside. Once they entered, Vi collapsed on the floor in a storm of tears, curled in on herself. Angel watched her, stunned by the rawness of her pain—who knew a human could carry something so heavy, so loud? She rocked back and forth, broken cries escaping her as she held her head in her hands. Without hesitation, Angel dropped to his knees beside her, wrapping his arms around her trembling body, rubbing her back and gently stroking her head. “I just need to die! All I need to do is die!” Vi screamed, voice tearing itself apart. “No, don’t say that,” Angel whispered, holding her tighter, “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Calm down.” He slowly lifted her up by the torso, pulling her into his chest, hugging her with all four of his arms. Vi sobbed into him, her breath hitching between cries, eyes red and swollen, while Angel rocked her gently in the dim light.

Vi gently clung to Angel’s arms, her fingers trembling as she leaned her head onto his shoulder, a weak, muffled groan slipping from her lips between sobs. “Where’s my sister?” she asked, her voice raw and broken, barely above a whisper—strained, hoarse, and desperate. Angel Dust froze for a moment, thrown off by the question, unsure how to respond. He didn’t fully understand what Vi was seeing or feeling, but he knew better than to let her spiral again. “She’s safe, don’t you worry,” he said softly, his tone warm and steady as he ran his hand over the back of her head in slow, comforting motions. “Don’t cry, she’s okay. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Vi continued to sob quietly against him, clinging tighter as her breathing slowly steadied, the hysteria melting into exhaustion. Within moments, her body grew limp, her breaths slow and even—she had passed out in his arms. Angel felt her full weight sink against him and let out a low grunt, shifting slightly. “God, you’re heavy for a human,” he muttered under his breath, though the corners of his mouth curled slightly with a tired fondness. Carefully, he used his long arms to lift her and lay her down gently on the bed, pulling a blanket over her to keep her warm. Once she was tucked in, he sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, watching her sleep. He sighed, the events of the night settling into his chest like bricks. Laying back beside her, his gaze drifted up to the ceiling, thoughts spiraling. Valentino. Fat Nuggets. He wondered how his little pig was doing—probably missing him by now. He’d have to sneak into Valentino’s place tomorrow to pick him up, somehow. And Vi... he couldn’t leave her alone for long, but maybe just enough for a quick trip. She needed rest. They both did.

The sun began to rise, its golden light slipping through the curtains and casting a soft glow across the room. Angel stirred, blinking at the brightness before sitting up with a groggy sigh. He figured he should let Vi know he was heading out—wouldn’t be right to just vanish, not after last night. He turned his head to the left and spotted her still curled up in the blankets, sleeping like a baby. Honestly, he couldn’t blame her. She’d been through hell. Moving quietly, Angel crawled off the bed and stood, the floor creaking beneath him as he stepped over to her side. He knelt beside her and gently pressed his fingers to her forehead, then his palm against the side of her neck. She felt a little warm—not dangerously so, but enough to make him think. Maybe he should cook something warm for her before he leaves, just in case. He reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Hun, wake up,” he said softly. For a second, he paused, realizing he didn’t even know her name. She never told him. He frowned faintly, then gave her arm a light pinch to rouse her a bit more. Vi stirred with a quiet groan, her eyes fluttering open before she sat up slowly, rubbing at them with the back of her hand, still half-lidded with sleep. Her voice came out groggy and uncertain. “Angel?”

“Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m heading to Valentino’s place for a bit,” Angel said softly, crouching beside the bed. “I’ll make ya something to eat first—you seem sick.” His hand gently reached for Vi’s neck again, fingertips brushing against her skin to check her temperature. But in a sudden jolt of panic, Vi’s hand shot up and shoved his away, her breath hitching sharply, eyes wide with a flicker of fear. Angel froze, startled by the reaction, then his expression softened with a mix of guilt and realization. That fear—he’d seen it before. Must’ve been something Valentino did to her, some buried reflex to being touched around the throat. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he said quickly, voice low and calm as he raised both hands in reassurance. “Like I said, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Slowly, gently, he placed his palm on her neck again, only to flinch slightly as he felt the heat radiating from her skin—it was worse than before. He immediately pulled his hand back, eyebrows knitting with concern. “Ooh, no no no. You’re very sick,” he muttered, mostly to himself, before turning and rifling through one of his drawers. Vi, exhausted, simply let her body sink back into the bed, pulling the blanket up a little more as her eyes fluttered half-shut. Angel found a packet of noodle soup and stood up, glancing once more at her before heading to the kitchen, determined to cook something warm for both her and himself. She needed it. Hell, they both did.

Vi stared blankly at the wall, her fingers brushing gently against her neck where Angel had touched her. A ghost of a memory lingered in the sensation. She turned onto her side, eyes falling on the empty space beside her—only to see Caitlyn for a fleeting second. Her breath caught, and she gasped, heart jumping as she sat up abruptly. But the bed was empty. No one was there. No one ever was. She wished there had been. A weary sigh escaped her lips as she slowly laid back down, curling into herself as she closed her eyes and tried to relive the feeling of Caitlyn’s warmth, her presence, her voice. “I miss you, Cupcake,” she whispered, a single tear slipping down her cheek and soaking into the pillow. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes again, blinking back the heaviness, and sat up as a rich, savory scent drifted into the room—it was warm, comforting, and almost surreal. Angel was cooking. Her stomach growled faintly; she was still hungry despite everything she’d stolen from Stolas’ palace. The food there had barely touched the void—days of starvation from her own world still clung to her like a second skin. The stolen chips hadn’t been enough. From the kitchen, she heard Angel place a bowl down on the table and head back toward the bedroom. “Hey, food’s ready!” he called out, voice light, as he returned to the table with his own bowl in hand. Vi slowly stood and made her way out, feet dragging just a little, but she managed a small smirk as she stepped into the kitchen. “You really cooked me something,” she said, eyeing the steaming bowl. “I didn’t know demons could still be nice.”

“You have to meet Charlie then! She’s Lucifer’s daughter—like I said last night,” Angel began enthusiastically, picking up his food with a fork. “People think all demons are violent, but that’s just a stereotype. Okay, sure, most demons are violent, which... kinda leads to the same thing—but I swear, I ain’t like that.” He smiled as he took a bite, speaking between chews, trying to keep things light. Vi stared down at her bowl in silence, her fingers twitching. Something about the scent—the faint mix of spice and broth—hit her wrong. She leaned in closer and took a cautious sniff, and suddenly, a flash of memory struck her like lightning. That same scent. That same chemical undertone. The one Valentino had forced on her. Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred. She slammed her fist onto the table with a loud crack before grabbing the bowl and hurling it across the room—its contents splashing all over Angel, the hot soup burning into his chest as he jumped back with a startled cry. “You’re trying to fucking drug me!” she screamed, her voice raw, trembling with rage and terror. Angel gasped, stumbling to his feet, utterly stunned. “No! What are you talking about?!” he shouted, panic rising in his throat. But then he saw it—Vi’s eyes wide, glassy with pain, her breath ragged, hands shaking uncontrollably. This wasn’t just a reaction. This was trauma, snapping like a whip through her body. “You’re not gonna bring me back to him!” she screamed again, her voice cracking as she backed away. “You aren’t! You’re not going to bring me back!” Her words spiraled into hysteria as she grabbed a chair and hurled it to the ground, the loud crash echoing off the kitchen walls. Angel’s eyes filled with tears as he rushed toward her. “Honey, please! I’m not trying to hurt you—just listen to me!” he pleaded, wrapping his arms around her in desperation. “No! No! Let go of me, you fucking bitch!” Vi shrieked, kicking and thrashing in his hold, every inch of her screaming for survival.

Vi screamed, her voice raw and cracking, tears pouring down her face as she kicked her legs in a panic, thrashing like a cornered animal. Angel held her tightly, feeling every tremor, every ounce of her terror and fury pulsing through her body. He didn’t flinch—he couldn’t. He knew this wasn’t really about him. It was everything she’d been through, everything still clinging to her skin like a second layer of pain. He could feel it. And truthfully, he couldn’t blame her. Not for a second. When her limbs finally stopped flailing, when the violent outburst melted into something shakier and breathless, she collapsed downward, gasping for air in shallow, rapid bursts. Angel instinctively shifted, using one of his other arms to gently rub slow, steady circles on her chest, trying to anchor her in the moment, to ground her in something safe. “It’s okay,” he whispered softly, his voice trembling. “I won’t bring you back. I promise. I’m not going to hurt you.” Vi crouched low, arms wrapped around herself as she struggled to control her breathing, her whole body shaking like a leaf. Angel kept his hands on her—gentle, patient—as he spoke again, softer than before. “Yes, that’s it... it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Angel looked at the spilled food across the floor, then turned back to Vi, her small frame trembling as she sat curled up. He carefully helped her to her feet and guided her gently back to the bedroom, letting her settle in. Once she was down, he returned to the kitchen and grabbed a mop, sighing softly as he began cleaning the mess. The soup had splashed everywhere, staining the floor and table, but he didn’t complain—not once. He picked up the pieces calmly, tossing the shattered bowl and wiping down the surfaces with practiced ease. Good thing he had enough left to make another batch. He moved to the cabinet, pulled out another packet of noodle soup, and began the process again—boiling the water, adding the seasoning, letting the scent slowly fill the air. This time, he approached the bedroom more carefully, holding the new bowl in one hand while gently patting Vi’s back with the other. She was still crying softly, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her forehead resting on them. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” she whispered through the tears, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to.” Angel knelt beside her and let out a soft, shushing breath, his voice warm and steady. “Hey, hey. It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re okay.” He pulled her into a soft hug, arms wrapped securely around her. “Come on, I made you another bowl.” Vi slowly nodded, stood up, and followed him back to the kitchen. She sat down at the table and looked at the steaming bowl in front of her, then picked up the silver spoon and took a small sip. It was warm—comforting even. Angel sat beside her and started eating his own food, casting the occasional glance her way. After a moment, he stood, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water. He placed it gently next to her bowl. “You gotta drink some water, hun. Crying’ll dehydrate you. Trust me—I’d know,” he said with a small, playful laugh. Vi let out a soft, shaky chuckle in return, a faint smile touching her lips for the first time in what felt like forever. She looked at him gratefully, then returned to eating. The food was good. And for now, at least, it was enough to keep her stomach warm—and keep her grounded.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Vi felt safe—with someone—in Hell. She glanced at Angel, a flicker of curiosity breaking through the fog in her mind. “Hey, didn’t you say you were heading to Valentino’s place?” she asked. Angel nodded, taking another bite of his food. “Yeah, I gotta go grab Fat Nuggets. She’s my pet pig—I’m bringin’ her here so I can take care of her properly.” Vi blinked, surprised. “Who’s that?” “Oh, Fat Nuggets? You’ll meet her soon. She’s adorable,” he said with a soft smile, eyes briefly lighting up with warmth. Vi looked down at her bowl, stirring the broth with her spoon. “I’ve never had a pet before,” she said, her voice distant. “Every time I did, they either disappeared or died. Where I grew up, people traded animals for money—or worse. Anything illegal to get by.” She took a sip of broth, letting it linger on her tongue before swallowing. “Someone once traded a baby dragon,” she added with a dry chuckle. “Turned out it was a Wyvern—it ripped him apart in front of everyone.” Angel blinked, his brow lifting in confusion. “Wait—a dragon? Dragons don’t exist in the mortal world.” He leaned forward a little. “Were they revealed or somethin’? That’s news to me.” Vi raised an eyebrow, keeping eye contact as she scooped up more broth. “Yeah, they do. I thought you’d know that. They’re pretty common in the Undercity. Or… Zaun.” “Zaun?” Angel repeated, tilting his head. “Never heard of it. You ended up in Hell, but you’re still human.” “Zaun’s where I was raised,” she said, her voice softening. “With my sister. And my two adopted brothers—Mylo and Claggor.” She chuckled faintly, the names tasting strange after so long. “Been a while since I said their names out loud.” She lifted the bowl and finished off the rest of the soup in a few quick gulps. Angel watched her, and for a moment, he wondered if she was just spinning stories—or if she really had slipped in from another world entirely. He decided not to push. Whatever was going on, she clearly believed it. He stayed quiet, finishing his own food as well. Once done, he stood, gathered their bowls, and brought them to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as he began washing them. “I’ll bring your clothes for a wash today,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll give ’em back when I get home, alright?” Vi gave a small nod as

Angel finished cleaning, then made his way toward the bathroom and dressing room to get ready. Left alone, Vi stood and walked to the window, her eyes scanning the unnatural glow of the hellish city beyond. Without a word, she reached up and shut the blinds, letting the dimness settle in the room. She leaned her forehead against the wall, slowly sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, arms around her knees. Minutes later, Angel stepped out of the bathroom, dressed and ready.

He made his way to the front door, hand gripping the knob. “I’ll be leavin’ now!” he called out cheerfully, twisting the handle and stepping outside—completely forgetting the bundle of Vi’s dirty clothes still sitting untouched.

 

__________________

“We have to find her now!” Blitzo snapped, his voice sharp with urgency as he paced across the room. Moxxie stood his ground, brow furrowed, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Look, Blitz,” he began, his tone edging into a shout, “there are millions of humans out there—on Earth, outside of Hell—dying, fighting, fucking! You seriously can’t expect me to believe that this one human matters more than everything else going on? You have to understand, not everything is going to bend to what you want!” Blitzo slammed his fist against the desk, the sound cracking through the tension like a gunshot. “I need to find her!” he growled, voice thick with something beyond desperation—something raw. “If I don’t, I’ll lose it. I’m already halfway there. There’s just… something about her no one else will understand.” His hand trembled slightly as he clenched it tighter. Millie stepped in, placing herself gently but firmly between the two men, trying to keep Blitzo grounded. “Blitz,” she said cautiously, “listen to me. Going after Vi means going up against Valentino and Voxxy. That’s suicide, and you know it. I need you to really think about what you’re getting into here.” Her voice dropped as she added, “And you’re talking about risking all of us to save the human that nearly got Stolas’ daughter killed. You think Stolas is just gonna let that slide? Think about how he’s going to feel when he finds out what you’re doing.”

“Who the fuck cares about Stolas?!” Blitzo roared, his voice ragged with fury, cracking at the edges. “Who the fuck will, for once— just fucking once—understand all the shit that I fucking think about?! For fuck’s fucking fuck sake!” His rage boiled over as he kicked the desk hard, the crash echoing through the room. Without pause, he grabbed the table and slammed it to the floor with a guttural yell, sending papers flying. He snatched up the scattered files and tore through them, ripping page after page, throwing shreds in every direction like confetti in a storm. Then his eyes landed on the nearest object—the vase. With no hesitation, he hurled it at the wall, where it shattered in an explosive crash of ceramic. From the corner, Loona stood with her arms crossed, deadpan. “There goes my twenty-seven dollars,” she muttered under her breath, watching her dad completely unravel. And she didn’t stop him. Not yet. She just watched, waiting in quiet silence as his breath heaved, movements slowed, and the tantrum started to settle—until eventually, Blitzo began to calm down.

Blitzo did not calm down. He stood there, hunched over with his knees bent and his hands braced against them, panting heavily like a wild animal barely contained. His eyes burned, unfocused, rage still coursing hot through his veins. Without a word, he suddenly straightened, snatched his car keys off the desk, and stormed past the others, roughly shoving them aside as he made his way downstairs in long, determined strides. “Boss, wait!” Moxxie shouted, already running after him, footsteps echoing down the stairwell. Millie followed close behind, her face tense with concern. By the time they reached the front doors, Blitzo was already yanking open his car and sliding into the driver’s seat. Without hesitation, Moxxie and Millie climbed into the back, breathless but unwavering. Blitzo glared at them through the rearview mirror, his voice low and sharp. “I thought you two didn’t wanna come.” Millie met his gaze with steady resolve. “You go down, we go down,” she said firmly. Blitzo’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and without another word, he slammed his foot on the gas, tires screeching as they sped toward Valentino’s studio, chaos inevitable and waiting.

Valentino lounged on his velvet couch, one leg crossed over the other as he stared at the ornate clock on the wall, waiting. He tapped his claws rhythmically against the armrest until he finally heard a knock at the door—soft, hesitant. “About time, my sexy little angel,” he purred, flicking his tongue as he stood up with a wicked grin. Angel Dust stood in the doorway, visibly stiff, swallowing down the urge to cringe. He took a deep breath and walked in, eyes scanning for the small creature he came for. “Hey, buddy,” Angel murmured gently as he scooped Fat Nuggets into his arms, cradling the tiny pig close. “I missed ya.” He pressed a kiss to her head before sparing a glance at Valentino. “Wow,” Valentino sneered, arms wide. “Not even a hi back? What, no love for your old man? Get over here, baby.” He patted his thigh invitingly, leering. Angel shook his head, already stepping back. “I have to go, Val,” he said firmly. Valentino’s smile dropped, and with a sharp growl, he lunged forward, striking Angel across the face with the back of his hand. Angel stumbled, dropping Fat Nuggets to the floor. The piglet squealed and bravely attempted to bite Valentino’s leg—but the moth overlord mercilessly kicked her against the wall. “Nuggets!” Angel screamed, but before he could react further, Valentino grabbed his wrists and slammed him against the wall. “You think you can walk out on me?” he hissed, his breath hot and cruel. “You deserve to be hurt after disrespecting me.” Angel thrashed and yelled, “Fuck off me! Get off!” struggling against his grip. Just then, the front door burst open with a violent crack. Blitzo charged in first, gun drawn, Millie and Moxxie right behind him. In a blur, Moxxie grabbed Angel and yanked him out of Valentino’s grasp, shielding him with his own body. Chaos was seconds away.

“Val, where is she?!” Blitzo barked, storming through the studio, throwing open doors and checking every shadowed corner—even yanking open the closet with force. Valentino stood in the center of the room, coolly removing his shades, his expression hardening. “Who the fuck is ‘she’? You better make your question clear, or I won’t hesitate to fuck you up right here,” he said, voice low and venomous. Blitzo turned and glared at him, eyes burning with fury. “The human, Val. Where is she? Did you kill her?” he demanded. Valentino raised an eyebrow, visibly confused but increasingly irritated. “Kill her? For God’s sake, no,” he scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “She could be on the fucking street for all I care—trying to whore her way into some new job. I swear on Lucifer’s horns, I don’t have that filthy little waste of space in my studio.” He stepped forward, his voice sharpening. “She escaped from me. Good for her. Haven’t seen her since. So how about you all get the hell out of my place before this gets ugly.” As his anger rose, Valentino’s polished exterior cracked, his body deforming grotesquely into his true demonic form—horns curling, flesh twisting, eyes glowing with menace. Blitzo didn’t wait for another word. “We’re done here!” he shouted, signaling the team. I.M.P rushed out with Angel Dust and Fat Nuggets in tow, retreating quickly as Valentino’s monstrous presence loomed behind them, the door slamming shut with a hellish echo.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, silence fell over the studio like a thick fog. Valentino stood still for a moment, then slowly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. With a calm that bordered on eerie, he dialed Stolas’ number. The line rang once—then connected. “Your little human escaped,” Valentino said coldly, his voice low and deliberate. “Release your missis monster.” His eyes gleamed with a wicked, unnatural glow, the light flickering like a slow-burning flame in the dark. Without waiting for a response, he ended the call and tucked the phone away, a malicious grin spreading across his face. He turned and gently closed the door, sealing the room in heavy silence once more. “Now,” he whispered to himself, voice dripping with venom, “the job has started.”

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Vi peeked through the blinds just in time to see the I.M.P. car pull up in front of the apartment complex. Her breath hitched, panic striking her like lightning. “No, no, no... I knew they were gonna come and get me!” she shouted in a whisper, pacing frantically before snatching up the worn book from the bedside table. Her hands shook as she grabbed a pillowcase, using it as a makeshift bag, stuffing the book, her clothes, and boots inside with wild urgency. Her chest tightened as anxiety clawed up her spine, every nerve in her body screaming to run. Without thinking, she rushed to the back window, her eyes scanning the alley below. It wasn’t too far of a drop. Her breath came fast and shallow. She unlatched the window, flung it open, and without another thought, climbed out and leapt down into the alley, landing hard before breaking into a full sprint. Just moments later, Angel and Blitzo burst through the apartment door. Angel’s eyes immediately went to the overturned blankets and scattered drawers. “Vi?! Sweetheart, where are you?!” he called, his voice rising with fear. His gaze darted around the room until he noticed one of the pillowcases was missing from the bed. His expression dropped. “She ran away,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Blitzo frowned and looked around sharply as Millie and Moxxie entered behind them, the tension in the air thick and undeniable.

Vi kept running, heart pounding like a war drum, her breath burning in her lungs. Desperation pushed her forward as she grabbed a discarded piece of carpet from the ground and threw it over her shoulders to hide her silhouette. The cold bit into her exposed skin, but she didn’t stop—not even as the sound of shouting echoed behind her. Imps. They were already on her trail. She turned a corner and spotted the same sewer hole she’d escaped through before. Without hesitation, she sprinted to the rusted trap door, yanked it open, and threw herself inside. A sharp cry tore from her throat as she dropped through the darkness, crashing once again into the familiar mountain of trash. The impact knocked the wind out of her, sending her rolling down to the floor in a heap. Gasping for air, she clutched her chest, her entire body trembling with panic and exhaustion. She looked up toward the distant ceiling above, her vision blurring as her eyelids began to droop. No. She couldn’t sleep now. Not here. Not like this. If her body was trying to shut down, it wasn’t from rest—it was from surrender. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not when there was still a chance—any chance—of getting back to Earth. Back to her sister. Vi forced herself upright, her limbs shaking, and untied the knotted pillowcase. Turning it upside down, she dumped its contents onto the floor: her crumpled clothes, the book, her boots. Her eyes landed on the book and she immediately snatched it up, flipping it open with trembling fingers. Her breath hitched. Something was different. The pages, which had once been covered in incomprehensible scribbles and demonic glyphs, now displayed legible English text. Her eyes widened. “What the hell…?” she whispered. It made no sense. The writing had been nonsense before. How was this even possible?

Vi rubbed her eyes hard, half-expecting the illusion to shatter. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress. But when she looked again—the words were still there. Clear. Sharp. Undeniably in English. Her chest tightened as a chill crawled up her spine. “What… how is this—” she murmured, voice barely above a breath. Her finger hovered over the lines, tracing them slowly, then sped up as she flipped through the pages, eyes scanning each one in disbelief. Every page. Every paragraph. All of it was now perfectly readable. It was no longer demonic symbols or nonsense—it was knowledge. Instructions. Something. Vi’s hands trembled as she clutched the book tighter. But before she could process it all, the book jerked in her grip—and snapped shut on its own, the force of it nearly making her drop it. Her heart skipped, eyes wide, staring down at the closed cover like it had just come alive. The air felt heavier now, like the book was hiding something… waiting for her.

Vi gasped in shock and instinctively hurled the book across the room, her heart pounding in her chest as if it were trying to escape. It hit the ground with a dull thud, lying there harmlessly… or so it seemed. But curiosity clawed its way through her panic. Breathing heavily, Vi crawled toward it, hesitant yet compelled. She reached out and tried to pry the book open again—but it resisted. No matter how hard she pulled, it wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had locked itself, holding onto something it wasn’t ready to give. “Fuck! Open!” she yelled, voice cracking. “Please, I just want to go home! Let me go home! I want to fucking go home!” Her hands shook violently as tears spilled from her eyes, splashing onto the cover. The moment her tears hit the book, it reacted. With a sudden snap, the book flew open on its own, and a surge of glowing cyan light erupted from its pages. Beams of brilliant blue streamed upward, engulfing the space, and everything around her began to tremble. The trash piles rattled. Loose objects flew. The walls themselves seemed to groan under the pressure. The ground rumbled as if a storm was building beneath her, and the light from the book only grew brighter—blinding and alive. A violent gust of wind roared through the sewer, unnatural and loud, like a typhoon tearing its way through stone. Vi’s eyes widened in terror, but before she could move, the cyan beams shot toward her. Her pupils flashed the same vivid blue, and her body lifted off the ground as if weightless. Glowing atoms—cyan and red—spiraled around her, pulsing, circling faster and faster like they were rewriting her being. Her limbs jerked slightly, her arms floating upward, her head thrown back as a scream tore from her throat—raw and guttural, fueled by confusion, pain, and something far deeper. She writhed midair, the power flooding her veins, lighting them up like glowing threads beneath her skin. Her heart illuminated her chest in a radiant pulse, every beat sending tremors through her body. She screamed again, louder, until suddenly—slam!—the book snapped shut. The light vanished. The wind stopped. Everything fell still. And Vi’s body dropped like a ragdoll to the cold floor. Her chest rose and fell weakly, her face pale, unconscious. Sparks flickered along her arms—faint bolts of electricity jumping across her skin, hinting that whatever had just happened… was far from over.

A long time had passed. The once-dark interior of the abandoned junk site now glowed with a strange, unnatural light. It wasn’t harsh or flickering like a faulty bulb—it was steady, soft, almost serene. As if the entire place had suddenly come back to life, electricity humming through dead wires, illuminating forgotten corners. Vi stirred, her body aching as her senses slowly returned. Her eyes blinked open, squinting at the unexpected brightness casting across the floor. “What… happened?” she mumbled groggily, pushing herself up to sit. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, still disoriented, then looked down—and froze. A sharp crackle popped at the tip of her finger, a small bolt of electricity jumping between her digits like a spark from static. She flinched, but there was no pain. Just a warm buzzing sensation. Her eyes widened slightly. “What the hell…?” she whispered. It hadn’t hurt her, but she had no idea where it came from. Her gaze drifted across the floor until she spotted the book, lying shut nearby, its edges faintly glowing with residual energy. Her breath caught in her throat. Could it be the book? Something had changed in her. And whatever it was… it had started with that.

Vi turned her head and spotted the book lying a short distance behind her, its cover still glowing faintly. Without hesitation, she crawled toward it, the urgency in her chest growing heavier. Her fingers grasped the worn cover, and she opened it—still in English, still legible. But nothing else happened. No light, no energy, no storm of atoms—just quiet, still pages. Vi flipped through them quickly, searching for any sign, any clue, anything that could explain what had just happened or why. But there was nothing. The book felt almost… ordinary now. “This isn’t what I wanted,” she muttered bitterly and tossed the book aside, the pages fluttering as it hit the ground. Her voice cracked with frustration. “How do I open the portal?” she asked herself, her eyes darting around the room for something—anything—to make sense of it. Vi stood up, expecting the usual wave of dizziness or weakness, but… it didn’t come. She felt stronger. Steadier. Her feet planted firmly beneath her, her limbs no longer trembling. A strange energy lingered in her body, humming just beneath the surface. Confused, she looked down and noticed the clothes she still wore—Angel’s clothes. With a tired sigh, she pulled them off and slipped into her own, still-dirty outfit. It clung stiffly to her skin. “He didn’t get to wash them,” she mumbled, lifting her jacket to her face. One sniff was enough. She coughed hard. “Ugh.” Her nose wrinkled, but something in her gut told her that dirt and smell would be the least of her problems now.

Vi looked around to see if there was an exit, “Great. Now I’m stuck here.”

Chapter 6: Noticing Power

Summary:

“Ah, that’s what I thought.” She said and threw the hook down. Watching it reach the ground as it shattered.

“Great, now I’m stuck here.” Vi looked around the place and noticed that the site wasn’t dark as usual. She looks at the lights and raises a brow before lifting up her hands and looking down at them in confusion, trying to figure out what happened to her before she even fainted. Well, she knows what happened but she isn’t sure how to think of it. It reminded her of the gauntlets she used against Sevika and noticed that her gauntlets could still be around here. She stood up and walked around the pile of trash, she spotted her gauntlets and immediately made her way to them. They didn’t seem damaged at all, but she wondered if they still worked. She slowly inserts her arms in both of the gauntlets and lifts them up. The weapons released a blue puff of smoke, and looked over at the wall before running her way towards it and punching it. The wall immediately cracked and broke, but it didn’t seem to have much of a great effect. “Still works.” She said before making her way around the pile again to where the book was and slipped off the heavy gauntlets.

She sat back down, crossing her legs into an Indian seat before grabbing the book. She opened it and began flipping pages, until she stopped on one specific page. Exposed veins were attached on the page, it pulsed and seemed to be transmitting some kind of blood. Vi raised her brow and trailed her finger on it. The vein suddenly attaches on her finger, and begins pulsing its liquid into her skin. Vi gasped and began trying to pull off her finger, it hurt like hell. She looked down at it and kept trying to tug it off. The page eventually disappeared and turned into a whole chunk of exposed nerves and veins, and it was connecting itself to Vi. The floor opens up a dark pit, and she ends up falling in it. The book falls with her as Vi hits the floor, she huffed and slowly stood back up. She turned around and saw herself. The place was like a big dark room with one single light in the middle, and the book was in between her and the other Vi. She looked at the book and so did the other Vi.

The other Vi seemed to be more normal than she was. The other her seemed to be the old her, powerless and loved. Vi gave her eye contact and they began walking in circles, trying to steal the book. Vi walked around closer to the book and immediately snatched it, as the other Vi gasped and backed up. They both looked at each other for a moment, and the other Vi’s face distorted all of the sudden. Her body turned into particles and it threw itself on Vi and absorbed inside of her. Vi hugged the book and closed her eyes, and suddenly, they were back on the concrete floor of the junksite. She gasped and opened her eyes, sitting up in fear. Vi stood up and threw away the book before making her way to the ladders that fell, “I have to get out of here.” she mumbled.

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Angel dust sat down on the couch, resting his arm on the armchair. He lets out a sigh in distress while he faces the destruction Vi caused inside of the apartment before she disappeared. What he noticed was Vi’s footprints leading to the window, a strand of her hair was on the floor. She must have jumped down. He couldn’t help but feel pity for her. She must have thought they were bringing her back to Valentino, and for some reason there must have been somethings that Valentino did to her that doesn’t even compare to the things he did to him. He sighed and stood up, making his way to the telephone to call for customer service, “Hello? Yeah, I need my room cleaned up please.” He said, before ending the call and making his way to the bedroom. He laid down and took out his phone, and saw Valentino calling him. He pressed the green circle button and pressed the phone against his ear and in a tired voice he called out, “What?”

“Baby, where did you go? Why’d you run from me?” Valentino spoke through the call. He tapped the end of his cigarette on his ashtray and furrowed his brows, angry that Angel dust had left without even telling him. “Cause I don’t wanna be fucking associated with you anymore!” he yelled through the phone and ended it.

He started crying his eyes out, grabbing his pillow and laying down on the bed. He dug his face into the pillow as he screamed into it; frustrated, angry and scared. He slowly looked up and remembered the book Vi had stolen from Stolas, he jolted up to check if it was still there. He sat up and made his way to his closet, deciding that he should find Vi to ask some help from her. He was helpless, and after that phone call, he was definitely screwed. He grabs a coat and a beanie, it's been awhile since he’s worn something that covered his whole body. He makes his way downstairs and runs to the direction Vi could have possibly gone.

Vi would be trying to climb on the pipes that led to the trapdoor she escaped out of, but the pipes were so hot she couldn’t even poke them or be in its presence. She felt the heat on her face and the steam it was ejecting. She became frustrated and took the broken ladders on the floor and hit the pipes with it, yelling cuss words while she kept hitting them. She drops the metal ladder and makes her way to the pile of trash and takes some dirty clothes out of it, using them as gloves. Out of curiosity, she leaned in and took a sniff and gagged at the smell. But she doesn’t have a choice but to use them, as she makes her way back to the pipes and slowly puts her hand on it. It was much better this time, she still had to bear some of the heat she was still feeling. “Oh god, why am I doing this?” She mumbled before pulling herself up, stepping on the pipes below her as she began continuing to climb. She carefully held onto the pipes, until she stepped on a slippery one and almost fell. Vi screamed and held tighter, panting heavily while she looked back up and continued. She was getting closer to the trapdoor, now all she had to do was to push it upwards. She tried reaching for it, but as she almost got a hold of it, a bolt of electricity came rushing at Vi’s face, zapping herself as she lost balance and fell down, her body hitting the poles. She finally met the floor and expected that she was already dead.

Vi can hear the ringing in her ears, the pain on her body. She might have broken her legs, didn’t she? She didn’t really feel any other pain but the impact of her skin to the floor. Vi opened her eyes, letting out a wince of pain as she started sobbing. She slowly lifted herself up and realised that she didn’t really get much injured. The pain didn’t last for long either, it was like a really painful pinch everywhere on her body that let go. She popped her neck and back before looking back up at the far ceiling. She takes the cloth one more time and puts them over her hands, before attempting to climb one more time. She stopped and just started panting, feeling the painful sting on her chest. She slightly bent over and placed her hands on her knees, “Shit,” She groaned and felt her stomach growling. She was once again hungry. But she couldn’t really tell why her chest was hurting.

Vi looked at the pipes one more time and placed her hands on them once again and pulled herself up. She begins to climb, feeling the steam against her face as she begins sweating. Vi was shaking throughout the whole thing, trying her very best to reach the top. It was less difficult because she now knows which pipes not to touch. She choked on her own saliva and began coughing, but this didn't stop Vi from climbing. She pushed the metal trapdoor upwards once again, and got a glimpse of the sun that went through the little gap. She felt her eyes glitter and carefully held onto the opening and used her other hand to slowly push it up. Vi successfully opens the trapdoor wide, and pulls herself up while pushing down on the pipes. Vi sat on the ground before shutting the trapdoor, heavily panting. She leaned back and looked up at the sky before at the ground. She stood up and made her way around the hill, spotting a house. It seemed to be abandoned from the moss and the red vines that already somehow wrapped around this house. She made her way to it while limping, immediately grabbing the doorknob and trying to open it. She kept twisting it but it seemed locked, and Vi didn't care enough to look for a key to open the house. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the little trick she did to get into people’s houses the same way when she broke into Jayce’s workshop years ago as a kid. She slowly lets go of the doorknob before kicking the door open with her knee. This was easier than she thought it would be, but something unexpected happened. Dust escaped through the doorway, making Vi sneeze and cough. She covers her nose with her hand before waving her hand around to see. She looked down and saw a dead body, he wore a suit and some trousers. His chest was open, and for a moment, Vi swore she saw Mylo. She looked away, before slowly looking back. She steps over the dead body before she uncovers her nose. “You’ve been dead here for a while now, have you?” Vi asked, and looked over a huge metal box. She made her way towards it and pulled it open, seeing a bunch of ropes. She took them and held it with both hands, tugging them to see its stability.

Vi walked backwards, letting the ropes slip out of the box. It appears that the ropes were long enough for something. Since there wasn’t really anywhere else to hide herself in, and that she can’t sleep everyday with a dead body stuck to the floor, an idea pops up in her head. Vi exits the house and throws the rope on the ground, letting go of the rest. She laid it all down and started walking backwards, trying to see how long the rope was. It was a thick rope, so it was something good enough to hold unto as well. She kept walking backwards until the rope didn’t hang down, pulling it into a straight line. She started looking at the rope, walking her way back to where she first dropped the end of the rope. She knew this was long enough, but will it be long enough to be a make-way for the exit of the abandoned junk site?

Vi takes the rope once again, she knows it's a lot of work to do everytime she leaves. But it's not like she can put the ladders together again. But how is she going to hang the rope without breaking anything? Vi makes her way in front of the trapdoor and pulls it open, she looks down and sees how far up she was. Vi slowly puts her head in and looks around for something she can use to hook the ropes on with. She sees a little hook, probably used as an emergency type of thing as well for the workers. She grabbed onto the hook and tried pulling it downwards, but she knew well enough that this hook was close to breaking. She pulled it harder, trying to make it to the equivalent of her weight as it breaks off eventually. “Ah, that’s what I thought.” She said and threw the hook down. Watching it reach the ground as it shattered. Vi leaned back and sighed, trying to figure out what to do. She looked around the trapdoor and noticed something strange. Grass was covering the whole metal ceiling, she began digging the dirt to see. And most of the hill underneath the dirt was metal. She stomps on the metal and hears the thump, but it wasn’t like a thin metal floor. This was strong enough to hold her. Vi spots a little hole next to the corner of the circle opening of the metal trapdoor, pokes her finger inside to stretch it out a little more so the thick rope could go through. Vi pulls her finger out before pushing the two ends of the rope on both of the holes. “Hope this works.” She looked down at the pipes before slowly dropping herself on the pipes while holding onto the two ends of the ropes. Vi took a deep breath before jumping off of the pipes, as the ropes started sliding down. Vi closed her eyes and screamed, until the rope stopped when it was just her tippy toes hitting the ground. Vi slowly opened her eyes before laughing in rejoice, “I’m a fuckin’ genius!” She chuckled and looked up, tugging on the ropes. She saw that her idea was the best, and this made her confident. She can finally climb her way up without having to touch hot pipes. Vi ties the two ends of the ropes as tight as she could, before making her way to the book and picking it up. Vi walked her way to the wall next to her gauntlets, and leaned her back against it. She bends her legs and uses it for some support for the book as she opens it. It has been awhile ever since she’s been so curious about a book. She had always found books the most boring thing in the world when she was a kid. This book was definitely something special, and her zaunite ass still found it pretty interesting.

She flipped through the pages and read what was written on it that was never even written before she looked into the book. Vi comes across a page of some kind of tutorial to do something. But how is she supposed to learn off of pages?

“Magnetic energy.” Vi mumbled, trailing her finger on the words before putting the book down. She stood up and placed the book upwards, and backed up. Vi looked at her hands, wondering what kind of power she had just formed. Some kind of electric power that makes her control electric energy. She puts her hands forward just like what was said in the book and her leg behind the other, and her hands immediately emitted electric discharge striking the wall in front of her. Vi gasped as her eyes widened, looking at her hands, “Well, that was easy!” She chuckled and started striking every wall around her, it gradually got louder every time. It was fun, not until Vi felt her chest cramping. Vi dropped on one knee and held her chest, she looked down and noticed her chest lighting up. Her heart was glowing through her, and this was something unusual. She could see it pumping too. But her chest had stopped hurting. Vi stood up and looked at the book, looking through the techniques to learn more.

______________________

Stolas sat on his chair, holding a book while the other hand held a pen. He turned around using the chair, looking at Mage. “May I get her profile?” She asked, standing in a proper posture. “You know boss, I don’t have a lotta time. Still have a lot of tricks to learn from my book, you know?” The demon cow spoke, smirking. “Well, neither of us have any time at all now. Do we miss Mage?” Stolas said, “You’ll get 20 million worth of souls once you’ve catched her, and bring the book to me.” He places the book down and picks up a suitcase, placing it on the table, lifting it up to show her the money it contained. “Money isn’t what I want, Stolas.” She walked her way towards Stolas and smiled, “I want my brother back. And my power and the abilities you took away from me.” She spoke in a stern tone, as Stolas furrowed his brows before shutting the suitcase. “We haven’t found your brother’s body yet. I understand the frustration of losing someone dearly to you, I guess we both want the same thing. For something to return.” The goetian took the suitcase before grabbing it by its handle, putting it under the desk.

“She is hot, isn’t she?” Mage asked, “I don’t eat out ugly girls, you know? I have never had a human in so long, the taste will feel.. familiar but new.” She licked her sharp teeth, her green eyes glowing brightly. “Well, get out of my office and find her. You have 7 weeks to complete your duty, and if you fail.. You’ll never get your brother back.” Stolas said, as Mage nodded at him before leaving the office.

She mumbled under her breath to memorise the said profile of the girl, “What was her name again? Ah, Vi. Vi with beautiful short red hair, white milk skin, and gorgeous blue eyes. She has tattoos as well, doesn’t she?” She softly chuckled, “A tomboy! Definently fuck-able.”

Mage laughed and approached the exit of the building and pulled her hoodie up. She makes her way to a bar, greeted by the same body guards she sees every time she enters this bar. “Mage! Hey girl, long time no see.” Derick made his way to Mage and grabbed her waist, “Derick, you already know what I am to know enough you can’t touch me.” Mage glared at him as Derick rolled his eyes, “What? A faggot? You really are just like your dick sucking brother. No wonder why he likes working with men all the time—” Mage strikes Derick directly at his crotch area, making him groan in pain. “Son of a bitch!” Mage spits at Derick before pushing him off.

Mage made her way to the counter and sat down, “Hey, babygirl. I want the same order.” She said as Jane laughed seductively, “On it, mamas.” She then began making the usual order Mage had suggested ever since she came to this bar, “So, what brings you here? Who’s your victim?” Jane asked, setting down the drink in front of the demon cow. “This hot human girl that popped up in the news, her name’s Vi apparently. She has some muscles and a hot face. But no beauty matches yours, gorgeous.” Mage trails her fingers on Jane’s chin, making the other female demon purr. “Oh, don’t seduce me. I’m not in the mood to do public sex right now, Mage.” Jane softly laughed as Mage looked over to the other bartender and hit his shoulder, “You, take over for a bit. I need to help out purr’ita here.”

Jane leaves the counter as her and Mage make their way to the second floor of the bar, where both usually hide everytime they want to have sex. Mage pushes Jane on the couch and takes off her jacket, “Fuck, Mage. I missed you so much.” She said, slipping her hand inside of her shorts and rubbing the clothed bud of nerves.

“Ah-ah babe, not yet.”

______________________

“Perhaps we can do with a little bit of the.. just like that!” Alastor, with a sharp smile, adjusted the photo frame to the wall in a more balanced way. He stretched his arms out, “Well, I guess my work here is done!” He walked away, making his way down the stairs of the hotel. “I wonder when Princess Charlie’s coming back, it’s been 2 years ever since she went on a journey to look for Eve.” He sits down, tapping his crane on the ac button above him as Husk went to sit down beside him. “She’ll come back, I’m sure of it.” He mumbled, “Hell’s been corrupted as shit ever since she left, and a human literally came down and nobody understands how.” The cat spat out, grabbing his cup filled with booze and taking a small sip. “Come on. She would never abandon us, and she could be with her father.”

Alastor crosses his arms, putting his leg on top of the other knee. He faces Nifty who was right beside him talking to Vaggie. He looks back at Husk and clears his throat, “The human girl, have you met her before?” Husk asked Alastor as the Radio Demon let out a laugh, “I don’t have time for mortals, how are you so sure it's a girl?” Alastor asks him, raising a brow. Keeping that sharp smile still. “Valentino owned her and posted her interview on his twitter account, didn’t he? Have you not seen it? Oh, yeah. I forgot. You don’t care about anything.” Husk stands up abruptly from his chair before walking away, going back to the counter and sitting down to wait for another demon to come in the hotel.

_______________

Mage stopped thrusting, heavily panting as the demon cat moaned beneath her. She leaned her mound off of the other woman and sat down, “Fuck.” She lays down beside her and kisses her neck, Jane softly moaning and caressing Mage’s cheek. “You’re beautiful, did anybody ever tell you that?” Mage told Jane, as she purred and wrapped her tail around the demon cow’s thigh. “I’m not the girl you want.” Jane whispered before sitting up, grabbing her underwear and putting it back on, including her pants and shirt. “Jane, I’m not gonna cheat on you. I’m just trying to do my job, okay? I have to get the human or Stolas isn’t giving me what I want.” She pouted a little, upset that she had to do something like this just to give her brother a soul. “Look, I understand that you miss him. But please, think about our future.” Jane said, “I’ll be heading downstairs, you take care.”

She takes her jacket and puts it on, making her way down the stairs and opening the door. Welcomed by the different colours of light and the loud music with the people cheering and drinking. She immediately made her way to the counter and started making drinks while Mage made her way downstairs to leave the bar.

Mage walks her way to the sidewalk to wait for a taxi and waves her hand in the air to signal a taxi over, opening the door and stepping in. “Happy Hotel, thank you.” She told the driver as she closed the door and pulled up her hoodie. She puts the mask over her mouth and looks outside of the window, seeing all the imps and demons. She thought about what Jane said as she let out a long sigh. She takes her phone out and sees the wallpaper she had of her and Jane, she has to remove it if she wants to do her plan.

Chapter 7: Her Power

Summary:

"Feels empty here... where are the demons?"

"Don't abuse it," Voxxy warned, as Valentino let out a loud groan-clearly stressed and disbelieving the news he'd just received-slamming his fist against the table. "I'm not an abuser, Vox. I just need my precious little human girl back. Her face, her voice, the way she squirms every time I hit her-it's not abuse if she chooses to be treated like a bitch!" he shouted, rising from his seat. "Stolas sent his fucking cow to come fetch my pet, and I don't want her getting killed. Because, truth is, demons are starting to figure out that human pussy is exactly what we need-what we all need. She's hot, and I know damn well she wants the money I can offer." He ranted on, adjusting the glasses on his face before spitting out a piece of chicken that had been caught in his teeth, shooting it straight into the bowl in front of him.

"Are you certain Vi's still alive? It's been seventeen days, and I doubt a mortal like her can survive in unfamiliar territory," Voxxy said, flicking the band of his glove to snap it back into place. "Unless she's hiding-but even then, she's as good as dead. Once a demon sets their eyes on her, she'll be nothing but bones. Human bones." He didn't particularly care about the girl, but he couldn't understand why Valentino wanted her so badly. Valentino had enough money to satisfy any desire-he could buy anyone he wanted, and he'd even bought a helicopter just because he could. Voxxy knew Valentino's reputation well-infamous for the way he abused his workers-yet somehow, that didn't stop people from touching themselves to the thought of him.

Valentino grabbed the ashtray and dumped the ashes into the trash bin before sitting back down and stretching his arms with a tired sigh. "Whatever," he muttered. "Humans aren't that good anyway. They don't live long."

Blitzo sat in silence, staring down the hallway before making his way to the bathroom. He picked up his toothbrush, squeezing toothpaste onto it with his other hand, then set the tube down and twisted the faucet handle, running the brush under the water. He grabbed a cup, filled it, took a sip, and spat it into the sink before starting to brush. As he stared into the mirror, locking eyes with his own reflection, memories from the past flickered behind his gaze-every pain, every loss, carried along with the curve of his horns. It reminded him of his mother. He froze when the lights dimmed, and suddenly, the toothbrush vanished from his hand. In the reflection, from the dark corner of the bathroom, two glowing cyan eyes stared back at him. His heart skipped a beat. The moment a demon stepped out of the shadows, Blitzo jolted awake, sitting up in bed in a panic. His chest heaved, breath unsteady-this was the fourth nightmare he'd had so far.

Blitzo reached for his phone beside him and turned it on to check the time-it was far too early. He didn't even consider going back to sleep, not with the fear of slipping into another nightmare. Shifting his legs over the edge of the bed, he planted his feet on the floor and stood up. With a sluggish, half-hearted swipe across his face, he trudged to the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge, and to his relief, it was still stocked-thankfully untouched, since he hadn't eaten much at all in the past few days.

"Dad, we need to talk." Loona's voice crawled up Blitzo's spine, prompting him to slowly turn around and find her already sitting in a chair. "I'm worried about you, alright? Now sit your ass down, or I'm getting up and force-feeding you. You've been neglecting yourself. You haven't been eating, and more than that... you're just-dull lately. Please, Blitz. Just tell me what the hell is going on with you." Her tone softened into a plea as she looked at him. Blitzo blinked, silent for a moment, then sat down across from her. "I feel terrible," he finally said.

His voice cracked, and he could feel his chest sink under the weight of worry and guilt. He stared at his trembling hands, then down at his feet, his nose beginning to sting. Clenching his fists, he felt the burn behind his eyes before the tears finally fell, tapping softly against the floor. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the stillness. For the first time in what felt like forever, Loona felt genuine sympathy. Her brows drew together, eyes softening as she let out a quiet sigh. "And you've been feeling like this for the past seven days?" she asked, her tone stern but not unkind. "Why didn't you tell me what was going on?"

"You don't understand. And you never will," Blitzo snapped, his voice sharp and trembling. He suddenly stood, the chair screeching back and slamming against the wall. "It's all my fault. I never should've told Stolas she was an angel-I didn't even know anything! She's just a human and I can't-" His voice cracked hard as he gripped the edge of the table with one hand, the other covering his mouth as he stared down, tears spilling freely. Loona stood up, letting out a slow sigh. She shook her head, eyes filled with disbelief and a deep ache, before walking over to him. "You need to accept that she had no right to hurt Octavia. It wasn't your fault. It's okay." She wrapped her arms around her imp father, holding him close in a warm, grounding hug. Her chest tightened as if tears were ready to come too, her tail curling around Blitzo, pulling him even closer as he quietly cried in her arms.

_________

Vi slid down the ropes, landing on the ground with a quiet thud. She opened her mouth, letting the stolen canned goods spill out onto the floor before gathering them back into her arms. Walking over to the worn mattress, she flipped the plastic bag upside down, dumping out the rest of the cans and a few drinks. "I might need some new clothes," she muttered, eyeing her bloodstained ones. "But god, these stores are getting harder to steal from. Might have to paint myself red at this point-blood's not enough to cover me anymore." She grabbed a fork, wedged it under the lid of a can, and pried it open with her finger, setting the sharp metal cover into the plastic bag beside her.

She took a fork and began eating the sardines straight from the can, the metallic taste mixing with the salt on her tongue. Leaning back against the wall, she pulled out a phone she'd stolen days ago-it had only been a few days, but it felt like weeks. Since then, she'd survived by stealing and killing anyone who crossed her path, relying on the strange abilities she'd suddenly developed without understanding how or why. Her eyes flickered with a sharp cyan glow the moment she heard a rat scurrying nearby, her head snapping toward the sound with an instinctive, almost feral precision.

Vi raised her hand, and a burst of electric bolts surged from her fingertips, racing across the floor and frying the rat instantly. Without flinching, she returned to her sardines, casually stabbing at them with her fork as she leaned back against the wall. "Should I be practicing today? I still need to figure out how this damn phone works..." she muttered, her voice trailing off as whispers echoed in her mind-her own voice looping again and again: Phone. Practice. Phone. Over and over, until she clenched her jaw and stood up abruptly, marching over to the empty metal box she used for training, already battered with dents and scorched with old burns. "Shut up! Why do you always repeat everything you say?" she shouted into the empty room, her voice cracking with frustration. Grabbing a nearby book, she flipped through the pages until she landed on a section about brawling. Her eyes skimmed over strange symbols she couldn't be bothered to understand, but the mention of punching techniques caught her interest. Street fighting was already second nature-this should be easy.

She set the book down and clenched her fist, closing her eyes as she focused inward-feeling the presence of something deep inside her, a soul that craved power. When her eyes snapped open, they glowed a piercing cyan. With a sharp breath, she struck the air in front of her, and a violent electromagnetic wave burst outward. The force hurled her backward, slamming her into the wall as the entire junk site trembled-scrap metal clattered, and some items even shattered on impact. Gasping for breath, Vi stared wide-eyed in disbelief, shocked at what she had just unleashed-and on her first try. A slow smile crept across her face as she pushed herself to her feet, a surge of confidence swelling in her gut. But as she turned toward a cracked mirror nearby, she froze. In the dark corner behind her, a single strand of blue hair shimmered faintly in the reflection. Her heart jumped. She spun around, eyes searching-Jinx? But there was no one there.

"Powder?"

She called out, her voice trembling as her eyes lit up with panic. Vi looked down at her twitching hands, her breath catching in her throat. "I only wanted to help!" a voice cried-right beside her ear. Vi snapped her head to the side, staring at the empty space with wide eyes. Her heart sank, and her knees gave out as she dropped to the ground, fear gripping her chest. Was she being haunted by her sister? If that were true, a twisted part of her would actually be happy. Suddenly, the stolen phone lit up and began playing a random tune, its cheerful tone jarring against the tension in the room. Startled, Vi turned toward it, quickly walking back to the mattress. She knelt down, grabbed the device, and turned it off with a sharp tap. "Why does it always do that?" she muttered to herself, crawling beneath the blankets. She pulled them over her head and stared toward the open trapdoor, checking if the sunlight had begun to rise. She turned the phone back on-it was like the only reason she stole it was just to check the time, the only function she'd figured out how to use.

"Five a.m.," she muttered, switching the device off before heading toward the ropes. Gripping them tightly, she began her climb upward-something she'd been doing every day since taking shelter in the junk site. By now, it had become routine, almost second nature. Her muscles had adapted to the motion, and she could feel herself growing stronger with each ascent. Honestly, she was getting used to it.

She pulled herself up and climbed onto solid ground, sitting for a moment to catch her breath before closing the trapdoor behind her. Pulling her hoodie over her head, she carefully descended the hill. This had become her daily routine-sneaking out of the junk site, using her newfound abilities to her advantage, stealing whatever she needed to survive. The sound of the city washed over her-cars rushing past, loud music spilling from bars, voices layered in drunken chatter. It was still dark, just the way Vi liked it. At this hour, there were fewer demons roaming near the store she looted from, like some wild possum in the night. She took a breath and tugged her hoodie lower, hands buried deep in her jacket pockets. She hadn't showered in days, but hygiene wasn't completely lost-she'd been brushing her teeth with the stolen toothbrush and toothpaste, at least.

Reaching the sidewalk, she kept her head low as she walked, ignoring the stares from demons who whispered among themselves. Maybe she's human, they'd murmur, but she's got fists of steel-and powers. Most chose to ignore her, at least for now. Not out of kindness, but caution. The last imp who tried to mess with Vi ended up with his own dick impaled through his stomach, his body scorched by her electric rage. Fear had settled in, but not enough to stop them from gossiping.

Vi pushed open the door to a convenience store and made her way inside. The demon behind the counter narrowed his eyes. "You again?" he muttered. Vi gave a quick nod and picked up a can of red paint.

"Need shit again. Don't have enough souls to pay for yours," she said, raising a brow. "And we made a deal, right?"

"Yeah? And where's the chick you promised me?" Alexandro asked, tilting his head.

Vi's expression twisted into a smirk as she tightened her grip on the paint. "Tried to convince her to come, but she said no. Sorry, man. Not every woman's into getting raped by you."

Alexandro slammed his fist on the counter, baring his teeth with a low growl. "Shut the fuck up. You've got no right to speak, human. You're just a weak little cunt who thinks she's better than everyone else just because you've got some half-assed powers that can kill imps."

Alexandro spat on the floor, waiting for Vi's response. She stared back at him with an almost empathetic look and sighed. "Oh come on, Alex. You've got an ability too-it works wonders on demons and imps alike."

He squinted at her. "Oh really? And what's that supposed to be?"

"Sexual harassment-ism. Real powerful stuff," she said dryly, stepping closer to the counter. "Puts people behind bars."

"Alright, bitch, enough." He grabbed his phone. "Keep running your mouth and I'll get Valentino to send a group of people after you. You'll regret it."

Before his thumb could tap the screen, Vi raised her hand. Electricity crackled from her fingertips, jumping to the device. It sparked, hissed, and began to overheat in his hand. "Call your daddy instead," she said coldly. "Maybe he can see what kind of pathetic failure you turned out to be. Probably looking down from heaven wondering where he went wrong."

She turned her attention to the shelves, grabbing food and shoving it into a nearby cart with reckless speed. Cans, bottles, and random items clattered as she raided the store. Alexandro leapt over the counter to stop her, but she caught him with a solid kick to the chest, sending him back with a grunt.

"You fuckin' psycho!" he roared.

Vi smirked and snatched a carton of eggs, hurling it at Alexandro. The eggs exploded across his face and clothes, dripping down his chest. Without hesitation, she stuffed more supplies into the bags, her movements frantic but practiced. Behind her, Alexandro scrambled to grab a taser, pointing it in her direction-but Vi ducked, pivoted around the aisle, and bolted toward the exit with the bag clutched tightly.

Outside, demon officers shouted and pointed their guns, immediately giving chase. One leapt into a patrol car, tires screeching as it sped after her. Vi didn't hesitate-she leapt onto a rusted pipe, climbing quickly up the side of a building with the bag clamped between her teeth. Her muscles burned, but she didn't slow down. She reached the rooftop and sprinted across it, her eyes locked on the distant bridge that connected to the next city in the Wrath Ring.

Below her, the police car swerved wildly, the driver distracted as he tried to follow her movement across the rooftops-only to crash straight into a nearby home. Vi caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye and exhaled in quiet relief, but she didn't let up. She continued vaulting across the buildings, until the rooftops ended and the only option left was to jump.

She looked down at the moving traffic on the bridge-cars rushing in the direction she needed. Without a second thought, Vi leapt, landing hard on the roof of a passing bus. She held the bag firmly in her mouth as her feet hit the metal roof with a metallic thud. Steadying herself, she yanked the bag into her hand, the cold wind slapping against her skin. She didn't look back.

 

"Awesome," Vi muttered with a breathy laugh, tugging her hoodie up to shield her head from the wind. Most of the demons seemed too distracted to notice her-until a car rolled up beside the bus. A small demon child in the backseat locked eyes with her, wide-eyed and pointing. "Mommy! There's a human girl on top of the bus!"

The mother turned her head, saw Vi, and immediately screamed. Her hands jerked the steering wheel, slamming her car into another. Metal crunched. Horns blared. A chain of collisions exploded behind them as Vi watched, her mouth falling open slightly in stunned silence. She shook her head, snapping out of it just as a wall appeared up ahead-close, and coming fast. Without thinking, Vi leapt from the bus and landed hard on a nearby demon's motorcycle.

"Yo? What the-" the demon barked, glancing at the side mirror-just in time to see Vi pulling a coiled metal string around his neck. She yanked it tight with one hand, her other gripping the handlebars to keep the motorcycle steady. The demon struggled, gagged, and then went limp, falling off just as a speeding truck barreled past and crushed his skull beneath its wheels. Vi didn't flinch. She adjusted her seat, leaned forward, and accelerated, eyes locked on the road ahead.

Once she reached the outskirts of the city, Vi veered into the back of a quiet neighborhood, steering the motorcycle into a cluster of overgrown bushes. She hopped off, gave the bike a hard kick, knocking it over, and slung the bag over her shoulder. Crouching down, she opened it and checked the contents-none of the items had fallen out during the ride. With a quiet sigh of relief, she zipped it shut and began walking forward. "Feels empty here... where are the demons?" she muttered, glancing around at the eerie stillness. The streets were quiet-too quiet. With cautious steps, Vi made her way deeper into the neighborhood, eyes scanning for a path that would lead her into the heart of the city.

____________________

Loona sat on a worn stool, her elbow resting on the bar counter as she held a glass of wine in one hand, a red straw swirling inside. Her other hand lazily scrolled through her phone, eyes half-lidded with boredom. The bar was a mess of noise-demons shouting over one another, laughing, screaming, all blending with the pulsing thrum of music that shook the walls. She waited, hoping someone might approach, but no one seemed particularly interested.

Elsewhere, Mage picked up on the muffled echo of that same music, a distant, distorted thump. Her lips curled into a sly smirk. A bar this close to Heaven? she thought. "How inviting."

She walked toward the bar, the sharp tapping of her boots echoing on the concrete-until it all faded behind her once the doors swung open. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and smoke. Women twisted their bodies around poles, their chests covered with strips of black duct tape, and thongs barely clinging to their hips.

Mage stepped inside confidently, heading straight for the counter. She pulled off her mask and locked eyes with the bartender.
"Give me your strongest," she said flatly.

The bartender nodded and immediately began mixing a drink with the highest proof they had on hand. As she waited, Mage's gaze drifted across the bar-and landed on her. A hellhound. White hair, red eyes. Something about her drew Mage in instantly.

Without thinking, she stood up and approached the girl.
"Hey, gorgeous. What's a girl like you doing sitting all alone?" she said, voice low and flirtatious.

Loona blinked, clearly caught off guard. Then her expression twisted slightly with discomfort as she stood.
"Sorry, I'm not a lesbian," she muttered, brushing past Mage and heading for the exit.

Mage stood there, slightly stunned. She scratched the back of her head awkwardly, watching Loona disappear into the crowd.
"...Gulp." She turned back to the bar just as her drink was set down.
"Thanks," she said, forcing a shrug as she took a sip.

The music stopped.

Voices died. The laughter and chaos of the club vanished like smoke in a breeze. Every demon, dancer, and drunk in the room turned toward the entrance.

Mage slowly turned too, drawn by the silence.

The doors creaked open wider, and standing there-framed by the dim red glow of the neon signs-was her.

A presence that demanded attention just by existing. Mage's eyes widened, a glint of hunger and awe flickering in their glow. Her breath caught in her throat.

There she was.
The treasure she'd been hunting for.

Mage's grip around her glass tightened, and a slow grin curled at her lips.

"Finally."

Chapter 8: Vi is enraged, Mage is Mage

Summary:

Kill yourself.” Vi said before standing up, “Do you have a bathroom here?”

“Finally.”

Mage leaned casually against the wall, her masked face tilted in silent amusement. Vi’s glare cut across the room, sharp enough to make the gathered demons part for her without a word. The crowd shifted aside, the air thick with wariness. “What are you doing here, mere human?” Mage’s voice dripped with mockery, one brow arching as she smirked beneath her mask. “I just came here to drink.” Vi’s tone was deceptively calm, her head tilting ever so slightly. A flicker of electric light danced in her right eye, coiling into a faint, dangerous spark. “You aren’t welcome here.”

Mage closed the distance at an almost taunting pace, each step echoing in the tense air. “For someone who was abused by the infamous Valentino, you’ve got some nerve showing your face in a place like this,” she drawled, a low chuckle curling off her tongue. Vi’s hand snapped up before the words could fully settle. A crack of lightning split the space between them—sharp, blinding. Mage jerked to the side, the bolt grazing past her with a sizzle. She hadn’t expected that. “Well, well…” Mage gave a slow whistle, the edge of her smirk returning. “Somebody’s mad.” The demons in the bar responded like a cruel chorus—murmured hums, mocking nods, low chuckles rumbling in their throats. “You mad, Vi? Mad you got touched, hmm?” Mage prodded, closing in until her masked face was a breath away. Her tone was sweet venom, every syllable meant to dig deep. Vi didn’t flinch. She stood tall, spine rigid, eyes locked on Mage’s with an unwavering, dead-set stare. Electric light sparked in her irises, threads of power arcing toward Mage’s gaze. And then—something shifted. Vi saw beyond the mask, beyond the moment, plunging straight into Mage’s memories. She hadn’t even known she could do this. But the images came anyway—raw, vivid, and uninvited—until they were both locked in a current neither could escape.

Mage jerked back, turning on her heel to put space between them. “What the hell was that?” she demanded, her voice low but edged like a blade. Vi’s brows knit briefly—she didn’t fully understand what she’d just done—but she masked her uncertainty with a cold smile. “Damn,” Vi said, almost casually, “your brother killed himself? That’s too bad.” Her tone twisted into something cruel. “I’d wanna kill myself too if I had a sister like you. Good thing I don’t.” A sharp, humorless laugh broke from her lips as she stepped past Mage, brushing close enough for the tension to sting. She paused at her side, smirking up at her. Around them, the demons bristled—eyes narrowing, jaws tightening—ready to see blood spill. Mage’s gaze burned with quiet fury, but she held herself steady. “I see,” she murmured, her voice cold, controlled, and promising this wasn’t over.

The bar fell into a tense, brittle silence—right before Mage lashed out. A wave of dark magic slammed into Vi’s chest, knocking the air out of her and sending her crashing to the floor. The wood groaned under her as she landed on her hands and knees, head bowed, eyes squeezing shut against the jolt of pain. Mage’s shadow loomed over her, another strike already building in her palms. But Vi’s head snapped to the side—instinct taking over. She rolled, narrowly avoiding the blast, and drove her boot hard into Mage’s abdomen. The impact forced a gasp from the demon, the sound sharp and satisfying. Mage staggered but came back fast, lunging for Vi’s throat. Vi caught her wrists mid-swing, muscles straining as they locked in a furious grapple. In one swift motion, Vi lifted her and slammed her down onto a nearby table, splintering it under the weight. The bar erupted into chaos as the two women tore into each other—blows, kicks, magic and lightning crackling in the air—while the demons jeered and hollered around them, feeding the violence.

The bar roared with shouts and jeers, the demons chanting for Mage’s victory. Mage charged, dagger flashing in her grip, aiming straight for Vi’s face. Vi brought her forearms up just in time, steel scraping against skin. Sparks of electricity crawled up her clenched fists before she drove an uppercut into Mage’s chin, snapping her head back. Without hesitation, Vi followed with a brutal punch to the gut, sending Mage crashing into the wall with a hollow thud. Vi took a slow step back, giving her space, watching as Mage pushed herself upright. Her breathing was ragged, but her smirk stayed fixed. “So… we’re using abilities now?” Vi taunted. Mage wiped the sweat from her brow and rolled her shoulders. Her arms swept outward, black magic unfurling like smoke. Her eyes burned a sickly green as the energy sharpened, solidifying into a swarm of spectral knives. With a flick of her hands, they streaked toward Vi in a deadly blur. Vi crossed her arms, and a crackling sphere of electricity burst around her. The blades slammed against it, bouncing off with a violent snap—and rebounding into the crowd. Several demons screamed as spectral knives embedded in their faces, dropping them to the floor. The shield fizzled away, Vi stepping back with her right foot, settling into a ready stance. Mage surged forward with superhuman speed, fists swinging with bone-crushing force. Vi met her blow for blow, their strikes echoing through the bar, every impact ringing with raw strength—electric sparks and shadows colliding in a furious rhythm.

They weaved between strikes and counters, every blow meant to kill. The bar had emptied fast—demons scattering to avoid the crossfire after one of their own dropped dead, spectral knives buried in his skull. Vi seized a table, hurling it across the room. It smashed against Mage, the wood splintering around her body. Mage shook it off and darted toward the wall, springing off it to come at Vi from the left—only to be met with a savage roundhouse kick to the face. “Cunt!” Mage snarled, staggering back, one hand clutching her jaw as she forced it back into place with a sickening pop. Vi was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling, every muscle tense. Mage pushed herself upright, eyes narrowing but lips curling into a half-smirk. “You’re not too bad,” she admitted, voice dripping with both amusement and threat. “But we’re not done here.” Vi’s gaze was flat, almost lifeless, electricity crawling over her skin in erratic flashes. Her stance wavered, her foot catching slightly on the floorboards. “What’s wrong?” Mage taunted, her tone cutting. “Tired already? Can’t handle me?”

Vi’s legs buckled beneath her, the fight finally wringing every drop of strength from her body. She crumpled to the floor, consciousness slipping away. Mage stood over her, chest rising and falling, dagger slowly sliding from its sheath. The point hovered above Vi’s still form. One strike—one easy strike—would end it. But she didn’t move. “It’d be boring to kill you when you’re already down,” she murmured, almost to herself. A slow, wolfish smile crept across her face as she slid the dagger back into place. Instead, she crouched and took hold of Vi’s arm, hoisting her limp form into her arms. Her gaze lingered on the human’s face—skin warm and soft beneath her gloved fingers. A flicker of memory stirred… a time when she herself had been human. “You’re pretty,” Mage whispered, the words barely audible. Without another glance toward the empty bar, she carried Vi into the shadows at the back. The door groaned as she pushed through, her pace quick and purposeful. A sleek black car waited just outside. Mage laid Vi in the backseat, shoving her inside before slamming the door shut. She circled to the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life as she pulled away from the bar, the city lights streaking past. And Vi, unconscious and unaware, was being taken straight into Mage’s world.

_____________________

Mage eased Vi down onto the couch, her gaze lingering for a moment. The steady rise and fall of the human’s chest was almost hypnotic—until a sharp buzz rattled in her pocket. With a faint scowl, Mage pulled out her phone, glancing at the screen. She swiped her thumb over the red button, ending the call without a word, and dropped the device onto the table with a soft sigh. A sudden crack of electricity split the quiet. Mage’s head snapped around—only to find the couch empty. “What—?” She spun fully, and there Vi stood—balanced on the table, glaring down with eyes blazing electric white, rage radiating off her in waves. “Jesus fuck!” Mage flinched, one hand instinctively clutching her chest. Vi moved before Mage could blink. Her boot connected hard, sending the demon sprawling onto the floor. A low, animalistic growl rolled from Mage’s throat as she retaliated, a whip of demonic energy lashing out and striking across Vi’s side. Vi hissed in pain, the burn crawling over her skin. She rolled with the blow, landing on one knee as the room’s lights flickered violently, shadows stretching and twitching with each pulse of her power.

_____

“Damn, she’s going extreme with the sex. What a lesbian.” A random imp spoke from the other apartment, sighing before they continued to click on their laptop.

_____

Vi’s scream tore through the room, raw and furious, as chains of blackened energy coiled around her—solidifying into heavy, cold metal that clamped against her limbs. The weight dragged her to the floor, every link humming faintly with demonic power. She thrashed and writhed against them, muscles straining, breath ragged. Sparks of cyan lightning bled from her skin, her eyes blazing like burning ice as they locked on Mage. Mage stood over her, calm but coiled with readiness. “You’d better calm down, Vi,” she warned, her voice low and edged. “If you keep trying to attack me…” She let the pause linger, her smirk fading into something colder. “…I’m gonna have to kill you.”

Vi writhed beneath Mage, fury radiating from every tense muscle. With a sudden snap of movement, she drove her knee hard into Mage’s crotch, forcing a grunt from the demon before twisting her body and flipping them over. “You won’t,” Vi hissed, pinning her down, cyan eyes burning. “Because it’s not me who’s getting killed.” Mage’s smirk faded. Her hand slid into her coat, and in one fluid motion, she drew a syringe. The needle plunged into Vi’s arm before she could react. A rush of cold fire spread through Vi’s veins. Her limbs began to betray her—strength bleeding out, her body turning heavy and unresponsive. Mage kept her grip steady as she pulled the syringe free, watching Vi’s gaze remain locked on hers even as her muscles slackened. “Still works like a charm,” Mage muttered, half to herself. These syringes had saved her more than once—potent enough to drop any out-of-control demon, yet cruel enough to leave their mind fully aware. Vi collapsed forward, her weight resting on Mage. The demon shifted her carefully, lifting her bridal-style and carrying her back to the couch. “Jesus Christ, lady,” Mage said with a dry laugh, “you’ve got some hella trust issues.” She laid Vi down, tucking a pillow under her head. “Relax. It only lasts five minutes. I just need you to calm the hell down.” But Vi’s gaze—wet with tears—never softened. They rolled slowly down her cheeks, her breathing sharp and shallow. The air grew tense, the faint scent of ozone building. A vase on the table beside Mage began to tremble, rattling against the wood. Sparks crackled from Vi’s fingertips, snaking toward it—until the glass gave way with a sharp crack, shattering into glittering shards at Mage’s side.

Mage’s gaze lingered on Vi, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. Maybe the syringe had been a mistake. “Okay… I need you to calm down,” she said quietly, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge. “I don’t want you hurting yourself, please.” She took a slow step back from the couch, raising her hands slightly. “See? I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m backing up.” Setting aside whatever she’d been holding, Mage disappeared for a moment and returned with a blanket. She moved carefully, draping it over Vi’s body as though the fabric alone could soothe her. “Just rest for now,” Mage murmured. “I promise… I’ll let you go tonight.” Without waiting for a reply she knew wouldn’t come, Mage turned and walked toward her bedroom, the faint click of the door closing leaving Vi in uneasy silence. Vi’s eyes rolled upward, tears continuing their slow trail down her cheeks. The room felt too still, too heavy. A deep, gnawing fear coiled inside her chest—this helplessness, this inability to move or speak—it was unbearable. Her breath quickened, the quiet only making the feeling worse.

||

A few hours later, the apartment was quiet except for the faint sizzle from the kitchen. Vi was still asleep on the couch, her body curled around a pillow, one leg hooked over the other as if clinging to something solid in her dreams. At the stove, Mage worked with an unusual calm, the rich scent of gravy and sausages filling the air. Mashed potatoes, fried eggs, thick brown gravy—it was the kind of meal she hadn’t made in a long time, but one she’d always loved. Comfort food. She glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of Vi in that unguarded state. A brow lifted. “You look so peaceful like this,” she murmured, almost to herself, before turning back to finish plating the food. Everything went onto one large serving plate—enough for two. Mage set it in the center of the table, just as a faint rustle caught her ear. Vi was awake now, eyes half-lidded but focused, turning her head toward the sound of Mage’s voice. Without a word, Vi pushed herself upright and stood, her movements slow but steady. She crossed the room and slid into one of the chairs, her gaze falling on the spread in front of her. “Oh, what’s this?” she asked, tone flat but edged with curiosity. Mage smiled faintly, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. “I see you giving in, sugar.” She pulled two plates from the counter, setting them down along with a spoon and fork. She handed the spoon toward Vi with a small flourish. “Don’t call me that,” Vi said sharply—and instead of taking the utensils, she reached straight for the food with her bare hands, scooping a chunk of mashed potato. Mage blinked, her smile faltering for just a moment. “…Well. That’s one way to do it.”

Vi didn’t hesitate—she tore into the food with her bare hands, scooping mashed potatoes and gravy with her fingers, biting into the sausages without a second thought. Grease and sauce smeared faintly across her knuckles, but she didn’t seem to care. Mage leaned back slightly, watching in silence for a few moments before clearing her throat. “You seem very hungry,” she said, her tone somewhere between observation and mild amusement, though her eyes stayed fixed on Vi like she was studying her every move.

Vi didn’t so much as glance at Mage. She reached for one of the steaming sausages, the heat curling in the air, and tore it apart with her teeth. Grease and gravy dripped onto her fingers, but she didn’t wipe them clean—just reached for more, the motions quick and unrestrained. It had been a long time since she’d eaten a proper meal. Every bite was a quiet rebellion, the only way she knew to “thank” Mage—by making a show of her filthiness, letting each crude gesture speak louder than words.

||

Loona stood on the curb, her gaze locked on the flashing lights and chaos outside the bar. Ambulances crowded the street, their sirens a fading wail. She spotted the bar’s owner on her knees in the rubble, fists clenched, sobs breaking into frustrated shouts. What the hell had happened here? From where Loona stood, the destruction was brutal—bodies of imps strewn across the ground, some with heads impaled, others run through by jagged stone shards. She could almost guess: Mage’s demonic energy, solidified into lethal stone after the blast. She stepped closer, flagging down a nearby officer. “Hey—can you tell me what happened here? I leave for a few minutes and suddenly…” She gestured toward the mangled building, shaking her head. The officer didn’t slow his stride. “Human came in and fought with an assassin,” he said flatly before turning away. He lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply toward the medics. “Hey! There’s another one inside!” Loona glanced past him toward the wreckage, her ears twitching. “Vi?” she murmured under her breath. She made her way toward the entrance, her boots crunching over scattered debris. Near the doorway, something caught her eye—a loose strip of bandages, dirt-stained and frayed. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand, then let it fall. “Ma’am! Step out of the building!” a sharp voice barked. A detective moved in, pushing her back with a firm arm. Loona’s eyes narrowed, but she stepped aside without a fight, rolling her eyes as she turned away from the scene.

Loona lingered at the edge of the chaos, lifting her phone to snap a few pictures of the wreckage. Switching to video, she zoomed in on the ambulances loading the wounded before flipping through her apps. A quick post on Twitter, a few updates on other platforms—her captions laced with just enough snark to stir attention. Slipping the phone into her pocket, she stepped toward the curb and raised a hand for a taxi. She waited on the cracked sidewalk, tail flicking lazily, until a yellow cab pulled up. The door creaked open. “I.M.P, thanks,” she said, sliding in and slapping a handful of bills against the driver’s arm. He took the hint, stepping on the gas as the cityscape blurred by. Meanwhile, in another part of town, Stolas sat in his lavish living room, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his television. “Breaking news!” the anchor’s voice cut sharp over the broadcast. “Son-of-a-bitch Vi, also known as the human girl, fought with a demon and left four imps dead—impaled on what appear to be magically-forged stone weapons!” On-screen, the scene cut to a reporter standing beside the furious, disheveled owner of the ruined bar. “Ma’am, what do you have to say?” the reporter asked, thrusting a microphone toward her. The woman leaned into it, face red, voice shrill. “Hello, I’m the owner of the bar. And whoever knows where this white retarded bitch is—please, come and fucking kill her!” She jabbed a finger at the camera, spittle flying. “I hate all of you!” The feed crackled for a moment before cutting back to the newsroom.

The broadcast shifted, the image now a wide shot of the ruined bar—walls gutted, glass glittering across the street, smoke curling faintly into the sky. A man’s voice narrated over the destruction, his tone grim and deliberate. Stolas let out a long, weary sigh. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the telephone on his nightstand. He dialed Mage’s number, pressing the receiver to his ear. It rang. And rang. No answer. Not even the courtesy of a declined call. Just the hollow, endless tone in his ear. “Okay…” he muttered to himself, voice thin. “I just… need to calm down.” He set the phone back in its cradle with care, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet. Slowly, he sat down on the edge of the bed, then eased himself back until he was lying flat. The television’s glow still flickered faintly in the corner of his eye. Reaching for the remote, he clicked it off, plunging the room into silence.

______________

Blitzo was slumped over his desk, cheek pressed against his arm, a thin line of drool clinging to the corner of his mouth. The hum of the AC filled the office, sending a stray gust that scattered a pile of papers across the floor. The door creaked open. “Hey, boss?” Moxxie’s voice broke the stillness as he stepped inside. He approached cautiously, giving Blitzo’s arm a gentle squeeze. The imp jerked awake with a flinch. “Wh— What the hell do you need, Moxxie?” he groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. Millie’s voice piped up from behind him. “We wanna show you something.” Blitzo sighed, pushing himself upright and following the pair as they led him into the main room. Moxxie picked up the remote, flicking on the television. The screen immediately lit up with breaking news—footage of the wrecked bar in the second city of Wrath. Smoke still curled from the ruins, flashing lights from ambulances painting the debris in red and blue.

“Guess who did that, Blitzo,” Moxxie said, dropping the remote onto the table with a soft thud. Blitzo squinted at the screen, scanning the rolling captions until one word jumped out at him—human. His brows shot up. He stepped around the chair in front of the TV and dropped into it, leaning forward. “Vi?” he muttered under his breath. His gaze stayed fixed on the chaotic footage. “How—what even happened?” he asked, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

“She apparently has abilities, Blitzo,” Millie said, her tone a mix of concern and intrigue. “Wh—what kind of abilities?!” Blitzo blurted, leaning forward in his chair. “Does she, like, fly around like the angels do?” His voice carried an almost childlike curiosity, tangled with confusion. How the hell could a human cause this level of destruction? Moxxie shook his head. “Well, we don’t know for sure yet. But the reporter’s interviewing everyone who got caught up in it. The imps who died… some had knives buried in their skulls. Others were burned alive from an electric shock.” Blitzo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Electric shock…” “Vi was in a fight with somebody inside the bar,” Moxxie continued. “From what they’re saying, she went up against—do you remember Mormo?” He pointed a finger toward Blitzo. Blitzo blinked, sitting back. “Yeah… he was that vice president of the group in Hell that wanted to build some big underground laboratory, right?” “Didn’t he kill himself?” Millie chimed in, tilting her head.

“Yeah—this was years ago,” Moxxie said, his voice picking up speed. “And the demon Vi fought? That was Mormo’s sister.” Blitzo’s brow arched. “Wait… isn’t Mage working for Stolas as an assassin? That’s… fucking crazy.” Moxxie nodded, still processing it himself. Blitzo leaned back in his chair, staring past the television, eyes fixed on some point in the void as his mind turned. The noise of the news faded into the background—just the quiet hum of the AC and the faint ticking of the clock as he thought.

The office door slammed open, rattling the frame. Loona stepped in, tail swishing behind her. “Hey—something went down in the other city. You guys heard about it yet?” Her eyes flicked between them, sharp and serious. Moxxie nodded toward the TV. “Yeah, we’re watching it now.” “I was there,” Loona added, her tone low but edged, like she was still carrying the heat of the scene with her. Blitzo’s gaze snapped to her. “You what?”

Blitzo snapped his head toward Loona. “Did you—did you see Vi? Or Mage? Where are they now?” Loona shook her head. “No. Apparently they both disappeared. But somebody recorded the fight and posted it on Twitter.” She pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have left. The girl Vi was fighting with? She was flirting with me.” Loona’s tone was casual, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen. “Wait—what?” Blitzo started, but she’d already found the video. She turned the phone toward them. On the grainy footage, Vi was on top of Mage, both of them locked in a vicious struggle on the floor. Demons crowded around, shouting and cheering for more blood. Electric bolts flashed, snapping across Mage’s body and sparking over Vi’s skin—clearly radiating from Vi herself. The chaos built until Mage rolled, flipping Vi beneath her, and hammered a punch down—before the video abruptly cut to black.

“Crazy abilities…” Moxxie murmured, still staring at the frozen frame on Loona’s phone. “I’ve never seen an angel pull off anything like that,” Blitzo said, leaning back in his chair. “And an angel wouldn’t just wreck a place for no reason. Vi might be… a demon, same as us.” Loona tilted her head, unconvinced. “I don’t know… doesn’t seem right.”

||

Vi stood by the window, her eyes drifting over the sprawl of the city bathed in the muted glow of evening lights. The muffled sounds of traffic and distant voices rose from the streets below. Behind her, Mage’s gaze followed. “You can’t leave yet,” she said, tone calm but firm. “It’s still evening. If people find out you’re alive, they’ll come for you.” She pulled a small pouch from her pocket, taking out some weed and methodically rolling it between her fingers. Vi turned, watching her for a moment before crossing the room and settling into the chair opposite her. “Why did you bring me here?” Mage’s lips curled into a smirk. “You’ve got potential. I’m thinking you’d make a good partner—work partner, by the way.” Vi blinked, caught between disbelief and suspicion. “After we just fought? Are you sure you’re not one of Valentino’s workers?” Her voice sharpened, her posture tightening. Mage let out a laugh. “Damn, girl. You’ve got some serious trust issues.”

Mage flicked a lighter, the small flame catching on the tip of the rolled weed. She took a slow drag, the ember glowing before she exhaled a curling plume of smoke. “For a human… you’re hard to convince,” she said, her gaze flicking over Vi with measured interest. “And those fists of yours—hard as platinum. You sure the rumors aren’t true?” Vi leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowing. “What rumors?” Mage’s lips quirked. “You know… the one about you being an angel.” She gave a low chuckle, taking another hit. Vi’s jaw tightened, her voice dropping into something quiet but edged with heat. “Why the fuck would I be an angel?” It wasn’t just anger—it was restraint, like she was forcing herself to stay still. Mage tilted her head, smirking. “I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause you look like one.” She punctuated it with a wink. Vi froze, caught off guard. Flirting was usually her weapon, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about someone throwing it right back at her—matching her energy in a way she couldn’t immediately counter.

“I’m sorry,” Mage said, clearing her throat. Vi broke into a sudden giggle. “Kill yourself,” she replied lightly, then stood up. “You got a bathroom here?” Mage smirked, pointing toward a narrow hallway. “Down there.” Vi made her way to the bathroom, washing her hands in the small, dimly lit space before returning. She dropped back onto the couch, the air between them thick with a strange awkwardness. For a moment, neither spoke. “I’m confused,” Vi muttered at last. Mage turned her head, rolling her eyes. “Why?”

“Well, first…” Vi began, her voice low but steady, “you make fun of me for being maltreated by Valentino. Then we fight in a bar, I black out, and you bring me here—acting like none of that even happened.” Mage groaned and pushed herself to her feet. “You wanna know why I brought you here?” She set the half-burned joint down in the ashtray, then stepped closer. Her fingers curled under Vi’s jaw, tilting her chin upward until their eyes locked. “Because you’re pretty fucking hot,” Mage said with a slow smirk. “I’ve never seen a human like you before.” Vi slapped her hand away, glare sharp. “Don’t touch me.” Mage’s eyes widened theatrically. “What? Not into girls?!”

“No,” Vi said flatly, rising from the couch, “I’m a lesbian. Just… not for you.” Mage arched a brow, following her with her gaze. “Why? You seeing someone?” Vi shook her head, already putting distance between them. “No. My life isn’t your business.”

Mage watched her go, the corner of her mouth twitching in thought. If she wanted Vi’s heart, she’d have to work for it. Humans usually folded under lust and desire—but Vi wasn’t bending. She was guarded, locked up tight. Vi had always been that way since Cait left. The idea of intimacy had become something bitter on her tongue, a door she no longer wanted to open. With a quiet sigh, she turned and walked toward the bedroom, sinking onto the bed as if trying to escape the weight of the conversation. Mage’s eyes narrowed. If seduction wouldn’t work, she’d have to use her greatest ability—one that could twist affection into something far more dangerous.

Chapter 9: She knows what she is!

Mage woke up beside the human girl, groggily rubbing her eyes as she took in her surroundings. The dim light filtering through the tattered curtains cast a soft glow on Vi's sleeping face, her chest rising and falling with each steady breath. For a moment, Mage watched her, contemplating the task at hand. It had to be now, she thought. With a deep breath, she lifted her hand, only to halt abruptly when Vi stirred and turned on her side, now facing Mage. Vi’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Mage’s gaze before she abruptly sat up. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

“Erm,” Vi muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as she slowly got out of bed. She cast a quick glance out the window, then back at Mage. Mage cleared her throat, trying to dispel the awkward tension, and shrugged off her jacket. "Well, take your chance. It's night. You have all the time to leave," Mage said bluntly, leaning back against the bed frame. Vi nodded hesitantly, moving towards the door and twisting the doorknob. As she stepped into the hallway, Mage subtly raised her hands, summoning a dark energy that began to creep up behind Vi.

The human took a deep breath, oblivious to the dark tendrils behind her, and shut the door behind her. Mage's brows furrowed in confusion as her spell dissipated ineffectively. Why didn’t it work? Mage jumped to her feet and hurried to the door, peeking out to see Vi already making her way down the hallway towards the stairs. Mage followed silently, her eyes fixed on Vi, hoping she might turn back.

"Fuck," Mage mumbled under her breath, her frustration growing. She watched as Vi began her descent, stepping cautiously to avoid making noise in the old, creaky apartment building. Mage noticed an imp, Ren, lurking near the stairs. She quickly cast a spell to grab Ren’s attention. The imp turned and spotted Vi, immediately blocking her path.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?" Ren demanded, glaring at Vi. Mage hurried over and grabbed Vi’s wrist from behind. "Ren, it's fine. I invited her in," she said, trying to sound authoritative.

"You invited a human into a place filled with demons? Are you joking right now, Mage? Do you even know what they said about her—"

"I don’t give a shit about that right now. So if you wanna go call your officer buddies, then call them. Vi, let's just stay in my apartment. It isn’t safe out here," Mage interrupted, her voice firm.

"I can defend myself!" Vi snapped, yanking her wrist free. "Why the hell do you even care? I’m just a human. You’re a demon. You picked a fight with me at the bar because you felt like it, now I don’t know why you brought me here with you." She glared at Mage before attempting to walk past her.

"You aren’t going anywhere," Mage said sternly, grabbing Vi’s wrist again and locking eyes with her. Ren backed up, sensing the tension. "Whatever, I was never here by the way," he muttered, applying his lipstick with a flourish. "Whatever happens, I’m never getting myself involved with you." He shot Mage one last look before walking away.

Vi turned to Mage, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and desperation. "Give me a reason to stay. You promised me that you’d let me go by night." She looked down at Mage’s hand gripping hers before yanking her wrist free. "You don’t tell me where to go or where I shouldn’t. If you don’t want me to leave, then I’ll accept your offer to be your partner. I have nobody, and I admit it. I’m the only human in hell right now, I’m not losing any chances in surviving. If I ever find out that you want to kill me, I’ll do it first." Vi’s voice trembled slightly, but her resolve was clear. She brushed past Mage, heading back upstairs to the bedroom.

Mage followed, a satisfied smirk curling on her lips. Vi had fallen for her plan. As they entered the room, Mage discreetly took out her phone and sent a quick text to Ren: ‘Thanks.’ She set the phone down just as a thumbs-up emoji appeared in response. Everything was falling into place.

Vi tiredly sank back into the chair at the small, cluttered dining area, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. She barely noticed Mage watching her, a sly smirk playing on her lips. When Vi's eyes finally met Mage's, the smirk vanished, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. Mage made her way over to Vi with calculated calmness, her footsteps barely making a sound on the worn wooden floor.

Reaching Vi, Mage placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that seemed oddly intimate given the circumstances. Startled, Vi immediately jerked away, gently slapping Mage’s hand off her shoulder. "Aw, come on," Mage teased, her voice dripping with a mix of playfulness and something else Vi couldn't quite place.

Ignoring the initial rejection, Mage placed both of her hands on Vi’s shoulders again, this time with a firmer grip. The sudden contact sent a jolt through Vi, who felt a rush of fear and confusion. She stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back with a screech and took a step away, her heart pounding. What was Mage doing? What did she want? Vi's mind raced with questions as she tried to make sense of the unsettling situation. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as she watched Mage with wide, wary eyes.

“Can you not?” Vi furrowed her brows, her voice sharp and edged with frustration. “I’m not trying to have sex with you at all, Mage. Stop that.” Her pale face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Despite her stern words, a part of her felt an unexpected flutter of flattery at Mage’s advances. Yet, her heart ached for someone else, someone she desperately hoped to see again.

“I’m sorry, you’re just so tense. Don’t you want a massage, Vi?” Mage offered, her tone softening as she opened her palms, trying to appear non-threatening. Vi tilted her head, confusion clouding her features. She took a hesitant step closer to Mage, the atmosphere between them growing increasingly charged.

As Vi approached, Mage felt a strange unease settle in her stomach, a knot of anticipation and something unnameable. She looked into Vi’s eyes, trying to decipher the human's thoughts. Vi’s gaze was intense, piercing through the demon's facade. "I know what you are," Vi whispered, her voice low and knowing.

Suddenly, Vi bumped Mage's shoulder, forcefully moving her aside as she re-entered the bedroom. Mage stood frozen on the cold concrete floor, stunned by Vi’s words and actions. Slowly, she turned around, her face a mask of confusion and shock. "What..."

Before Mage could fully process the moment, Vi spoke again, her voice steady and resolute. “I’m not here to play your games, Mage. I know you’ve got plans, but whatever they are, they won’t work on me.”

Mage’s mind raced. What did Vi mean by "I know what you are"? Did she somehow see through Mage's intentions, or was it something deeper? The demon’s carefully laid plans seemed to be unraveling.

“You think you know me, Vi?” Mage finally responded, trying to regain her composure. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Vi crossed her arms, standing her ground. “Maybe I don’t. But I know enough to not trust you blindly.”

Mage felt a pang of frustration. She needed Vi to cooperate, to trust her, or at least to stay under her influence. She took a deep breath, deciding to change her approach. “Alright, no more games,” Mage said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. “But you need to understand that you’re in danger here. This place isn’t safe for humans.”

“I’ve managed so far,” Vi shot back. “I don’t need your protection.”

“Maybe not, but there’s more at stake than just your safety,” Mage insisted. “There are forces at work here that you can’t even begin to understand. If you’re not careful, you could end up as just another casualty in a much larger conflict.”

Vi’s expression softened slightly, but her guard remained up. “And what do you get out of this? Why help me?”

Mage hesitated, then decided to offer a sliver of truth. Like I said, I need an ally. Someone who I could help, help me to take what we’re supposed to.”

Vi looked skeptical but intrigued. “And if I refuse?”

Mage stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then you’re on your own in a world that wants to tear you apart. But if you stay, if you help me, I promise to do everything in my power to keep you safe and to find a way to get you back to where you belong.”

Vi studied Mage’s face, searching for any sign of deceit. She found none, or at least nothing she could easily detect. Finally, she nodded, though reluctantly. “Alright. I’ll stay. For now. But don’t think for a second that I trust you completely.”

Mage allowed herself a small, relieved smile. “Fair enough. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

With that uneasy truce, the two women returned to the bedroom, the tension between them palpable but with a newfound understanding. Mage had to adjust her plans, to think several steps ahead. She pulled out her phone, sending a quick, coded message to her contacts: ‘Plan B in motion.’

Vi, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the bed, her mind racing. She knew she couldn’t let her guard down, but for now, she needed Mage’s help. As she glanced at the demon, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this uneasy alliance was only the beginning of something much more complex and dangerous.

Mage approached Vi with cautious steps, her movements deliberate and measured. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, the worn mattress sinking slightly under her weight. As she settled beside Vi, she couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in the air – a tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Vi, sensing Mage's proximity, instinctively scooted away, creating a noticeable gap between the two women. Something pushed Vi to lay closer, since it wasn’t really comfortable being on the edge of the bed like that. Mage thought Vi had a different kind of intention why she scooted over closer again, the two ladies looked each other in the eyes for a moment.

_____

 

Moxxie carefully maneuvered the scissors through the delicate paper, his concentration evident in the furrow of his brow. Each snip produced tiny, intricate shapes, which he then handed over to Millie, who was equally absorbed in their task. "Give me the scissors, Moxx. Your fingers are getting all red!" Millie exclaimed, her concern evident in her voice as she looked at Moxxie's reddening fingers. Reluctantly, Moxxie handed the scissors to Millie, rubbing his sore fingers as he did so. As he transferred the tool to her, a curious thought crossed his mind. "You know, I never understood scissoring. Like... with lesbians! How does it feel exactly for them? Just... grinding up?" he asked, his tone a mix of genuine curiosity and slight bewilderment. Millie, taken slightly aback by the sudden change in conversation, raised an eyebrow at Moxxie. She took another piece of paper and positioned it for cutting. "Of course, it's just grindin', Moxx, unless they got the strapon I use on ya," she replied with a mischievous wink.

Moxxie's cheeks flushed crimson, and he choked on his words, momentarily at a loss for how to respond. Shaking his head, he decided to steer the conversation to safer waters. "Any more news on you-know-who? Can't say the name or Blitz's gonna pop out of nowhere and freak out," he asked, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

Millie, now folding the freshly cut papers, looked up and met Moxxie's gaze. "No, all we know is that she's out there somewhere," she replied, her tone turning serious as she glanced around, as if expecting Blitz to materialize out of thin air at the mere mention of the subject.

“She’s been gone for a while, but there have been situations where Vi would pop out of nowhere and cause chaos. Yet, despite all the mayhem she’s caused, she hasn’t been caught yet,” Moxxie whispered, his voice barely audible as he glanced around nervously to ensure Blitzo couldn’t overhear. “Maybe Mage already took Vi to Stolas?”

Moxxie’s anxiety was palpable, the implications of his words hanging heavily in the air. Blitzo, however, was not as oblivious as Moxxie might have hoped. Leaning against the door, Blitzo strained to catch every word of their hushed conversation. His expression was inscrutable, a mix of concern and determination flickering across his face. As the conversation lulled, Blitzo silently decided it was time to take action. He straightened up, took a deep breath, and slipped out of the room, making his way to Stolas.

The night was thick with tension as Blitzo walked towards his car, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He had barely taken a few steps when something on the ground caught his eye. A tiny shard of glass glinted ominously at the foot of the wheel. He raised his brow, curiosity piqued, and bent down to inspect it. With a cautious hand, he picked up the shard, turning it over in his fingers before flicking it away with a sigh. It was a minor detail, but in his world, even the smallest things could have significant meanings.

Blitzo climbed into the car, the familiar scent of leather and engine oil a small comfort in the face of his growing unease. He inserted the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a reassuring hum. As he began the drive to Stolas’ mansion, the road stretched out before him like a path of uncertainty. The rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt was a stark contrast to the turmoil in his mind.

His thoughts drifted inevitably to Vi. The memories of their encounters played out like a relentless film reel in his mind. He imagined the look on her face if she were to be found dead, her life extinguished because of his actions. Regret gnawed at him, an ever-present reminder of the mistakes he had made. He regretted it deeply, every choice that had led to this point. The guilt was a constant companion, whispering doubts and fears into the corners of his mind.

But amidst the regret, a glimmer of hope persisted. If Vi was still alive, there was a chance he could intervene. He could confront Stolas, stop whatever plans he had for her. The thought of saving her, of righting his wrongs, fueled his resolve. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his determination solidifying with each passing mile.

As the imposing silhouette of Stolas’ mansion loomed on the horizon, Blitzo steeled himself for what lay ahead. He had to find Vi, to ensure her safety. And in doing so, perhaps he could find a measure of redemption for himself. The road to Stolas was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but Blitzo knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t let Vi down again.

Chapter 10: Bye, bye Blitz!

Summary:

Two lovers, one clown

It was honestly no surprise to Vi that she found herself laying beside a demoness, a woman who wants to help her, make her trust her, befriend her. She slowly sat up, her hands moving away from the bedsheets. Her eyes gazed at Mage who was still sleeping, eyes looking at the somehow healed wounds from their fight at a bar. She shifted her feet to the ground and stood up, hearing the floor creak. She wanted to be as quiet as she could to make her leave, she’s not letting some female demon fool her; Vi kept her heart still beating for the only woman she loved the most. She refused to let her go, despite her leaving Vi in a way it broke her deeply. She began to think if Caitlyn still thinks about her, just standing there in front of the bed. Mage opens her eyes and looks at Vi, before the human could even say anything, she lifts her hand up and a dark energy creeps into Vi’s chest. Vi looked at Mage and saw Caitlyn in her eyes, what was she doing?

“Vi.” Caitlyn softly called out, guiding Vi to be on top of her. Vi’s chest felt heavy, it stung the same way it did for Caitlyn. As she was on top of the woman, she began to wrap her arms around her waist. “Why are you doing this?” Vi asked Mage before slamming her lips hungrily against the other. Vi groaned into the kiss and gripped the woman’s hips, pulling her closer. Vi takes her jacket off and pinned her wrists down, leaning into her neck to bite, to taste, to feel that love for Caitlyn. Her hips weighed down between the woman’s legs, heart beating faster than how it usually does. “Ah, fuck,” Mage moaned and touched the back of Vi’s neck. Her claw dug into Vi’s skin, drawing human blood. Vi makes the move of getting rid of her clothes, strong damaged hands ripping the cloth apart. She leans down and kisses her chest, hands travelling from Mage’s chest to her waist. Mage touches Vi’s hands, and a spark of electricity casts.

Vi jumped and pulled away immediately seeing who really was in front of her. Breath rapidly getting faster as she stood up away from the bed, “What?” Vi asked in confusion, and Mage stood up and went to Vi, “Hey, it's alright, you don’t need her anymore. She won’t help you. She’s not going to.” Mage said and placed her hand at Vi’s shoulder, gently kissing her collarbone. Vi looked at Mage, eyes lowering as she proceeded to place her hands at Mage’s hips.

_____________________________________________________________

“Stolas?” Blitzo called out, being in front of the palace as Stolas can be seen waiting at the gates, until he notices Blitzo. “Oh, Blitzo?” he slowly made his way towards him, “What do you need?” he asked the imp, Blitz's hands curled into a fist as he sighs before he could say anything, “Where is Mage? You sent her to Vi, right?”

“Why are you looking for this human so desperately, Blitzo?” Stolas asked him, facing away, “You know, I wish that you’d look for me as much as you try with her.” he spoke in a calming tone, but in Stolas’ expression, Blitzo could almost tell that Stolas was mad. He stepped forward, a hand reaching for him, “If you’re trying to get Vi killed, let it be me who does it. I know what she did to your daughter, I was there. I saw her.” Blitzo had his hand placed on his own chest, hoping Stolas would believe his little words.

Stolas looks down at him, eyes squinting before his head turns away. “I’m not sure what Mage is doing, but she should be with Vi now. Any of this shouldn’t be of your concern.” Stolas said before turning his back once again and walking away.

Blitzo clenched his fist and let out a deep exhale, the nerve in his head twitching— trying to resist the urge to hit an object nearby. “Alright, was just trying to help but since your little bird ass doesn’t want it then I’m gonna go ahead and fuck off!” Blitzo lifts up his middle finger before turning around and walking away. Stolas furrowed his brows and shook his head, “I need that book back, Blitzo.” He mumbled but loud enough for the imp to hear. “What? Is it not with you?” He turns around and raises a brow in confusion. “It's with Vi. She took it and I can’t accept that she is getting abilities from that book. I need you to get it back for me.” He slightly turned his head, looking at Blitzo with Sincerity before walking away, leaving Blitzo to think what he was gonna do. “You can have Mage’s number, call her.” He drops a piece of paper behind him with Blitzo immediately taking the paper and looking at Stolas one more time.before walking away.

“Shit, how am I gonna do this?” Blitzo walks out of the gates and hops on his car, shutting the door and driving off. As he was driving, a man ran in front of his car on the road and at the window, knocking. Blitzo turns down the music and the wind shield lowering. “Are you the I.M.P boss?” Alexandro asked, Blitzo awkwardly looked at the side mirror and gazed up at the man. “What do you need?” He asked, his voice a low, agitated tone. “You know the human, right? I know where she lives.” Alexandro smiles and takes out a note from his pocket, tossing it in Blitzo’s car.

“Are you sure this is the right one?” Blitzo raises a brow, looking towards Alexander, “Yeah, she’s with a demon girl or something. She looks like a cow with green eyes—”

“Mage?” Blitzo’s voice was barely a whisper as his ears rang, the world around him fading into a dull hum. Alexander’s voice grew muffled, distant—his brain slipping into dissociation.

Without thinking, Blitzo slammed his foot on the accelerator, the car jerking forward and running over Alexander’s foot. He didn’t stop. He kept driving until the chaos behind him faded into silence and the street stretched out, empty and quiet.

He pulled over beside a random house and got out, jaw clenched, storming toward the front door. His fist pounded against the frame with sharp, angry thuds—until he heard something that made his stomach drop.

The sound of his car starting up.

Blitzo spun around, eyes narrowing.

“Free car,” Mage called out with a wicked grin, Vi laughing beside her as the two sped off in his car, leaving him standing in the dust.

“Hey! Get back here!” he shouted, voice cracking. In a sudden burst of frustration, he ripped off his watch and slammed it to the ground. Then he dropped to a crouch, punching the pavement once—hard.

Breathing heavily, he looked up just in time to spot a taxi. He took off running, hand outstretched.

The taxi drove right past him.

“Did you see his fuckin’ face?” Mage laughed breathlessly, her eyes alight with mischief. Vi couldn’t help but grin, a warm chuckle escaping her. “Never hopped on anything like this before,” she said, voice low. “Don’t even know how to drive… but I wouldn’t mind learning—with you.”

Vi reached over, gently cupping Mage’s jaw to guide her gaze. Their eyes met for a moment too long, heat building between them before Vi leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, like the world wasn’t crashing around them.

An imp darted in front of the vehicle, but Mage didn’t even flinch. The car bumped over it, followed by the sound of crashing metal and scattered debris. Mage reluctantly pulled away from Vi to glance at the road, breath shaky.

Vi, still breathless from the kiss, flicked a lighter open and dropped it beside a man who had fallen from the impact, his gasoline can leaking out onto the pavement. Flame met fuel.

The fire bloomed behind them, screams rising into the air—but all Vi could hear was the pounding of her heart and the engine under them, carrying her further into chaos with Mage at her side.

Chapter 11: Vengeance or Power?

Summary:

“We’ve lost their fear. Lost their respect. They don’t remember who we are.”

“There’s just no fucking way!”

Valentino slammed his fist onto the table, resting his jaw in his palm as he glared across at Stolas, who sat between Voxxy and Asmodeus. With a flick of his hand, Valentino hurled a fork at the photo behind them—Stolas and Octavia smiling together—narrowly missing the frame. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Vi was still alive.

“Every imp, big or small, every goddamn overlord and sin has been after her,” he snapped, voice cracking under strain. “And yet, somehow, you still found a way to keep her alive?” He pointed accusingly at Stolas, then stabbed viciously into the meat on his plate, tearing into it with his teeth.

“I sent my best assassin after her,” he snarled through the bite. “That cow’s probably dead by now. I’ve been trying to reach her—no answer. Nothing. Silence.”

He slouched back, scowling into his wine before taking a bitter sip. Asmodeus, ever poised, rose from his seat with a fresh bottle in hand.

“I might have something better,” he said, voice smooth like silk, walking over to refill Valentino’s glass. “We’ve all suffered trying to get rid of someone. It’s nothing new.”

He paused by Voxxy, laying a hand on his shoulder and pouring wine into his empty glass. “But Vi? She’s a special kind of problem. By surviving, she makes us look weak. It’s time we changed that.”

“And Vi is making us suffer by staying alive, we need to get rid of her—” Valentino started, but Asmodeus cut him off.

“Not yet.”

He drifted back to Valentino’s side, standing behind him now like a shadow. “What if, instead of letting her be a parasite in our heads, we turn her into an asset?”

A smirk curled on his lips as he leaned closer to Valentino’s ear.

“Imagine this: posters everywhere. Missing—Vi. Let the imps come crawling, desperate, scared. Then we step in as saviors—their gods. We’ll be the ones to ‘help’ them, remind them who really runs this place. The rest of you can give your speeches, paint her as a terrorist, a monster. We control the story.”

With a dramatic sweep, Asmodeus slammed both palms onto the table and looked at them all with a wild gleam.

“You all cry, ‘Kill her, kill her, kill her!’ but have you seen what Hell has become?” He strode to the curtains, flinging them open to reveal chaos outside—imps brawling in the streets, demons rioting in alleys.

“We’ve lost their fear. Lost their respect. They don’t remember who we are.”

Gripping the window frame, he turned back, eyes darker now.

“We’re becoming useless,” he said, voice low but heavy with truth. Then he walked back to his seat and sat down. “It’s time they remember who to surrender to.” Valentino scoffed, slamming his glass down. “So what? We keep her alive just to stroke our egos? That’s pathetic.”

Asmodeus calmly set his own glass down. “Watch your tone,” he warned, voice suddenly colder. Flames flickered faintly in his pupils. “The imps’ loyalty doesn’t matter,” Valentino said, more controlled now. “Everyone wants that girl dead. And if we don’t act, if we just sit around while a human walks free—how long do you think we’ll stay relevant?” He leaned back, casual again. “We don’t even need to do anything. Just show up, look pretty, make them worship us like old times.”

A tense silence followed—until Stolas spoke.

“And how does that stop her from killing more demons?” His voice was sharp. Measured. He rose slowly from his chair, locking eyes with Asmodeus.

“My daughter was nearly killed by that angel,” he said, stepping forward. “So tell me—if Vi went after your lover, would you still be sitting there so proud?”

Stolas stopped inches from Asmodeus’s face, voice lowering into a whisper. The sin furrowed his brows and stood, backing away from the table. “Well,” he said coolly, “it’s up to you all now. Choose whatever path you think serves us best.” Without another word, the Goetian turned and left the private casino room, his mind drifting far from the table—far from the noise.

And back to the one he loved.

____________________________

 

Vi sat down beside Mage, both of them perched on the rooftop, watching the sun cast its warm glow over the horizon. Vi tilted her head back, chuckling. “Who knew the sun even existed in Hell?”

Mage let out a soft laugh in return, the sound light and easy. She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing against Vi’s. Vi smiled and gently took her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

The demon assassin chuckled under her breath and lightly traced her thumb over Vi’s lips. “How does it feel... to be human?” she asked, inching a little closer. A pause settled between them, quiet but not uncomfortable. Vi turned to her, brow slightly furrowed, as if trying to understand where the question came from.

“Well… it’s not all that special,” she admitted with a shrug. “But I guess being here makes it feel like a big deal.” She laughed softly, letting go of Mage’s hand. “You’re different, Vi,” Mage said, her voice low. “You’re not the kind of human who belongs here—not at all. The memories I’ve seen in your head… there’s no magic, no Hextech—whatever you call it. None of that exists on Earth.”

Vi blinked. “Wait... you looked into my memories?” She shifted, putting a little distance between them. “It’s not on purpose,” Mage explained quickly. “It’s just… whenever I look at you, I get these flashes. Little glimpses of what’s inside your head.” Vi snorted. “Welp, hope you don’t catch the one of me face-planting on the prison floor after getting jumped by enforcers.”

She gave Mage a playful nudge, laughing quietly. Mage laughed too, a little awkwardly—but her smile lingered.

“I see what you’ve gone through… who you were,” Mage murmured, her voice soft, almost hesitant. “Your father… he almost reminds me of my brother.” Her words trailed off as she leaned her head gently against Vi’s shoulder, the weight of her memories pressing down with her. “He killed himself after some overlord—Alastor, I think—threatened to hang up his limbs for not paying a debt.” Her voice cracked slightly. She looked down, her eyes heavy, and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Vi turned to her, concern flashing in her expression. She scooted in closer, gently reaching up to cup Mage’s face. “Maybe your brother was scared, huh?” she whispered, her voice grounding, warm. Vi leaned in, resting her forehead against Mage’s head as she wrapped one arm around her, holding her steady in the silence.

“He was,” Mage whispered, staring ahead. “He wanted to do everything for me. I was the only family he had left after the exterminators did what they did. Took our mom and dad’s lives after they tried defending us from them.” She sat up slowly, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. Her gaze softened as it found Vi’s again. “But I’m glad I found you.”

The weight of that confession lingered in the air for only a breath before Mage leaned in and kissed Vi—slowly at first, then deeply, as if trying to say everything words couldn’t. Vi kissed back just as fiercely, her hand cradling Mage’s waist as she gently lowered her down onto the rough concrete of the rooftop. Mage tugged Vi’s jacket off her shoulders and slid her hands over her abs, her fingers pressing in as she bit her bottom lip, breath shaky.

“On a balcony, huh?” Vi teased, grinning as she looked down at her. Mage laughed against her lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t be scared. I’ve seen imps do it on top of fences.”

They both laughed, the tension breaking briefly into something playful, natural. Vi leaned down, pressing soft kisses along Mage’s stomach, her hands slipping under her crop top and gently caressing her chest. Mage arched her back slightly, a soft moan escaping as she ran her fingers through Vi’s hair and held her close—

But suddenly, a sharp crack of electricity surged between them. A bright bolt zapped in the space where their bodies connected, and both of them flinched away with a simultaneous yelp, startled and breathless.

“S-sorry—” Vi stammered, blinking in shock as she sat back, rubbing her arm where the spark had kissed her skin.

Mage was already moving toward her, her expression full of care. She reached out and stroked Vi’s cheek, calming her with a gentle touch. “Hey, hey… it’s alright. Maybe it’s just your body telling you that you want to be the one taken care of.” She leaned in and kissed Vi’s cheek softly. “Don’t be ashamed, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me, sugar.”

Vi caught a glimpse—brief, but unmistakable. Caitlyn. Her figure stood clear in Vi’s mind, gun raised, aimed directly at Mage.

A cold wave of panic surged up Vi’s spine. Her breath hitched as she stumbled back, her body tensing, heart pounding in her ears. “No…” she whispered, eyes wide as she looked away from Mage like she'd just seen a ghost.

Mage blinked, confused. “Vi? What’s wrong with you?” Her voice was sharp but not unkind, her brows knitting together in concern.

Vi didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her thoughts were too loud, too chaotic.

Mage exhaled through her nose, something distant creeping into her tone. “I’m heading back to the apartment.” Without another word, she turned and leapt from the rooftop, vaulting over ledges and pipes with effortless grace until she vanished through her apartment window.

Vi stayed frozen where she was, trembling slightly. She didn’t understand what just happened—or why her mind was betraying her like this. All she knew was that something inside her cracked, and in that moment, she hated herself for it.

Mage’s phone buzzed beside Vi, the shrill ring slicing through the silence. She glanced at it without much thought—until she saw the contact name: no name, just a number.

Curious, she picked it up and answered. “Hello?”

“Babe, could you come over here, please? I miss you,” a woman’s voice cooed on the other end—sweet, sickening.

Vi froze. Her stomach twisted. The woman’s voice felt like a knife wrapped in silk. Her thumb hovered, then she quietly muted the call, the ringing still echoing in her ears like a scream. With trembling fingers, she tapped into the messages.

And there it was.

‘Stolas sent me to kill the human. I’ll be a little busy for a bit. I love you.’

Just those words. Just enough to shatter something.

Vi’s eyes widened. Her irises shrank as her breath caught in her throat. Her head started spinning. The world around her seemed to warp and tilt. The sound of the woman’s voice on the other end kept bleeding through, warped and sticky in her ears.

“Hello? Babe?”

Vi didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her grip on the phone tightened, the air growing heavy in her chest like it was trying to choke her from the inside out. She had no idea if she was about to scream, or throw up.

Mage was in her room, standing by the dresser when Vi slipped in through the open window, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” Vi said softly. “I didn’t mean to freak out earlier. I think my abilities are… getting out of control.” She gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Oh—uh, someone was calling you, by the way.”

Mage glanced over her shoulder softly smiling, then walked over casually and plucked the phone from Vi’s hand. She tapped the screen, scanning through a few messages, then let out a dry, amused chuckle. “Just debts I need to pay. Not answering those.”

Without another word, she tossed the phone onto the couch behind her and turned her back on Vi.

Vi stood there, her smile fading like a dying light. Her expression didn’t change much—mouth closed, jaw still—but her eyes shifted. Gone was the softness. A blank stare took over, still and unreadable. Eyes glowed like blue.. angry fire. But beneath the surface, in her gaze, something burned.

Hate.

Chapter 12: Good, goodmorning

Summary:

Let's not forget them.

Jinx shook the bars of her cell furiously, her eyes burning with rage. Across from her stood Caitlyn, expression cold. Without a word, Caitlyn turned her back on Jinx.

“She’s not dead,” Jinx growled. “She can’t be.”

Caitlyn glanced at the enforcer stationed beside a button wired to the cell bars. With a silent nod from her, he pressed it. Electricity surged through the bars, and Jinx let out a scream, stumbling backward from the shock. “Can you contain yourself?” Caitlyn snapped.

Inside the cell, Jinx gripped her braids, twisting them around her neck in a wild attempt to choke herself. “You did something to her!” she cried. “You enforcers are just fancy criminals in disguise!” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shouted. “Vi disappeared after we split up. How could I have killed her? For all we know, she’s hiding—trying to stay away from all this!” Caitlyn turned slowly, her face tight with fury. “No, Jinx. I didn’t kill her—just like you didn’t mean to kill my mother!”

With that, Caitlyn stormed out, leaving Jinx alone in the flickering light. From beneath her clothes, Jinx pulled out a small bomb. She yanked the pin and hurled it outside the cell. The explosion rocked the room, killing the enforcers on guard. The blast cracked open a section of the wall, just enough for her to slip through. She darted into a panel bolted to the wall, reclaiming her weapons stashed inside. By the time Caitlyn rushed back in, Jinx was already gone.

Caitlyn gripped her shotgun tightly, her chest heaving with rapid breaths—then she let out a raw, furious scream that echoed through the corridor.

_____________________________________

A sharp crack of electricity lashed across Vi’s cheek like a whip, snapping her awake with a jolt. Her body lurched upward from the mattress, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. The room around her was dim, the air charged and humming faintly with leftover static.

In the doorway stood Mage, back leaning lazily against the frame, arms crossed. Her tail flicked behind her as she smirked. “Heh… guess your abilities took it upon themselves to do the job,” she said, tilting her head. Her voice was light, almost amused, but her gaze lingered on Vi longer than usual—watchful.

Vi didn’t answer. Her chest rose and fell fast, lips slightly parted. She blinked hard, trying to make sense of the static still buzzing in her skull. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, jaw clenching tighter with every passing second. There was tension in her muscles that wouldn’t go away—an invisible scream bottled inside her ribcage.

Mage raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be mad now,” she said casually, pushing off the doorframe. “Come over to the kitchen. You need to eat. That food I stole wasn’t an easy steal, you know.” She disappeared down the hallway without waiting for a response.

Vi sat there, still and silent. Her eyes dropped to her hands—shaking again. She hated it. The way her body betrayed her. The way everything felt like it was spiraling. She turned her head slowly toward the cracked mirror on the wall.

Her reflection looked like a stranger.

Hair messy, eyes hollow. She looked… unstable. Not like herself.

“I don’t know how many more months I can keep doing this,” she whispered.

Her voice barely reached the air.

Feet dragging against the floor, Vi forced herself up and followed the smell of food into the kitchen. Mage was already seated, leaning back in her chair with that same smug, effortless confidence. She was chewing like nothing in the world had gone wrong.

Vi sat down across from her and quietly began to eat with her hands. She didn’t care. She couldn’t bring herself to pick up a fork, let alone pretend anything was normal.

Mage smirked again. “You always eat like that,” she said, popping a bite into her mouth. “Messy. Wild. You’re even better in bed.” She wiped her lips with a napkin, laughing softly to herself like it was just harmless banter.

Vi’s chewing slowed. She didn’t look up at first, but something shifted. Her posture straightened. Her shoulders tensed.

Then, without warning, she grabbed the edge of the table and slammed it aside, sending plates and cutlery moving and water flowing. Mage jolted in her seat, eyes wide.

Vi didn’t give her time to react. She lunged—crossing the space between them and shoving Mage back, pinning her to the cold floor. Her lips crashed into hers, rough and breathless, like something inside her had snapped. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate and chaotic and laced with something that tasted like panic.

Mage gasped into the kiss, shoving against Vi’s chest with both hands. She broke the kiss, panting. “Vi—what the hell are you doing?”

Her voice trembled.

Vi hovered over her, arms on either side, her face unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes were feral. Not out of lust, not even entirely out of anger. There was something broken in them. Something wild and wounded.

She didn’t answer. She just stared, breathing hard, like an animal backed into a corner. Mage’s expression softened just slightly, flickering with fear—but also something else. Confusion. Concern. Vi looked like she wasn’t fully there. Like she was watching herself from the outside, locked in her own skin, unable to stop what was happening.

“Vi,” Mage said again, this time quieter. “Talk to me.” But Vi didn’t. She just trembled above her, like if she moved one more inch, she’d either shatter… or explode.

“I’ve just been hungry,” Vi muttered, her voice flat. Sparks danced across her arms as electricity cracked under her skin. She stood up and turned her back to Mage, starting to walk away.

But Mage wasn’t having it.

She grabbed Vi’s wrist and slammed her back against the wall, pinning her with one arm as her voice rose in frustration. “There’s something you’re not telling me. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Her face was inches from Vi’s, her eyes locked on the human’s as Vi’s chest heaved, breath uneven.

Vi stared back at her, rage and hurt swirling behind her eyes. “Your other girlfriend misses you,” she spat. “Why don’t you call her back, maybe?”

She shoved Mage away with a sharp burst of strength and stormed into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing her bag and tossing things inside with frantic hands.

Mage followed, standing in the doorway with a stunned expression before finally stepping in front of her again. “She’s not my girlfriend,” she snapped, desperate now. “She’s just someone I fucked—someone who thought it meant more than it ever did. We’re not together, Vi. I swear.”

Vi paused, her hands stilling. Her jaw clenched tight. But before she could speak, Mage pushed her back onto the bed and crawled over her, straddling her hips and holding her in place.

“It’s you,” Mage said firmly, eyes burning with conviction. “It’s just you.”

Something in Vi snapped. She flipped them both over in one fluid motion, her mouth crashing against Mage’s in a rough, needy kiss. Her hands were frantic, grabbing, pressing, moving across the demoness’s body like she was trying to feel everything at once. Her lips trailed down Mage’s neck, her growl low and broken as she bit hard into her shoulder.

Vi gripped Mage’s collar and ripped her shirt open without hesitation, breath ragged. “Fuck, Mage,” she growled, voice cracking, “you drive me so fucking insane.”

Mage let out a soft laugh, even as her breath hitched. She flipped Vi again, this time with gentleness, her hands grounding them both. She pinned the human to the bed and looked down at her, brushing hair away from Vi’s damp, flushed face.

“Hey… let me take care of you. Yeah?”

Vi’s eyes shimmered—watery, fragile. Her body trembled beneath Mage’s, small goosebumps blooming across her skin.

Mage could feel the fear hiding just beneath the surface.

“Relax, pretty girl,” she whispered, kissing Vi’s shoulder softly. “I’m so sorry, baby. I know it hurt when you heard her voice… but listen to me. I belong to you. You belong to me. That’s all that matters.”

Slowly, Mage lifted Vi’s hoodie, revealing the scars crisscrossed on her skin. She kissed each one like it deserved worship, her tongue brushing over the faded remnants of pain—tasting old blood, dry and forgotten, but still aching beneath the surface.

Her hands were slow, reverent. She kissed softly at the fabric covering Vi’s chest, the contact so tender it made Vi arch just slightly, breath catching in her throat.

A soft whimper slipped from her lips as her head fell back against the sheets.

Memories flashed into Vi’s mind as she leaned her head into Mage’s shoulder, the moments they’ve spent together– moments partners like them would never forget. But those moments were moments Vi would definitely not forget, but would hate forever.

Chapter 13: The Last Supper

Summary:

“That’s… that’s not an angel,”

“Good vibes only, everyone,” Beezlebub cheered, raising her glass high, spilling some of her drink along with the rest of the demons. They all roared in celebration, clashing glasses together in chaotic delight. Beezlebub wandered over to a poster of Vi, licking her thumb and rubbing it against the wall to stick the loose paper back in place. With her hands on her hips, she turned around and spotted Asmodeus approaching.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen bee of gluttony,” he teased, grinning. Beezlebub smiled back, “It sure quite is! Everything’s going pretty well, huh?” The two of them made their way to the balcony.

“I figured it’d be smarter if we stop making it harder for ourselves—why not use Vi to benefit us rulers instead?”

Asmodeus chuckled, and Beezlebub took a sip of her wine.

“Eventually, someone’s gonna find Vi and start asking why she hasn’t been captured yet by us—beings far more powerful than her. Don’t you think that’s a little risky?” Her head turned slowly to the city, her face expressing slight worries.

Asmodeus cast a glance in Beezlebub’s direction. Behind her stood a towering poster, boldly displaying his own words of reassurance—crafted to instill a sense of safety among the imps.

His gaze lingered, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Anyone who dares to question us,” he said coolly, “will be dealt with in ways only we understand.”

With his arms crossed, he turned and walked away without another word.

Beezlebub’s ears drooped. She let out a deep sigh. Despite his words, something inside her twisted. She knew it wouldn’t help her. Not really.

What if she took matters into her own hands? What if she found Vi herself? If she could catch her, drag her down in front of everyone—she could wave that victory across all of Hell.

The attention. The energy. The power. All of it, feeding into her demonic strength.

That would shut them up.

__________________________

Mage leaned her back against the wall, eyes fixed on Vi. She let out a long, tired sigh.

Vi hadn’t said a word in months—three and a half, at least. And no matter how many times Mage replayed it in her head, she couldn’t figure out what had happened to make her so... silent.

“I’m getting tired of whatever this is, Vi.” Her voice held heat now, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Vi didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on a picture frame across the room—one of Mage and her brother, frozen in time.

Mage’s chest tightened.

“If you don’t love me anymore,” she said, standing up, her voice rising with emotion, “just fucking say that.”

“Did you truly love me at all to begin with?” Vi spoke, looking towards Mage. She stood up and walked her way in front of her, Mage glared at Vi.

Vi’s expression shifted—anger giving way to something heavier, something sad. Her eyes glistened.

“You were supposed to kill me, weren’t you?” she whispered, voice trembling as a tear slid down her cheek.

“All this time... you never cared to tell me you were with Stolas?!”

Her body moved on instinct. She shoved Mage back.

Mage grabbed Vi by the wrists, holding her in place. Her breath caught. She stared at Vi, stunned.

How did she find out?

“Okay—baby, please. Listen, okay?” Mage’s voice cracked, and tears began to well up in her eyes too.

“I was supposed to kill you, okay? That’s the truth—but listen—” Mage was panting, hands trembling as they rested on Vi’s shoulders.

“I fell in love with you. Everything we shared, every moment—it was real. I promise you that.”

Her voice cracked.

“I ran from Stolas. I stopped working for him. I was only supposed to kill you because you attacked Octavia, but I don’t give a shit about his spoiled little daughter.”

Vi’s face contorted, tears spilling down her cheeks. She pushed Mage back, her body shaking with rage and heartbreak.

“No,” she hissed, voice breaking. “You’re doing this because you want your brother brought back to life.”

She took a step back, wiping her face with a trembling hand.

“But you wanna know something, Mage?”

Her eyes met hers, blazing.

“He’s dead. And you are not using me to bring him back!”

“Why the fuck would you say something so fucked up to me?”

“Why did you lie?”

“I never lied, I just never told you!”

“And you still got me fucked up with that bullshit, Mage!”

“You’re acting like I still want to kill you!”

Vi went quiet.

A soft sob escaped her lips, her glowing cyan eyes shimmering with grief and rage.

“You manipulated me,” she said, voice low but laced with venom.

“You were really going to kill me, weren’t you?”

She stepped forward slowly, every footfall heavy with pain.

Then—without warning—Vi slammed her forehead into Mage’s.

Mage’s body crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Vi stood over her, breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell with fury.

She looked around the room—the memories, the lies—and began destroying everything.

Frames shattered. Glass cracked. Furniture flipped. Her rage spilled into every corner.

Then—

A groan.

Mage’s eyes fluttered open just in time to see Vi tearing the place apart.

She screamed—and lunged.

Both women went crashing through the balcony window, shards of glass flying into the night air like stars.

They hit the ground hard.

Vi wasted no time. She drove her fist into Mage’s stomach, sending her skidding back.

But Mage recovered quickly, letting out a roar as she struck Vi with a brutal uppercut.

Vi’s head snapped back, blood flicking from her lip.

Her fist began to glow—energy surging and crackling with power.

She sprinted toward Mage, yelling as her charged fist slammed the air—

The impact sent a deafening shockwave across the street, blasting Mage off her feet.

The street cracked beneath Vi’s feet as she landed, electricity rippling up her arms. Her fists glowed cyan, crackling with stored energy. Across from her, Mage stood with blood trickling from her brow, lips parted in a sharp, amused breath.

“You still don’t get it,” Mage muttered. She held up her hand, catching a stream of her own blood midair. It twisted unnaturally, shifting into a jagged blade that pulsed with black magic.

Vi didn't wait.

She sprinted forward, electricity flaring in her steps. Mage slashed—Vi ducked. Sparks flew as fist collided with blood-forged steel, the shockwave sending a car alarm blaring nearby.

Vi landed a blow to Mage’s gut, energy discharging on impact. Mage reeled, coughing blood—but caught Vi’s arm and summoned a wave of shadowy force from the ground. Dark tendrils lashed out, coiling around Vi’s legs and dragging her back.

Vi screamed, electrocuting the shadows, forcing them to release her. She slammed her fists into the pavement, launching herself into the air and toward Mage like a bolt of lightning.

Mage raised both hands. Blood rose from her wounds and reshaped midair—blades, spears, arrows. They launched.

Vi twisted in the air, fists blazing, dodging and deflecting what she could. One blade nicked her shoulder—another grazed her cheek. She didn’t stop.

When she reached Mage, she roared and unleashed a devastating punch to her chest. A brilliant surge of cyan exploded outward, hurling Mage through a brick wall.

Smoke and debris clouded the air.

Vi landed hard, panting. Her muscles trembled from the energy drain.

Through the haze, Mage rose slowly, bleeding, her arms shaking. Her eyes glowed red, blood swirling protectively around her.

“Don’t fucking leave me!” she rasped.

Vi stared, sadness flickering behind her rage. She took a step back.

Then she turned—and ran.

Mage screamed after her, stumbling forward—but she couldn't catch up. Not this time.

Vi disappeared into the city’s dark sprawl, her glowing fists dimming with every step. Her breath hitched, her chest aching—not just from the fight.

____________

Vi ran. She didn’t stop—not until her boots skidded across rusted metal and the familiar scent of scorched wires hit her nose.

The old hideout.

She dropped down through a jagged hole in the ground, landing on her feet with a grunt. Without hesitation, she slammed her fist into the cracked, glowing pipes—acid hissing as it burst out, steaming and violent.

Fluids leaked into the foundation, pooling beneath the rusted support beams.

Vi didn’t flinch.

She grabbed the rope dangling from the trapdoor above and climbed, the metal groaning beneath her weight. At the top, she emerged into the open air, standing on a hill made of shattered concrete and forgotten junk—her old home, now nothing but a grave.

And there—panting, bloodied—stood Mage.

She had finally caught up.

Her eyes widened when she saw where they were. “Vi!” she cried, stumbling forward. “Please—please! I’m sorry, okay? Just listen!”

Vi didn’t move. Her eyes were glowing again, cold and bright.

Mage looked around, her voice cracking. “This is where he died. My brother—he died here! Please, don’t do this, not here!”

Vi’s brow twitched.

She looked around at the wreckage, the old graffiti on the metal walls, the dried stains she once ignored. The corpse. The symbols.

Her breath hitched.

So that was him.

But she didn’t feel anything. Not sympathy. Not sorrow. Not yet.

“Let this be where you die too, Mage,” Vi said, her voice guttural—demonic, distorted, louder than the silence around them.

She flicked the lighter from her palm.

Time seemed to pause.

Then—she let it fall.

The hill erupted into flames.

A chain of explosions tore through the junk site, devouring everything in orange heat and acid smoke. Nearby buildings cracked and collapsed, flames reaching into the sky. Screams filled the air—imps running, chaos breaking loose.

Mage’s body slammed into the ground, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs. For a moment, everything went black.

Then—consciousness returned. Her eyes fluttered open, vision blurred and lungs burning.

And there—atop the burning debris—stood Vi. Her body was outlined in flame. Cyan eyes glowing in the smoke. She was a ghost, a demon, and a fury all at once.

Mage had lost her legs—torn clean from the blast, bones jutting out like snapped branches, her veins pulsing weakly in the ruin of her lower body.

She lay gasping, blood pooling beneath her, hands twitching helplessly. Vi loomed over her, face twitching, eyes glassy and wide, as if trying to focus through static.

She grabbed Mage by the hair, yanking her head up like a broken doll, and began dragging her through scorched debris and twisted metal.

A lone security camera blinked to life with a soft whirr. The red light glowed. The feed went live.

Across Hell, televisions flickered on—club walls, bar corners, casino lobbies.

Crowds gathered in stunned silence. Imps froze mid-drink, cigars dropped from mouths.

Overlords leaned forward in their thrones, unmoving. The sins stood shoulder to shoulder in silence—Beelzebub’s glass of honey-wine slipping from her hand, shattering.

Mammon whispered, “What the fuck am I watching?” and stepped back, revolted.

Asmodeus covered his mouth with a trembling hand.

Stolas stood at the front of the crowd, expression hollow. His feathers fluffed in discomfort.

“That’s… that’s not an angel,” he whispered, as if trying to convince himself.

Vi stood above Mage, twitching.

Her mind was melting, the air around her pulsing with warped colors and ghostly shadows.

Her hallucinations painted a different world—one where Mage’s broken body was crawling with insects, her mouth laughing, her eyes glowing like lanterns.

To Vi, Mage wasn’t begging—she was taunting. Mocking her. Infecting her.

Vi screamed and grabbed Mage’s horns as she tried to squirm away. She slammed her head down into the debris. Mage sobbed, arms flailing, but Vi was already leaning in, heavily breathing. A taste. She bit into Mage’s cheek, ripping flesh with a deep hum. Blood squirted onto Vi’s face, trailing down her lips and chin.

Mage shrieked, the sound pure agony, echoing across the broken streets.

Vi pulled back, chewing, her mouth slick and dripping red. She licked her fingers, eyes dilated, hallucinations whispering sweet approval in her ears. “She’s poison,” the voices said. “She was never real.”

She unsheathed a jagged blade from her side and carved deep into Mage’s abdomen, pulling a bloody chunk free. With bare hands, she shoved it into her mouth, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

“Jesus fuck—stop broadcasting this!” Mammon bellowed.

Beelzebub collapsed into a chair, clutching her stomach, whispering, “That’s not right. That’s not right.”

But Vi wasn’t done.

Mage’s screams became choked sobs. Her arms were next—Vi snapped them at the joints, twisted them out of place, and cut through muscle and bone with the dagger. Mage's body convulsed, her voice fading.

Vi didn’t even blink.

She scooped up Mage’s severed hand and chewed the fingers off one by one, biting through the bone like it was candy. She clawed at Mage’s face next—ripping skin, prying out an eye, sucking it between her teeth with a sickening squelch.

Her face and hands were coated in blood, gore dripping from her jaw. Her eyes stared past reality, somewhere deep in her hallucinations—where Mage was a demon in disguise, where eating her was salvation.

By now, many of the viewers had turned away or fled, sobbing. A few stayed, frozen in horror, unable to look away from the slaughter—watching Vi consume what was left of her victim with manic devotion, whispering to herself between mouthfuls.

“Cleanse it. Purge it. Purge her.”

From the rooftop, Blitzo watched. His jaw trembled. He couldn't look away—didn't want to—but he also couldn’t breathe. “She's not—she’s not sane,” he muttered.

Vi slowly sliced into Mage’s stomach, cupping her hands to catch the blood. She took a sip, smeared it across her face, then leaned in to eat her guts—slowly, deliberately.

Jane collapsed to her knees, the strength ripped from her legs as the screen bathed the casino in flickering red. Her mouth hung open, no scream came—just a hollow, broken gasp. Her girlfriend—her Mage—was being devoured alive. Onscreen. In front of everyone. Blood smeared the lens. Mage’s mangled body twitched, then stilled.

Derick dropped to the floor behind Jane, wrapping his arms tightly around her trembling frame. “Don’t look,” he whispered, but Jane didn’t blink. She couldn’t. Around them, patrons wept openly. Demons murmured prayers they hadn't said in centuries.

Even the overlords were silent, their faces pale and distant.

Someone finally found the courage to shut the television off—click. But it was too late. The image had already burned itself into Jane’s mind.

On the other end of the broadcast—unseen now by those who had fled or turned away—Vi was still at it.

She reached into Mage’s open chest cavity, fingers sinking into the warmth, and wrapped them around the heart. With a slow pull, it came free—dripping, twitching.

Vi held it in front of her, eyes wide with wonder, and then brought it to her mouth.

She bit into it with reverence, blood trickling down her chin as she chewed deliberately, savoring every nerve-ending flavor, every iron-laced drop.

Then came the head.

Vi tilted it in her hands, Mage’s empty eyes staring glassily into the distance. She kissed her forehead once—gently—then took her dagger and began to break.

The blade scraped against bone. With one hand, she peeled back the scalp like tearing paper.

Her fingers dug into the exposed skull, and with one harsh crack, she pried it open. The brain pulsed faintly—leftover electricity. Vi sighed softly, as if overwhelmed by the scent, and leaned in.

She buried her face into it, moaning low and animalistic.

Finally, Vi slumped forward, hugging what was left of Mage’s torso like a child with a favorite doll.

One hand still cradled the half-eaten heart, the other wrapped protectively around the blood-slick body. Her face lay nestled against the torn open head, and for a moment, she looked… peaceful.

Mage’s lifeless eyes stared straight at the camera. Unblinking. Accusing. Forever frozen in terror.

Stolas took control of the camera, his eyes wide—none of the demons had ever witnessed something so horrific.

He swallowed hard. “The human has been captured. There’s no more need for concern. Please turn off your televisions and take time to process.”

Agents swarmed in, seizing Vi and injecting her until she went limp. A convoy of vans and cars followed, en route to the asylum.

Chapter 14: Room 516

Summary:

“I can’t do this for you, Vi,” Jinx murmured, fading like smoke.

For 6 months, they experimented on her—desperately trying to understand what Vi was. Needles, flashlights, chains—she grew all too familiar with them.

She slammed her fists against the walls, cyan blood dripping from her torn knuckles.

Observing her from behind the glass, a man in a white suit pressed a red button, triggering a surge of electricity in the room.

Vi didn’t flinch. Scyllo exhaled sharply.

“Her abilities keep regenerating,” he muttered. “If we can isolate and remove that trait, stripping away the rest should be easier.”

He paused, watching her closely.

“But what’s strange… water stuns her.”

Vi turned and locked eyes with them through the glass.

“Wait! Not the water, please—please don’t do it!” she cried, tears streaking down her cheeks.

But fear twisted into fury, sorrow curdling into rage. She lunged forward, slamming her fists against the unbreakable glass.

“I said don’t fucking do it!” she screamed, voice cracking beneath the weight of desperation.

Water began to seep from the floor, slowly at first. Vi looked down and panic surged through her.

The electric bolts that once danced along the skin near her legs began to fade, disappearing as the water rose faster. By the time it reached her chest, Vi lifted her head, desperate for one last gasp of air before she was fully submerged.

Scyllo watched silently as she struggled beneath the surface, unmoving as the water finally drained once her body stopped resisting.

“Water severely hinders her ability to absorb energy,” he murmured, eyes narrowing, “but there’s another factor I can’t explain.”

He turned to face the board behind him—covered in documentary photos of glowing blue orbs.

They touched objects, and somehow adapted. Learned. Evolved.

Vi turned her head slowly, her body twitching and jolting with each wave of pain.

Scyllo pressed the button again, sending another surge of electricity through her.

Vi screamed, gasping for breath as she twisted away and crawled into the corner. She shot him a fierce glare, then pulled her knees tightly to her chest.

“I think she’s had enough,” one of them said quietly. “We’re letting her rest for now.”

Scyllo began to turn away, but Vanessa reached out, catching his wrist. “Are we just going to leave her here?” she asked, glancing back, clutching her clipboard tightly to her chest.

“We always leave her here. What makes today any different?” Scyllo replied, his gaze shifting toward Vi, who was curled in the corner like a wounded animal.

Vanessa scoffed softly, tone laced with sarcasm. “If you actually paid attention, you’d notice that glass keeping her in? It’s about to give from how hard she’s been slamming into it.”

Scyllo looked once more at Vi, then back to Vanessa. He gave a quiet exhale. “Call the enforcers. Have them move her to her room,” he muttered, then exited without another word.

Vi's eye twitched the second she heard the word—enforcers. Her feet started to kick instinctively, panic taking over.

The memories hit like lightning—she was sixteen again, fists raining down on her as enforcers dragged her through the streets.

She had cried, begged them to stop, screaming for her sister. All she wanted was to go home. Was this place going to become just like that?

Now, her body was completely bound, wrapped in thick white leather straps. She could hardly move. They dragged her down the hallway like a corpse on display.

Other patients peeked through half-cracked doors, watching with wide, curious eyes, wondering what they have done to Vi again.

Vi was thrown into a cold, gray padded room, her body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Hold her down and remove the straps,” one of the enforcers ordered, stepping forward as the others closed in. They began to unfasten the white leather bindings, but Vi didn’t resist—she just lay there, still, as if unconscious.

“She’s probably exhausted from all the drowning,” one of them muttered, voice muffled beneath his mask.

In a flash, Vi jolted upright and slammed her forehead into the face of the man pinning her.

He cried out in pain, staggering back. Vi thrashed wildly, screaming, kicking, doing everything she could to free herself as the others scrambled to hold her down.

They finally wrestled her into the corner of the room, shoving her against the padded wall before sprinting out. The door slammed shut behind them with a metallic clang, and the lock clicked into place.

Vi rushed the door, fists slamming against it, yelling loud enough to shake the walls. Her hands fumbled for the doorknob, twisting it violently—but it was no use.

She backed away, breathing hard, trying to summon her abilities. But the moment the water came, it hit her like a shockwave. Her body seized, then collapsed, stunned.

Vi lay there, gasping—then let out a scream so raw it echoed through the room like something broken beyond repair.

“You always find a way,” the voice echoed from the corner.

Vi looked up, and there she was—Jinx. Standing barefoot in the dim light, her smile wide, her eyes shining with that same childish madness. But something was off. She wasn’t really there. Vi knew it. The room was locked. She was alone.

Jinx strolled closer, silent steps never touching the floor. She sat beside Vi, her vibrant hair seeming to glow in the dark. One braid brushed against Vi’s shoulder.

Vi’s lip trembled. “Powder...” she whispered, her fingers shakily reaching out, barely grazing the illusion.

The braid wrapped around her neck.

“You’ve always fought your way out,” Jinx’s voice purred, though her lips never moved. Her face was calm—eerily calm—as the braids began to pull tighter.

But it wasn’t Jinx doing it. It was Vi. Her own hands moved, clutching the gauze she’d tied around her arms, twisting it around her throat.

“I can’t do this for you, Vi,” Jinx murmured, fading like smoke.

The illusion vanished.

The gauze tore.

Vi gasped, choking in a breath, her body collapsing forward as the weight of it all crashed into her. She sobbed, harder now—because she knew she’d done it to herself. Again.

Vi lay flat on the cold ground, her body still, eyes unfocused and drifting into a haze.

A single tear slid down her cheek before her lids fluttered shut, followed by a slow, trembling exhale. She surrendered to the pull of sleep—not out of rest, but escape.

Yet even in slumber, there was no peace.

Chapter 15: Who's the bluest of them all?

Summary:

Jane's parts won't be forgotten.

"Why did she do this to me?"

Jane clutched the photograph in trembling hands—Mage’s face frozen in a smile that now felt like a cruel echo of the past. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she let out a guttural scream and hurled the photo across the room. It hit the wall and fluttered to the floor.

She collapsed onto her knees, kicking out in frustration, fingers digging into her scalp as she tugged at her own hair. Every detail came rushing back. Vi’s twisted grin. Mage’s blood painting the walls. The wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn. Her lover’s face—beautiful, terrified—devoured by a monster in human skin.

Jane’s breath came in ragged gasps.

A knock at the door startled her back to the present.

“Jane?”

The door creaked open. Derrick peeked through, cautious. His eyes softened when he saw her curled up in the corner, knees hugged tight to her chest.

He stepped inside. “Are you alright?”

His voice was quiet, but she didn’t respond.
He knelt beside her, gently cupping her cheek. “Jane, please. You’re with me now. Mage is gone.”

He pulled her into an embrace.

Jane panted—then her fingers tightened around the cold metal hidden in her pocket. In one swift, practiced motion, she plunged the knife into Derrick’s skull. A wet crack. Blood ran from his nose.
"You will never be her."

She let his body slump to the floor without a second glance, rose to her feet, and walked out—leaving the warmth of his blood cooling on her hands.
Jane’s eyes glowed a violent red as they snapped toward the door. In the next instant, she threw it open with a loud crack, her face expressionless—eerily calm, though her eyes seethed with barely restrained rage.

The air outside was thick with whispers. Rumors swirled like ash in a storm: Hell hadn’t finished the job. The human—Vi—might still be alive.

Demons murmured. Imps doubted. Rebellion stirred in quiet corners, some pointing fingers at the overlords and sins, calling them deceivers.

Jane remembered Stolas, his voice slick and performative on the television, saying something that didn’t sit right. But it was right after the screen went black—someone had shut it off, almost deliberately—when she saw them: a group of men in matching black suits, hauling Vi away. She recognized the badge stitched to one of their shoulders.

She'd seen it before. She hadn’t forgotten.

Now, she knew exactly where to go.
Exactly who to tear through.

“I won’t let you go.”

Her voice cracked as she looked at the empty seat where Mage used to sit, her fingers brushing the worn cushion like it held the last warmth of her.
Her breath quickened. Her chest heaved.

Then—
A scream tore out of her throat, raw and primal, echoing through the room like a vow.
Stolas sat alone at a candlelit table, swirling a glass of wine between elegant fingers. The soft clinking of silverware and low hum of conversation filled the restaurant, but his eyes were fixed on the entrance.

Then he saw him.

Blitzo strode in, slightly out of breath, and pulled out the chair across from him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, settling in.

Stolas offered a gentle smile. “It’s quite alright, Blitz.” He set his glass down with a light clink. “How are you feeling?”
Before Blitzo could answer, a waitress approached with a practiced smile and placed two menus in front of them.

“Take your time,” she said with a slight bow, before slipping away.

Blitzo gave a half-shrug, his fingers wrapping around the stem of the wine glass. “I’ve been fine. Just… trying to erase a few memories.” He brought the drink to his lips and took a sip, his eyes not quite meeting Stolas’.

Stolas’ smile faded into something more solemn. “I understand. After what happened a few months ago… well,” he paused, folding his hands together, “there’s no need to worry anymore. Not now.
Stolas reached across the table and gently took Blitzo’s hand, his thumb tracing soft circles into the imp’s palm.

“Can you tell me why you kept looking for her?” he asked quietly. “Was there something you felt?”

His eyes searched Blitzo’s face—looking for something, anything—but all he saw was the hollowness behind his companion’s gaze.

Blitzo pulled his hand back, resting his arms on the table with a shrug. His shoulders slouched as he reached for the wine glass and took a sip. Immediately, his face twisted in distaste.

“I don’t know how richies like you enjoy this shit,” he muttered, setting the glass aside.
The waitress returned just then, and Blitzo dropped his gaze back onto the menu with little interest.

Stolas exhaled softly and picked up his own menu. “Ah, yes. I’ll have the steak, extra gravy. And he’ll have a—”

Blitzo wasn’t listening anymore. Stolas’s voice blurred, fading into the background like white noise. A ringing started in his ears—sharp, constant—and his vision narrowed.

“Blitzo?” Stolas’s voice cut through the haze.

The imp blinked. His chair screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said, already moving, his pace brisk as he weaved through the tables and disappeared from view.

Stolas let out a tired sigh. He glanced at Blitzo’s barely touched glass, then poured the rest of the wine into his own and knocked it back in one go.

Jane moved down the dim alleyway, boots crunching over broken glass and gravel. She paused near the edge, eyes narrowing as she spotted Stolas through the restaurant window, sitting alone at a table. The soft golden light inside made him look almost peaceful—almost innocent.

She scoffed.
“A bunch of liars,” she muttered under her breath, eyes bloodshot, voice tight with restrained contempt.

Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her hoodie, Jane turned away from the window and crossed the street. A group of imps lingered beneath a flickering lamppost, smoking and murmuring between themselves. They barely noticed her approach—until she pulled her hood back.

Her face was pale under the cold glow, dark circles under her eyes, but it was her stare that made them go quiet.

“Do you guys know where Vi’s hideout is?”

Her voice was low. Quiet. But there was weight behind it—like something dangerous just beneath the surface.
The imps exchanged glances, the air suddenly tense.

“Piss off, freak,” one of the imps sneered, spitting on Jane’s boot.
Both of them laughed—ugly, grating.

Jane stared down at the saliva running down her laces.
She sighed. Not in anger—just exhaustion.

Then she moved.

With one swift, fluid motion, her claws tore through both of their throats. A wet, choking gasp escaped one; the other didn’t have time to scream. Blood sprayed across the concrete, painting her shoes, soaking the cuffs of her pants. She stood there for a second, panting—face emotionless, eyes wide and gleaming.

The bodies hit the ground behind her like discarded garbage.

Without another word, Jane turned on her heel and walked toward the street.

A taxi idled near a bent signpost, exhaust curling in the air like smoke from a dying fire. She stepped into the backseat.

“Take me to the Happy Hotel,” she said flatly, slipping a handful of glowing souls into the driver’s skeletal hand.

The cab pulled away from the curb without a word, vanishing into the grime-stained streets of Hell.

Blitzo stared into the mirror, his hands gripping the sink so tightly his knuckles turned pale. His breath trembled, catching in his throat as he shut his eyes.

“She’s not dead,” he whispered.

When he opened them again, they glowed—an eerie, unnatural cyan.

His stomach dropped.

The bathroom around him began to shift. The flickering fluorescent lights dimmed, and the walls peeled away into darkness. The mirror blackened. The air grew heavier, colder.
In the distance, standing perfectly still, was Vi.

Her glare pierced through him like knives.

Blitzo fumbled for the pistol at his side, raising it toward her silhouette. His hands shook, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“You don’t belong here,” Vi said calmly, her voice echoing with something otherworldly.
And then—she smiled.

A wild, grotesque grin stretched across her face, and she started laughing. The sound was wrong—distorted, endless—filling every corner of his mind. He clenched his jaw, and with a shout, pulled the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the illusion.

Blitzo blinked.

He was back in the bathroom. Alone. The mirror was cracked.

Someone pounded on the door. “Let me in, cuh! I need to let it out!” an imp yelled.

Blitzo barely registered it. He opened the door and stumbled out, letting the imp rush past him into the stall.

Back at the table, the food had arrived. Blitzo sank into his seat, silent, his face pale and unfocused.

Stolas, unfazed but observant, lifted a hand to the waitress. “Another glass of wine, please.”

Blitzo picked up his fork and began to eat, mechanically, as if nothing had happened.

Chapter 16: The big v and vee's

Summary:

The vee's are complete.

Vi’s scream tore through the padded chamber, raw and primal — a cry born from agony and madness. Her arms were locked tightly in a reinforced straitjacket, the fabric already damp with sweat and blood from her previous struggles.

She thrashed violently, throwing herself sideways against the padded wall with enough force to make the floor vibrate. The overhead lights flickered erratically in response, casting sharp strobes of white that burst into violent shocks of electricity.

Every flicker jolted her, tendrils of voltage lashing across her body like whips. Her muscles convulsed; her jaw clenched tight enough to grind her teeth.

Outside the chamber, Scyllo stood in complete silence — eyes narrowed, focused not on the
girl herself, but on the way the environment warped in response to her pain. Vi wasn’t just reacting to the shocks; she was amplifying them.

Her abilities weren’t dormant — they were alive.

Inside, Vi squeezed her eyes shut, her back pressed hard against the wall, trying to brace herself against the storm inside her nerves. Her chest heaved, struggling to breathe through the mounting panic, and hot tears streamed down her face, carving lines through the grime and dried blood.

She slid down the wall in a broken heap, her knees hitting the padded floor as she squirmed in place. Her cries distorted into a feral snarl as she curled into herself, trembling uncontrollably.

Then her eyes snapped open—bright, unnatural, glowing with a searing violet light that wasn’t fully her own.

The entire chamber changed with it.

Lights overhead surged, then failed. Red emergency lights strobed in a slow, rhythmic pulse — heartbeat-like, ominous. The entire observation wing fell under the red hue as the static in the air grew thick enough to make the hairs on the backs of necks stand.

“What– what is happening?” Vennex stammered, creeping toward the reinforced observation glass. He peered in, hesitating.

Vi twitched violently on the ground. Stray electric arcs cracked over her limbs, climbing over her shoulders and neck like sentient vines. But this time, she wasn’t screaming.

Her eyes locked onto the investigators on the other side of the glass. Her breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in sync with the flickering lights — like something was syncing with her.

Then she moved.

Like a bullet, Vi launched herself across the room, legs kicking from under her and shoulder smashing forward.

Electricity exploded from her body mid-sprint, and a bolt lashed out — striking the observation glass and cracking its outer layer.

The team flinched backward, stunned. Vi stood there, panting, her eyes still glowing. Her expression shifted — from wrath to panic. Something was changing inside her.

Her legs buckled.

Vi collapsed to her knees, clutching her bound arms to her chest. Her breaths grew frantic, like she couldn’t get air in, like something was squeezing her lungs from the inside. Her mouth opened wide as she gasped violently, eyes rolling back.

Scyllo calmly reached toward a control dial and began slowly increasing the chamber’s internal air pressure.

The effect was immediate — Vi screamed again, this time weaker, more broken, as the pain inside her reached its peak. Her body writhed against the floor, twitching erratically.

Then she stopped moving.

Scyllo turned the dial sharply in the opposite direction, resetting the room’s air pressure to normal. The lights steadied, the pulse ceased. Vi lay still on the floor, face pale, limbs twitching slightly. Silence.

And then—something faint.

In the darkness of the chamber, a cyan glow began to pulse faintly through the fabric of Vi’s straitjacket and the skin beneath. It flickered in sync with a heartbeat — hers.

Scyllo narrowed his eyes and slowly approached the containment door. He keyed in the override and let the magnetic lock hiss open. The air inside still sizzled faintly with static discharge as he stepped in.

He moved carefully, crouching beside her unmoving form.

With one gloved hand, he tilted her gently onto her back. Her straitjacket had singed open slightly along the chest seam, and beneath, something pulsed in the cavity of her heart — a radiant core of energy, visible through her skin.

Cyan electricity danced in slow, ritualistic spirals around it, and beneath the current were ancient markings — runes, unfamiliar, glowing like living ink.

Scyllo exhaled slowly. "Well... that’s one way to confirm she has a pulse."

Behind the glass, Vanessa scoffed dryly, scribbling something into her tablet. “I’m logging that as a neurological anomaly, but honestly, I can’t even define what I’m looking at.”

“I can’t seem to understand just what Vi is,” Scyllo murmured, still staring at the electric glow in her chest.

A crooked, almost disbelieving smile touched his lips.

“This isn’t tech. It isn’t chemical. It's not even bioelectric. It’s… something else. Some kind of magic. I’m seeing glyphic alignment. Runic circuitry.”

He stood up and stepped back, nodding to the containment door. It shut behind him with a sharp hiss, sealing Vi once again inside.

“We need further testing,” he said to the team. “There’s something inside her. Something alive. And it’s not just energy — it’s intelligent. Ancient, maybe even reactive.”

The others remained silent, eyes fixed on the girl behind the glass. Her body lay motionless, but that cyan glow continued to beat steadily through her chest.

Each pulse echoed louder than the last.

Vi remained unconscious as they carried her down the dim hallway, her body slack, arms dangling in the remains of her loosened straitjacket.

Her head lolled to the side, cheek pressed to the worker’s chest as they gently eased her through the threshold of her bedroom. The room was cold and sterile, padded walls casting soft shadows under the faint flicker of the ceiling light.

They laid her down carefully onto the bed — almost tenderly, as though touching a wounded animal. Her limbs barely reacted, only the subtle rise and fall of her chest offering any proof of life. As they stepped back, their eyes caught the soft cyan light still glowing through the fabric over her chest. It pulsed once, dimly — then faded.

Gone.

One of the staff members froze, staring at her. “Did she just…?”

No one answered. The room felt heavier now.

Cautiously, one of them leaned forward and placed his ear to her chest, eyes narrowing in concentration. After a tense pause, he slowly exhaled. “There’s still a heartbeat. Weak... but there.”

He straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between exhaustion and concern. A flick of his wrist powered on the room’s air conditioner. The old vent coughed before a low hum of cool air poured in, brushing gently across Vi’s face.

“You know…” he muttered quietly, watching her from across the room, “Working here with a patient like you makes me think I might need a therapist myself.”

He turned away from her still body, reaching for the heavy door behind him.

“I’ve seen what they’ve done to you,” he added under his breath, hand brushing against the door’s edge. “And it’s not right.”

His voice trailed off. He gripped the door handle and pulled, trying to shut it — but it resisted. It wouldn’t budge. His brows furrowed. He pulled harder.

Something was holding it.

He turned around — and stopped.

Vi was standing.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, fingers curled tight around the edge of the door, her knuckles pale. Her face was pale too — strands of hair clinging to her cheek, sweat still glistening at her temples. Her eyes were open, bloodshot and heavy, but aware. Focused.

Tired.

She didn’t move. She just stared at him.

“Don’t panic,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t kill you… I swear.”

There was no venom in her tone. No mockery. Just fatigue. Honesty.

But instinct kicked in — fear always won.

Without a word, the man threw his weight into the door. The sudden force caught Vi off-guard. She stumbled backward as the steel barrier slammed shut between them, the loud clang echoing down the hallway. He twisted the lock in one motion.

Click.

Inside the room, Vi stared at the door, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising sharply with a soft inhale. She hadn’t expected that. Her fingers hovered in the air where the door had just been, the cold air still pouring down from the vent above

“Wait!” Vi’s voice rang out from inside the locked room, raw and desperate.

Her fists banged against the metal door one last time, but the echo was all that answered her — the worker was already sprinting down the hallway, shoes pounding against the cold tile. She stood frozen for a second longer before the strength in her legs gave out.

She dropped to her knees.

Her forehead rested against the door, breath fogging the steel. Her shoulders trembled. The silence left in the wake of her outburst felt louder than the scream itself. Slowly, she leaned her back against the wall, sliding down until she sat slumped in the corner — eyes half-lidded, face heavy with exhaustion.

“…Dad?” Vi called out softly, her voice cracking. She stared ahead at the mirror on the far wall — the observation glass, where no one ever spoke. But this time, someone did appear.
A tall figure, broad-shouldered, familiar. Vander.

He wasn’t real — she knew that. But her body didn’t care. Her eyes widened slightly as she stared at the ghostly image of him looking back at her. He stood with his arms folded, brow furrowed, and eyes full of sorrow. There was no warmth in his expression this time.

Just pain.

“Remember what I told you, Vi?” Vander’s voice was low, as if coming from deep underwater.

She blinked away tears, staring up at him through blurred vision. Her voice was hollow when she answered, “You said… you fight when you need to.”

He gave a small nod. “That’s right. And now’s no different. You still need to fight.”

She sniffled, curling her arms around her knees.

“But this time,” Vander continued, his tone gentler, “There’s nothing wrong with using your anger. Don’t run from it. You are your rage — and your love, too.”

Vi looked up again — but he was already fading.

She slowly stood up and staggered to the bed, limbs stiff. She curled onto her side, facing the wall. The ceiling fan spun above her in slow, creaky rotations. Her fingers dug into the thin mattress. Her voice was barely audible, more breath than speech:

“I just… need to die.”

Her eyes shut tight, voice trembling. “I need to die!”

As her voice cracked, a sudden pop exploded overhead. The light bulb above shattered in a burst of glass and sparks. The room darkened — faint glowing orbs of hextech energy now floated eerily around the edges of the ceiling, like dying stars caught in orbit.

Vi wept quietly. Her shoulders shook as sobs rolled through her body in waves, her fists pressed to her mouth to muffle the sounds.
A faint voice, childlike and hesitant, broke through the silence.

“Miss… are you okay?”

Vi’s body tensed.

She slowly rolled to face the door, squinting through the dark. Just outside her cell, beyond the reinforced glass, stood a little girl — small, no older than seven. Her eyes were large and curious, glowing faintly. Horns curled back from her forehead, but on her shoulders… were delicate white feathers. She clutched a tiny stuffed toy in one hand.

Vi blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and shock.

“…Who are you?” she asked, stepping cautiously off the bed and moving toward the girl.

“My name is Dinathelai,” the child said cheerfully. “But you can call me Lai-Lai.”

Vi stopped just short of the glass, eyebrows drawing together in disbelief. “Who brought you here?”

The girl nodded innocently. “My mama from up there said I was a bad demon… so she sent me down here.”

Vi’s jaw clenched softly. There was no way a kid belonged in this place.

“What’s your name, Miss Vi?” Lai-Lai asked with a shy smile.

Vi let out a dry, quiet chuckle, voice softening. “Heh. You just said it.”

The child beamed.

“What are you doing here, kid?” Vi asked, still stunned by the little girl’s presence. Her tone had lost its edge, the fight draining from her the longer she stared into those wide, trusting eyes.
Lai-Lai held up a little round piece of candy — blue-wrapped, cheap, but oddly glowing faintly.

“I brought you this,” she said.

Vi blinked as the child reached under the narrow gap in the door and rolled the candy inside. Vi picked it up with slow fingers, staring at it.

"Thanks.. Lai."

Then her eyes widened as she noticed something else — heavy iron shackles bound around the girl's small ankles, chained tightly, the weight clearly too much for a child that size. Vi’s heart clenched.
Before she could say anything, a loud, violent SLAM rattled the entire cell.

A large security baton slammed into the door, startling both Vi and the child. Lai-Lai stumbled backward just as a furious voice echoed behind her.

“Stay away from the kid, you fucking freak!”

The same worker from earlier stormed in, grabbing Dinathelai harshly by the arm. The little girl let out a soft, pained grunt as she was yanked away from the cell.

“Wait!” Vi shouted, pressing her palms to the glass. “She’s just a kid!”

The worker didn’t listen. He pulled Lai-Lai down the hallway without looking back. Her stuffed toy fell behind her, forgotten.

Vi stood there, frozen at the glass. Her hands slowly lowered. Her reflection stared back at her again.

Then… a memory.

In the darkness, the corner of her eye caught a flicker of blue hair — a child's laugh, echoing faintly in her ears. Powder.

Vi backed away and returned to her bed, curling on her side once more. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she allowed the memory of her sister to rest in her mind. A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips — soft and bittersweet.

Vi turned over, the coarse sheets rustling beneath her as she shifted onto her back. The chill of the facility’s air wrapped around her like a second skin. Her eyes fluttered shut, her face turned slightly toward the ceiling — trying, just for a moment, to find peace in the stillness. Just a moment to pretend none of it was real. No cells, no screaming, no guilt gnawing at the edges of her sanity.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, her breath evening out.

But then — something changed.

Her brow twitched.

The mattress beneath her began to sink.

At first, she thought it was her body relaxing too much — maybe just the way sleep crept in. But no, this wasn’t sleep. This was wrong. Her eyes snapped open.

The ceiling was pulling away.

Her limbs grew heavy as if gravity had shifted. The bed was folding inward, dragging her deeper. It wasn’t soft anymore. It wasn’t warm. It was swallowing her.

Panic surged.

Vi’s body jerked upward, but her arms were pinned to the mattress, held by unseen weight. She let out a sharp gasp, her body writhing, trying to push herself up. But her muscles were useless — every effort made her sink faster.

“W-what—?!” she gasped, flailing. The bed was devouring her like quicksand. “No— no, help!”

Her fingers scraped at the sheets, clawing for some kind of grip, but the fabric melted between her fingers. Her breath hitched, eyes wide as the world around her dimmed, edges fraying like burning paper. Darkness wrapped around her legs and waist, dragging her further down into some impossible, unseen abyss.

Everything turned black.

Weightless now. Drowning in shadow.

And then — touch.

Hands. Cold, human hands.

They reached up from the darkness beneath her, pale fingers wrapping around her arms, her shoulders, her waist. Dozens of them. The sensation made her skin crawl.

She screamed into the void, but her voice sounded like it came from far away — muffled by distance, by memory.

One brutal tug from below yanked her downward.

She hit something solid.

Hard.

The floor beneath her body was freezing. She let out a grunt as the impact echoed through her spine. Groaning, Vi scrambled upright, her bare palms pressing against the stone-like surface beneath her. It wasn’t the padded floor of her cell. This was something else — dark, endless, and unnatural.

She stood slowly, body tense and alert. Her head turned left, then right. The space was a void, fog licking at her ankles, the air heavy and unmoving. No walls. No doors. Just a hollow space smeared in deep gray and pitch black.

Then—

A sound.

Soft footsteps. Leather against stone.

“Who's there?!” Vi barked, turning sharply toward the sound, fists clenched at her sides. Her voice echoed too far in the emptiness, like it had no ceiling to bounce off of.
A figure emerged.

From the far corner, someone stepped out of the shadows and into a hazy beam of invisible light.

It was herself.

Vi froze.

This version of herself looked… complete. Healthier. No bruises. No scars. No madness in her eyes. She stood tall, confident, with a presence that was magnetic and controlled. A version of Vi untouched by trauma. Untouched by loss.

“You again,” Vi whispered, heart hammering in her chest. She took a step back instinctively.

The mirror-Vi said nothing. Just stared, her face unreadable.

“Whatever you are…” Vi growled, voice beginning to tremble, “Stay away from me.”

But the void was not done.

Another set of footsteps echoed behind her.

Vi spun around, only to see a second version of herself step out from the haze. This one wore something all too familiar — a Piltover enforcer’s uniform. Black and blue, pristine and perfectly fitted. The badge glinted under the dim light. The sight of it made Vi’s chest tighten.

Her breath hitched. “Wh– what?”

And then a third.

From the other side, a Vi emerged in a black-and-gold version of the uniform. Elite enforcer. High-ranking. She looked cruel. Calculated. Her expression was empty — a machine of authority. A betrayal of everything Vi stood for.

Vi took a step back, now surrounded.

And then a final figure approached from the front, stepping confidently toward the center. She was unmistakably Vi — but this one wore black from head to toe. A rugged leather jacket. Torn black jeans. Combat boots. Her pink hair had been dyed deep black, a few strands falling across her sharp eyes. A long, thin scar cut across her right brow. This version looked… angry. But also, unshakable. A survivor. A fighter who had let go of mercy.

Vi’s knees buckled slightly.

She was panting now. Trembling.

Four of them. Four versions of herself. Four paths she could’ve taken — or still might. They stared at her from all sides, and for the first time, Vi felt small. Fragmented.
Her voice cracked. “Wh-what is this…?”

No answer.

Her hands began to tremble violently.

“Who are you?!” she yelled, louder this time, voice echoing across the void.

The four Vi’s didn’t speak. But they began to move — slow, calculated steps forward, each of them closing the space between them and the real Vi.

The circle was shrinking.

And Vi was trapped inside.

“Please—please, don’t do this—!” Vi’s voice cracked as she staggered back, arms raised in a weak attempt to shield herself.

But the plea was met with silence.

A heavy fist landed against her side — hard. A sharp crack echoed through the void as Vi let out a strangled grunt, stumbling to her knees. The pain tore through her ribs, sharp and immediate. She tried to activate her powers — anything. The charge. The static. The surge of her fists.

Nothing.

Her connection to her strength was gone in this place. She was just skin and bone now. Flesh, fragile and bare.

The Vi in the red jacket stepped forward without a word, her black boots scraping against the floor. She reached down, her fingers twisting in Vi’s hair.

“Wait—!” Vi gasped, but the words barely left her mouth before she was dragged violently across the ground.

Her nails scraped against the stone, legs kicking weakly as her head bounced against the floor. Sparks danced behind her eyes with each pull, her vision blurring with tears and stars.

Then—another impact.

The elite enforcer version stepped in from the side, face unreadable as she delivered a brutal punch to Vi’s waist — a sickening thud echoing in the hollow air. Vi’s mouth opened in a silent scream, blood spattering from her lips onto the floor.

She coughed, breathless, body curling from the shock.

Before she could recover, the Vi with black hair appeared above her. Her eyes were dark, expression cold. She grabbed Vi’s jaw, gripping it tightly between thumb and fingers.
“Don’t—!” Vi gasped, her voice trembling.

But the first punch silenced her.

Then came the second.

And the third.

Over and over, the black-haired Vi slammed her knuckles into Vi’s face, each strike drawing fresh blood, each one distorting her features further. Her head jerked with every hit, cheekbones bruising instantly, lips split open. Her arms were too weak to block. Her strength was gone. All she could do was endure.

And watching from the edge of the chaos — the enforcer Vi. She hadn’t moved at first. Just stood there. Watching her fall apart.

Vi let out a pitiful gasp, barely audible now.

“P… please… stop…”

Her voice hitched as she sobbed through blood and bruises, legs twitching as she tried to kick away, to crawl — anything. But her body betrayed her.
“Stop!” she screamed in desperation, trying to twist away.

The black-haired Vi finally stepped back, breathing heavily, knuckles bloodied. Vi collapsed onto her side, arms tucked against her ribs. She curled in on herself instinctively, panting — every breath a blade inside her lungs.

Then, finally, the enforcer Vi moved.

She stepped forward slowly. Deliberately. Each footstep echoed louder than the last.

“Stop,” she said — the only voice among them that spoke.

The others backed away.

Vi was barely conscious, her limbs twitching weakly. Her body was smeared with blood and bruises, the floor beneath her stained. Her face was swollen, her nose broken, and her eyes barely open.
The enforcer Vi stood over her for a long moment, silent. She reached behind her back and pulled out her weapon — a single gauntlet. Blackened steel. The same model Vi once wore… but this one was larger. Heavier. Corrupted.

Vi’s eyes widened faintly, barely tracking it.

“No…” she whispered, breathing too shallow to carry sound.

The enforcer crouched low.

And without hesitation — swung.

The gauntlet struck her chest, forcing air out of her lungs. Again. Then again. Repeatedly. The heavy metal crashed into her ribs, her face, her stomach. There was no rhythm — only relentless, methodical violence.

The sounds were deafening.

Each impact sent shockwaves across the empty space. Blood sprayed with each hit. Vi stopped moving after the fourth punch, her limbs falling limp. Her eyes rolled back.
The final blow struck her square in the head.

Her body went still.

Flat against the stone floor, her chest barely moved. Her hands fell away. Her eyes shut.

Silence.

As Vi lay motionless, blood pooling beneath her cheek and breath ghosting faintly from her parted lips, the space around her shifted — subtly at first.
The versions of her — the black-haired Vi, the red-jacketed one, the brutal enforcer, and the silent observer — all stood still, their figures trembling, as if made from unstable ash clinging to form.
Then… one by one, they began to crumble.

The red-jacketed Vi was the first. Her eyes flickered with a strange sadness just before her body collapsed into a cloud of dark dust. The particles hovered midair, almost dancing — and then slowly drifted downward, spiraling toward Vi’s head. The moment they touched her skin, they were absorbed like smoke into her temple, sinking beneath flesh without a trace.
Next was the black-haired version. She gave no parting glance, no final blow — only stepped backward as her body began to break away. From her fingertips to her shoulders, her outline fractured like dry clay under pressure. Pieces fell off in silence, caught by the air, until she was nothing but dust. And like the one before her, she too was drawn into Vi’s skull, disappearing through her forehead like mist into water.

The elite enforcer remained longer.

She stared at Vi, her expression unreadable. She was the most still, the most composed — the most real. As her body began to deteriorate, there was a resistance to it. Her dust shimmered faintly, almost like powdered metal, as though she wasn’t just a memory or fear — but something more permanent. Something Vi hadn’t let go of yet.
Still, she faded.

Still, she returned — back into Vi.

The last was the silent one — the Vi who had only watched. She stood at the farthest edge, arms crossed, chin lifted like a shadow of the woman Vi once tried to be. She didn’t crumble immediately. She tilted her head slightly, watching Vi’s unconscious body with an almost maternal look. A brief whisper echoed faintly — “Get up.”

Valentino reclined into his velvet-cushioned chair, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, swirling a half-full glass of deep red wine in his hand. The lighting in the lounge was low, glimmering off the gold trim of his tailored coat. He brought the glass to his lips, sipped, then lowered it with a smirk curling onto his lips.

“This idea of yours, Asmodeus,” he began, voice languid, “it doesn’t seem the least bit realistic.” He let his free hand gesture vaguely in the air, rings glinting. “We all know Vi is alive. And frankly, every damn imp believes otherwise. What’s the point of warning everyone when, at this very moment, they’re simply relieved she’s not crawling around anymore?” He laughed lightly, the kind of laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes, and idly twirled the stem of his glass.

Beelzebub lounged in her own seat, one leg hooked over the other in a way that betrayed casual elegance, her fingers tapping the armrest. “Yeah,” she sighed, “what is your thing with praise lately, Asmodeus?” Her eyes narrowed, glazed with mild annoyance. “We’ve already got enough of it. Have you seen the streets? Imps aren’t tearing each other apart anymore since that filthy, cannibalistic human disappeared.” She gave a tired chuckle, flicking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Their peace should be enough.”

She stared into the glimmering table centerpiece for a long second, her expression softening, as though something had tugged at the bottom of her ribs. “I still can’t believe it, though,” she murmured, voice suddenly quieter. “What drove Vi to turn out like that?”

Asmodeus, lounging against the marble wall with a drink in hand, laughed—a sharp, high sound. “Humans are just as deranged as demons, darling. Why do you think most of them end up down here?” He rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his cocktail. “But Vi…” He chuckled darkly. “In a crowd of red haired punks with a mullet, she’d be a misfit.” He raised a manicured finger and pointed mockingly toward Beelzebub. “And don’t tell me you’re really starting to empathize with her after everything she’s done.”

Beelzebub said nothing. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, her nails tapping a restless rhythm on the wood.

Valentino’s gaze had lowered. He stared silently at the deep swirl of crimson in his wine, thoughts drifting elsewhere—to the way Vi had screamed when he and Vox took turns inflicting pain, not for punishment, but for pleasure. The memory curled in the back of his mind like a fragrant smoke. His smirk returned, colder this time, as he raised the glass and drank.

The heavy lounge doors swung open with a soft creak.

Vox entered first, glitching slightly, his tall figure flickering at the edges like an old TV screen. Velvette followed, elegant as always, hips swaying like a showgirl, her presence sharp and playful.

“Oh look!” Beelzebub exclaimed with a grin, lifting her glass in a mock toast. “The Vees are complete!”

Asmodeus immediately adjusted some cushions on the couch with a flourish, offering them seats like a host at a devilish dinner party.

“Velvette,” Valentino purred, his tone warm with feigned curiosity. “It’s been too long. Last I heard, you were off on another one of your lavish escapades.”

Velvette laughed lightly, shaking her head as she sank into the velvet-lined chair. “Vacations are fun,” she said, brushing a bit of glitter off her shoulder, “but even paradise can’t keep me away from the gossip. A human, huh?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand with a wicked grin. “Heard she’s been ‘taken care of.’”

Beelzebub gave her a sidelong glance, her expression unreadable. “Oh, Hell thinks she’s dead. But she’s not.”

Velvette’s playful expression dropped into a furrowed brow. “Wait, what?” She sat up straighter. “Wasn’t the whole point to get rid of her? You guys threw a damn celebration when she went missing.”
Valentino’s gaze flicked toward Asmodeus, who gave an exaggerated sigh and stretched lazily, one arm draping over the back of his chair.

“Scyllo got to her before we did,” Asmodeus said coolly. “He intervened mid-finale.”

“He took her?” Velvette’s eyes widened, voice laced with disbelief.

“Why the fuck would he do that?”

“He gave us a reason,” Asmodeus replied, tilting his head. “And it seemed valid enough… for now.”

A long silence followed. Only the clink of glass and the distant hum of Hell’s city echoed in the background as everyone waited for the unspoken answer to finally be said.

Velvette leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“…What’s the reason?”

“Hell wants to know what being Vi really is,”

Asmodeus said with a slow, deliberate flair in his voice as he circled the obsidian table, the deep red glow of the chandelier casting glints along the polished marble floor.

He cradled his glass of wine between two fingers, its crimson contents swirling lazily with each step.

“She’s got demon blood, that’s clear. But according to Scyllo, there’s something else in her. Something… unclassified. She’s not an angel. Not a hybrid. She’s just—wrong.”

The others quieted at his words, their expressions mixed between mockery and discomfort.

Velvette cocked her head, leaning forward with interest, one arm elegantly propped on the table.

“Scyllo. That’s the mad psychiatrist, right? The one who owns that... facility?”

“Yeah. The asylum that eats lesser demons alive,” Beelzebub replied dryly. Her tail twitched as she reclined in her high-backed chair. “I’ve only met him once. Didn’t like the way he looked at me. Like I was a specimen, not royalty.”

Asmodeus chuckled, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair as he stopped and gently slid a chair beside her, sinking down with practiced grace.

“He studies things. Rare cases. Freak anomalies.” He raised his glass before taking a sip. “Vi being the only one that matters right now.”

Velvette’s lips curled into a smirk. “Even if she’s some kind of freak… she’s not strong enough to destroy that entire asylum. Let’s not romanticize her.”

Vox, seated beside Valentino, checked the time on his obsidian-trimmed watch, then glanced up, unbothered. “That place is massive,” he said. “It’s bigger than some of the rings themselves. I’ve been there once. To visit a certain... someone.”

Velvette arched a brow, intrigued. “Visit who?”

“Striker,” Vox answered, straightening his tie. “The imp who tried to assassinate Stolas.”

Beelzebub raised an eye. “Stolas? Why?”

“Mm-hm.” Vox let out a low breath through his teeth. “Turns out it was Stella who paid for the hit. Figures. I visited Striker after he got caught—begging me to get him transferred to another building. Said he didn’t want to be ‘near her.’”

“Her?” Velvette echoed, leaning in with interest.

“Vi,” Vox replied, voice casual but his gaze sharp. “She was kept nearby, under Scyllo’s observation. Must’ve scared the shit out of him.”

Beelzebub groaned, swirling her drink. “Can we please stop talking about this human? The Wrath Ring’s still without a ruler. Adam killed Satan during the last extermination six years ago, and Lucifer’s been gone for a long ass minute. We’ve all got our own kingdoms to maintain. Someone’s gotta take control.”

Valentino leaned back, laughing softly. “What, you think Lucifer’s coming back to re-elect someone?”

Asmodeus gave an exaggerated shrug, eyes lidded. “Unless Stolas takes the title himself.”

That got a wave of mocking chuckles.

“Stolas?” Beelzebub scoffed. “Please. He can barely keep his own ring together, let alone Wrath. Besides, all he does is obsess over that clown.”

“Oh god,” Vox snorted. “Don’t even start.”

“Blitzo!” Asmodeus burst, throwing his arms up dramatically. “Oh, fuck me, Blitzo! Royal bird ass!”

The table broke into peals of laughter, drinks sloshing slightly as glasses clinked.

Velvette clutched her side, tears almost welling in her eyes from the hilarity. “I still can’t believe he’s actually falling for an imp. I get why Stella’s mad now.”

Beelzebub rolled her eyes, still chuckling. “Yeah, I’d be livid too if my husband was screwing some washed-up, self-absorbed, no-status jester.”

Valentino, reclined comfortably with a lit cigarette now resting between his lips, chuckled. “Imp dick really derailed a whole dynasty. What a timeline.”

“But it is a story,” Asmodeus grinned, raising his glass once more. “And in Hell, stories are currency.”

Vox raised his glass as well, his static-lined smirk sharpening. “To broken birds, crazy human bitch got what she deserves, and chaos that writes itself.”

They all toasted, laughter echoing through the gilded lounge—unaware, or perhaps uncaring.

Stolas stood just outside the velvet-draped restaurant, the city lights of the Pride Ring glowing faintly behind him. He flicked his fingers near his mouth, pulling out a stubborn shred of meat caught between his teeth, his tall frame hunched slightly as if weighed down by something more than just dinner. The night air was warm but carried the distant scent of sulfur and smog—typical of the ring’s posh yet polluted skyline.

The door creaked behind him as Blitzo stepped out, dragging a napkin across his mouth, wiping away the last remnants of the meal. His posture was tense, shoulders drawn high as if still unsure whether he should’ve followed Stolas out.

He glanced over, catching the prince’s eye.

Stolas looked back at him with a calm expression, one that masked the well of emotions quietly churning beneath the surface.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Blitzo muttered, voice low, almost tired. “I just… haven’t been okay ever since. I’ve been seeing shit. Hallucinations. About what happened. About her.” His voice broke just slightly at the end.

Before he could retreat into himself again, Stolas stepped forward, cupping Blitzo’s face with both hands—his touch gentle, thumb brushing the rough patch of skin near his cheekbone. He pulled him into a kiss—deep, tender, filled with unspoken forgiveness. When they parted, Stolas kept his hands there, just gazing into Blitzo’s eyes.

“Blitzo,” he whispered, voice like velvet, “I love you. I don’t blame you for anything. I never have, and I never will.”

Blitzo’s expression softened, the usual edge to his voice dulling. “Could I just… stay with you tonight?” he asked, his voice raw, almost vulnerable.

Stolas chuckled softly, not mocking—just warm. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he summoned a glowing portal that shimmered with violet light. “You never need to ask,” he said.

Hand in hand, the two stepped into the portal together. They emerged inside the quiet expanse of the Goetia palace—cool, gold-lit halls adorned with celestial tapestries and an unsettling silence that followed most of Stolas’s private quarters. The walls felt high, but not cold. Not when they were together.

As they entered, fingers still interlocked, a faint sound echoed from upstairs. Octavia sat in front of her vanity mirror, frowning at her eyeliner as she tried to perfect the wing. Her ears perked at the distant chime of the doorbell.

“Dad?” she called, setting her brush down.

She made her way downstairs, boots thudding against the steps until she reached the marble floor and caught sight of them. Blitzo stood just beside Stolas, one hand sheepishly raised in greeting.
“Hey, kid,” Blitzo said with a little grin.

Octavia’s lips curved into a small smile as she offered a wave back. “Sup, Blitz.”

She walked over and wrapped her arms around Stolas in a quick but sincere hug. He returned it gently, smiling down at her.

“Octavia, dear,” he said, pulling out a thick wad of neatly folded bills from his coat pocket. “Why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself? Do a little shopping.”

Octavia blinked at the cash, then snatched it with a grin. “Thanks, Dad!” she chirped, and in a flash, she was already bounding back up the stairs to grab her bag.

As the sound of her footsteps faded, Blitzo turned to look at Stolas, one brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Spoiling her now, huh?”

Stolas winked. “She deserves it. So do you.”

Blitzo gave a quiet laugh, eyes softening. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was running from something.

And for once, he wasn’t alone.

Chapter 17: Strike mercy

Summary:

Jane finds her way.

Jane stood in the shadowed alley outside Valentino’s recording studio, her hood pulled low to shroud her face in darkness. The neon lights of the Lust Ring flickered above her, painting her in waves of red and pink, yet she blended seamlessly with the grime-streaked brick wall. Her keen hellhound ears twitched as she listened in on the conversation happening behind the glass window of the private lounge.

Inside, the laughter and voices of the Vees carried faintly through the walls. As the words slipped out—discussions of Vi, of Scyllo, of the asylum—Jane’s eyes widened. Piece by piece, the puzzle clicked into place in her mind. Her heartbeat quickened, but only for a moment.

Then, slowly, that shock melted into a sharp grin.

Every piece of information she needed… she had it now.

She reached into her pocket and clicked the red button on the small recording device, the faint beep barely audible over the city’s hum. The device powered down, storing every incriminating word she’d just captured. She slipped it back into her hoodie pocket with a little pat, like tucking away a secret weapon.

Turning her body toward the side of the building, she spotted the metal fire escape ladder leading up to the balcony and higher to the roof. Without hesitation, Jane leapt up and gripped the first rung, boots scraping lightly against the wall. The metal was cold against her hands, the faint scent of rust tickling her nose as she began to climb.

Step by step, she rose above the alley. The studio’s muffled music and the Lust Ring’s chaotic noise grew distant as she ascended, until finally, she pulled herself over the ledge of the rooftop.

Seven stories above the streets of Hell, the city sprawled out before her like a bleeding jewel. Red light bathed the world below, a haze of neon signs, glowing windows, and drifting ash. Jane’s black tail flicked behind her as she straightened to her full height, letting the wind catch her hood for a moment before she pulled it tighter.

She knew Derick’s gang would be coming for her. After killing him, there was no doubt revenge was in motion. But the thought didn’t stir fear—it sparked excitement.

Jane smirked to herself, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest. Let them try.

They all knew what she was—Hell’s streets whispered her name as a hellhound—but none of them had truly seen her at her peak. None had survived long enough to.

Her crimson eyes scanned the streets below with a predator’s patience. In the wash of hellish red light, she spotted a familiar stretch of the Lust Ring: a row of shops and alleys, signs glowing in cursive, flames licking from metal sconces. She traced her potential path forward with her gaze, calculating her next move.

A neon sign caught her eye—a beauty salon on the corner, its window full of wigs and vanity lights. Just beyond it, in the narrow space between two shops, she noticed movement.

A lone imp had a woman pinned against the brick wall, his claws pressed near her neck. The faint, muffled sound of a whimper rose up to her keen ears.

Jane tilted her head, the grin never leaving her face.

The city was alive tonight—and she was above it all, watching.

“P-please! My son’s waiting for me at home!” the woman cried, her voice cracking under terror. Her trembling hands rose instinctively, palms outward in a feeble plea for mercy.

The imp who had her pinned to the wall sneered, his sharp teeth glinting under the red neon lights. Drool dripped from the corner of his mouth as he leaned closer, his breath rancid.

“Don’t worry,” he hissed, laughter bubbling in his throat. “His whore of a mother’s coming back—with cash in her hands.” He cackled, the cruel sound echoing off the alley’s brick walls.

But then—he froze.

The laughter cut off like a broken record. His eyes went wide and blank, the life draining from them in an instant. For a second, he just… stood there, as though confused by the sudden, searing pain blooming in his neck.

Blood spilled across the woman’s dress in a violent spray. Her terrified panting filled the alley as the imp’s severed head rolled from his shoulders, bouncing once against the cobblestone before settling in a crimson pool. His body collapsed with a wet thud, lifeless and leaking onto the street.

Jane emerged from the shadow behind him, dagger still dripping. Her hood was up, casting her sharp grin in the glow of the streetlights.

The woman froze as Jane crouched and plucked the dead imp’s wallet from his belt with casual precision. She flipped it open, rifled through the contents, and then—without a word—held it out toward the trembling woman.

The woman hesitated before taking it, her hands shaking. She turned to leave, desperate to escape this blood-soaked nightmare, but stopped dead when Jane’s voice cut through the night.

The hellhound’s dagger glinted as she raised it, pointing the blade directly at the woman’s back. Slowly, the woman turned, fear etched into every line of her face. Her lips quivered, her voice almost breaking.

Jane tilted her head, her red eyes glimmering like coals under the neon lights. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. Her smirk widened, fang-tipped and amused.

Inside the glowing, perfume-scented salon, panic had replaced the usual chatter and hum of hair dryers. Jane stood in the center of the room, her arm locked tight around the terrified woman’s neck. The cold edge of a dagger rested just under the woman’s jaw, and the imp’s severed head swung from Jane’s belt like a grotesque trophy.

“Help! Please!” the woman wailed, her voice breaking into sobs.

Jane’s laughter echoed through the room, wild and unrestrained. Her crimson eyes burned with chaos. “Shut up, bitch!” she snarled, her voice harsh and sharp. Without warning, she flicked her wrist and sent a dagger spinning through the air.

Thock!

The blade buried itself into a hair stylist’s forehead, the woman crumpling silently to the floor. Gasps and screams filled the salon, clients and workers backing up against the walls in terror.

The woman in Jane’s grip seized the opportunity. With a desperate jerk, she slipped free and bolted for the door, her heels clattering against the tile as she screamed into the night.

Then—suddenly—everything shifted.

A blinding flash of red light erupted around Jane, flooding the salon in a demonic glow. Her laughter stopped mid-breath. Her knees buckled.

Thud.

She collapsed to the floor, her dagger clattering from her hand. Her body twitched once before going still, fainted, the room thick with fear and confusion.

The salon fell silent except for the heavy, frightened breathing of the workers and clients. One of the younger stylists whispered, “D-did she faint because of… some magic?”

“Or a curse…” another muttered, eyes darting toward the glowing mark left where the red light had burst.

The old woman—the one whose neck had just been under Jane’s blade—straightened her posture, still shaking. She smoothed down her messy hair and let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh my. This girl needs to be taken to the asylum. I heard they pay good money for demons like this… ones with powers they can test.”

The other workers exchanged hesitant glances. Greed and fear mingled in their eyes. Slowly, the old woman pulled a phone from her pocket and dialed.

It didn’t take long.

Minutes later, the low growl of an engine filled the street. A black van with the sigil of the main Hell Asylum screeched to a halt outside the salon, its metal plating glinting under the red city lights. Two uniformed collectors stepped out, their boots thudding against the pavement as they approached.

Jane stirred faintly as they lifted her limp form, her hood slipping to reveal her wild hair and sharp grin. Her eyes fluttered open just for a heartbeat—long enough to give the old woman a sly, knowing wink.

The woman froze, breath catching in her throat. Then, almost instinctively, she nodded back.

Without another word, she turned and walked away toward home, leaving Jane to be loaded into the van, bound for the asylum.

In the salon, the floor was still streaked with blood, and the dangling imp head swayed like a cursed charm on Jane’s belt as the van doors slammed shut.

Later, Jane stirred, her consciousness clawing its way back from the void. Her eyelids fluttered open to the harsh, sterile light above, a pale yellow glow that buzzed faintly like dying insects. A dull ache pulsed in the back of her head.

The first thing she felt was cold metal biting into her wrists and the rough scrape of stone under her legs. She was being dragged.

Chains clinked with every movement, the sound echoing down the grim, cavernous hallway. She tilted her head weakly and saw the workers of Hell’s main asylum—hulking figures in white and gray uniforms, their eyes hidden behind tinted goggles. Their boots scraped along the floor as they hauled her like a carcass.

Her gaze shifted to the sides of the corridor.

Cages.

Dozens of them lined the walls, stacked like kennel cells, each crammed with a demon in some broken, miserable state. Some growled weakly, others just stared out with hollow eyes, their horns snapped or their wings clipped. Chains and muzzles rattled as they shifted. The stench of blood and sulfur thickened the air.

This wasn’t an asylum. It was a dog pound for the damned.

“She’s type three,” one of the guards grunted to the other, his voice muffled through the helmet.

“Type three confirmed,” the second answered. “Bring her to the combat building.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jane clenched her jaw but said nothing, letting them drag her down the long hall as her boots scraped along the cold floor. Her tail twitched involuntarily, betraying her rising anger.

After what felt like an eternity, they shoved her through a reinforced metal door. She stumbled forward and hit the chair that had been bolted to the floor, her arms wrenched behind her and locked into steel cuffs. The clank of the chains echoed sharply in the otherwise silent room.

Blinking the haze from her eyes, she took in her surroundings. The interrogation room was stark white, the walls padded yet smeared with faint stains that told stories of previous “sessions.” A single light hung overhead, buzzing faintly.

A voice spoke.

“Jahanne Stoneful. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Her blood-red eyes snapped to the figure across from her. A tall, lean demon stood there in a pristine white coat, his skin a muted gray with faint runic etchings across his jaw. His hands were not hands at all—long, twitching tendrils coiled and uncoiled from his sleeves like restless snakes.

Jane’s lip curled. She yanked on the cuffs, metal screeching. “Where the fuck am I?” she growled, testing the restraints with a sharp jerk.

“You’re in Hell’s primary asylum,” the man said evenly, his voice calm but edged with clinical detachment. “A place for taming… beings like you.”

He stepped closer, tendrils twitching as they hovered just shy of her face. “I am Steward. I run your evaluation.”

Jane spat to the side, eyes blazing. “You’ll regret touching me.”

Steward tilted his head, almost amused. “You’re the girlfriend of that mage, aren’t you? The one who got… eaten alive.”

The words hit like a punch. Jane froze, her blood running cold.

Her voice came out low, trembling with suppressed fury. “…How do you know that?”

“I met her brother years ago,” Steward said, his tone softening just slightly. “And I remember you. I was there when your… tragedy unfolded. I understand that must have been… traumatic. I am, truly, sorry for your loss.”

Jane’s jaw tightened, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Fuck you,” she spat, baring her fangs. “Get me the hell out of here!”

Her roar shook the room, the chains rattling violently as she thrashed in the chair.

Steward simply sighed, straightened his coat, and stepped back. “That temper,” he murmured. “We’ll work on it.”

He gave a subtle nod. Two men in white suits entered silently, moving with methodical precision. Before Jane could lunge, a sharp sting pierced her neck—a syringe, emptied in a single push.

Her vision blurred instantly. The world tilted.

The last thing she saw was Steward’s tendrils curling in satisfaction as the men released her chains and hauled her limp body away.

Darkness swallowed her whole once more.

Striker sat slouched in the corner of the stark, dimly lit room, the faint flicker of the overhead bulb casting his long shadow across the padded walls. In front of him sat a broken television, its screen cracked and spiderwebbed from repeated punches. He stared at the distorted reflection of his own eyes in the glass, smoke curling up from the lit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

The quiet hum of the asylum’s distant machinery was interrupted by the heavy clank of the door unlocking. Striker’s head turned lazily toward the noise, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light.

The door creaked open, and two asylum workers shuffled in, chains rattling. Between them, limp and uncooperative, was Jane. Her hair was wild, her eyes barely fluttering open as the men hauled her into the room.

“Ah, finally,” Striker drawled, voice rich with mocking amusement. “A friend to take the bed in the corner.” His grin was sharp as he blew a slow trail of smoke into the air.

The workers didn’t acknowledge him. They heaved Jane onto the empty bed with a dull thump, unclipping her restraints and peeling off the straitjacket. One man gave a short nod to the other, and without a word, they both turned and left, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind them with a metallic echo.

Striker tilted his head, watching the girl sprawled on the bed with faint curiosity. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and the faint, stale scent of blood. He raised a brow, taking a long drag from his cigarette, letting the embers glow in the dimness.

“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “A girl. What a blessin’.”

His voice dripped with irony as he leaned back into his own bed, the springs creaking under his weight. For a moment, the room was silent again—just the sound of his exhale, the slow curl of smoke rising toward the flickering light, and the quiet presence of the new arrival lying unconscious across from him.

Chapter 18: Army Sparkles!

Summary:

Vi snorted, holding her stomach. “Oh, you’re killin’ me, kid.”

Vi’s eyes fluttered open to blinding white. For a fleeting second, she thought she’d finally died—escaped the torment, the madness, the pain that gnawed at her every hour. But no.
The light wasn’t heavenly. It was clinical. Cold.

Her vision cleared, and she immediately caught sight of Vanessa. The woman sat on a stool beside her, latex gloves already slick with blood, carefully threading a needle through a wound just beneath Vi’s knee.
The recognition was instant. Rage came boiling up like fire in Vi’s chest.

She jerked back on instinct, fists curling tight, her body ready to swing if Vanessa dared move closer. The stitches tore slightly as she shifted, a sharp, ripping pain lancing through her leg. Vi gasped, a low groan forcing its way out of her throat, her teeth clenched against the sting.

Vanessa didn’t flinch. She merely glanced up with calm eyes and tapped the edge of the bed with her gloved hand.

“Sit back down, won’t you?” she ordered evenly.

Vi’s breaths came heavy and ragged, her chest heaving. Her glare sharpened like broken glass.

“You… expect me to sit and obey like a dog?” she snapped, her voice raw with fury.

“No,” Vanessa replied, her tone clipped but steady, “I expect you to stop bleeding all over the floor. You have six different injuries, and your body is about ready to collapse. Sit back down.”
Her authority cut like a blade, and for a moment, Vi stood frozen. Her fists trembled at her sides. Finally, after a long hesitation, her brows furrowed and she stepped forward—cautiously, like an animal forced into a corner—and lowered herself back onto the edge of the bed.

“The same woman who’s been beating me half to death along with that lunatic psychiatrist,” Vi spat, her voice dripping venom, “is now stitching me up. How much more fucking stupid can this get?”
Her words lashed out like barbed wire, but Vanessa didn’t answer. She bent her head low again, continuing her work in silence. Each stitch was placed with methodical care, her hands steady, precise, even as Vi’s hostility burned inches away from her face.

Finally, Vanessa’s voice broke the quiet.

“Who beat you?” she asked, her tone shifting—not cruel, not mocking, but puzzled. Her dark eyes flicked up, searching Vi’s.

“We checked the cameras. You never left your room. You were lying on the floor, covered in bruises and wounds that weren’t there before. No one entered. No one touched you.”
Her brows pinched slightly, genuine confusion knitting her expression.

Vi’s chest tightened. She knew the answer—she remembered every fist, every gauntlet, every version of herself that had torn her down in that endless void. But Vanessa didn’t deserve to hear it.
Not her. Not anyone.

She turned her head away sharply, lips pressed in a hard line. Her arms crossed over her chest, a small shield against the sterile air. The movement made her sore muscles flare with pain, a dull ache radiating through her battered body.

She didn’t speak.

Her silence was louder than any confession.

The human lowered her head, hair falling forward to shadow her face. Behind her closed eyes, flashes struck like lightning—her own hands, her own face twisted in different forms, raining fists against her skull. She could still feel the sting of each hit, the sickening weight of being struck down again and again. Powerless. Broken. The final image seared into her memory: one of them lifting her gauntlet, her signature weapon, and bringing it down across her face with devastating force.

Her breath hitched. She forced it down, clenching her jaw until it ached.

Vanessa finished the last stitch in silence, her fingers precise as she tied the knot off with quick efficiency. She took a strip of gauze, pressed it against the stitched flesh beneath Vi’s knee, and began to wrap it tightly, pulling the fabric snug around the wound.

Vi winced, a low grunt slipping through her teeth despite her effort to remain stone-faced. She yanked her leg back the second Vanessa tightened the bandage.

“I don’t need any more of your help,” Vi muttered, her voice hoarse but defiant. She tugged the sleeve of her pants down roughly to cover the dressing, as though erasing any evidence that she had ever needed care.

Vanessa sat back, exhaling slowly through her nose. She shook her head, a tired sigh leaving her lips. “Why do I even try?” she murmured under her breath, though she knew Vi wouldn’t answer.

Vi pushed off the bed and stalked toward the door, every movement stiff, her body aching with protest. Her boots struck against the tiled floor, echoing faintly in the narrow hall as she stepped out of the clinic.

The sterile brightness gave way to the muted hum of the asylum’s cafeteria. The smell of industrial food and bitter coffee clung to the air, voices buzzing low from scattered workers and guards at their tables.

And then Vi saw her.

Dinathelai.

The little girl sat at the cafeteria table, her tiny legs swinging freely beneath the chair, not even close to touching the ground. A bag of cheap snacks crinkled in her hands as she munched happily, crumbs clinging to the corner of her mouth.

She looked up mid-bite, eyes lighting up when she saw Vi sit down across from her.

“Hey, Lai,” Vi said with a rare smile tugging at her lips, her arms folding onto the table in front of her.

Lai’s face brightened instantly. She giggled, cheeks puffed with food. “Hello, miss Vi!” she chirped through a mouthful of crumbs, a few specks spitting out onto the table.

Vi chuckled, the sound uncharacteristically warm. “You enjoyin’ your little snacks, kiddo?” she asked, before standing and sliding into the seat right beside her instead of across.
Lai nodded enthusiastically, still chewing, her little horns bouncing slightly with the motion.

“Do you have any friends here?” Vi asked, her voice dipping with genuine curiosity. The thought twisted at her gut—just how many children were locked in this place?

Lai paused, then nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Vi leaned closer, softening her tone. “Who are they?”

Instead of answering, Lai hopped down from her chair, her tiny feet pattering against the tiled floor as she headed toward the cafeteria doors. Vi pushed off from the table and followed her, falling into step beside her.

The two walked down the corridor, hand in hand, until Lai stopped near a barred gate. She pointed through the bars, toward the playground outside.

Two children sat on old swings, their movements listless, their gazes distant. The chains squeaked in the silence, their small bodies moving forward and back, forward and back, without laughter.

Vi’s heart tightened.

“Well…” she crouched slightly, forcing a smile for Lai’s sake, “why don’t you go play with them?”

Lai’s expression fell. She shook her head, still chewing her snack. “Mr. Yuna says I’m not allowed to play.”
Vi’s smile vanished. “…Where’s he?”

Lai’s small hand lifted and pointed toward a guard standing nearby. He was thick-shouldered, clutching a baton lazily in one hand, his expression bored and mean. His eyes barely flicked toward the kids in the playground.

Vi followed Lai’s finger and saw him. She let out a slow sigh through her nose.

“Okay, Lai,” she said, her tone steady but low. She gently took the girl’s hand in hers. “Follow me, alright?”

The child nodded, trusting without hesitation.

Vi walked them both toward the guard, her grip firm on Lai’s hand. The closer she got, the colder her blood ran, the sharper her instincts flared. She stopped in front of him, chin raised just slightly. Her eyes flickered—then began to glow, cyan light pulsing faintly within them like electricity threatening to ignite.

Yuna looked down, at first smirking when he saw the little girl. “You little shithead,” he sneered, lifting his baton. “I already told you—you’re not allowed—”

But then his gaze shifted. He saw Vi.

The smirk vanished. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, color draining from his face. He stumbled a half-step back, fingers tightening on the baton.

Vi didn’t speak. She only tilted her head toward the playground. The glow in her eyes sharpened, daring him to refuse.

Yuna’s hands began to shake. He nodded quickly, fumbling with the gate. His keys clattered against the lock as he hurried to open it. With one last nervous glance at Vi, he swung the gate wide.
She guided Lai through first, never breaking eye contact with him.

And Yuna stepped back, silent, his baton trembling in his grip.

“Lai-Lai!”

Two small voices rang out from the playground, and the moment they spotted her, the children dropped from their swings and ran. The rusted chains rattled as they left them swinging, racing across the cracked asphalt to tackle her in a group hug.

Lai squealed with joy, her giggles echoing like little bells as she nearly toppled from the force of their embrace.

Vi stood a few paces back, arms crossed over her chest, watching the reunion unfold. A small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

“You can play with us now?” one of them asked, his voice slightly distorted, layered with a faint demonic undertone. Half of his face was melted, his skin scarred and warped from fire or acid, but his wide eyes shone with pure excitement. To Vi, he looked no different than any other child who just wanted to belong.

“Miss Vi helped me!” Lai chirped, pointing back toward Vi proudly.

The boy’s gaze flickered up to her, nervous but curious.

Beside him was another girl. Her skin was a pale gray, her hair shining like dull strands of iron, and her teeth far too sharp for her small mouth. Her hands clinked softly as she flexed them—mechanical fingers with joints like tiny hinges. Despite her uncanny appearance, she smiled like any other child.

Vi looked at all three of them together. Something inside her softened, but it twisted with a weight too—she could tell. The bruises peeking beneath their clothes, the careful way they moved, the scars they carried. These kids had been beaten more often than they had been hugged.

Her chest tightened.

“Miss Vi!” the metallic girl suddenly squeaked, bouncing up and down on her feet. “You’re a human!” Her robotic hands clapped together with a metallic clink clink clink, her excitement uncontainable.
Vi chuckled through her nose, crouching down slightly to meet their eye level. “Pfft,” she said with a grin. “What are your names, huh?”

The three of them immediately straightened, exchanging a mischievous glance before snapping into formation. They shuffled into a neat little line, shoulder to shoulder. Lai marched to the front, puffing out her chest like a general ready to inspect her troops.

“What’s your name, boy?” Lai barked, trying to deepen her voice into a ridiculous growl.

The melted-faced boy stood stiff as a board, his arms pressed to his sides like a soldier at attention. “My name’s Merc, sir!” His voice cracked halfway through, and then his gaze darted toward Vi, panic flashing across his face. “I mean—ma’am!” he corrected quickly, his tone rising almost comically.

Vi smirked, holding back laughter.

Lai strutted over to him, patting his chest with her tiny hand like a drill sergeant correcting a recruit. “Get it right next time!” she commanded with mock sternness. Then she whipped around dramatically and jabbed a finger at the metallic girl. “Now who are you?”

The girl nearly jumped, her robotic hands clattering together as she saluted. “My name’s Crafty, sir—ma’am!” she blurted nervously, her voice carrying a metallic echo.

That was enough to break Vi’s composure. She burst into laughter, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shook as she tried to contain it, but the sight of these three battered, broken kids pretending to be soldiers under Lai’s command was too much.

For the first time in a long time, her laugh wasn’t cruel, it wasn't bitter. It was genuine.

“We are the Army Sparkles!” Lai declared proudly, puffing out her tiny chest. She lifted her chin, marching in place like a little commander and giving Vi the most dramatic bow she could muster. “I am their general!”

Vi couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips. Playing along, she stomped her right foot against the ground with a sharp thud, snapping into a mock salute.

“It’s an honor to meet you, General Lai,” she said with a serious tone that cracked into a smile halfway through.

The kids erupted into giggles at her theatrics. But then—something unexpected.

A faint crackle.

Tiny arcs of electricity flickered up from Vi’s leg, crawling briefly along the ground where her boot had struck. The glow danced in the dimness like fireflies, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

Vi glanced down, alarm shooting through her chest. Her eyes darted nervously to the children, worried they might scream or recoil.
But instead—

“Woahhh!” all three kids gasped, their eyes wide and shining with awe.

Instead of fear, their excitement spiked. They squealed, bouncing on their heels.

“Miss Vi! Miss Vi! Do you have superpowers?!” Merc blurted, rushing up to her with childlike urgency.

Vi smirked, flexing one arm and making her bicep pop playfully. “Oh, why yes, I do.”

Crafty’s jaw dropped, her mechanical hands clattering with excitement. “You’re a strong girl?!” she squealed before letting out a sharp little scream, hopping up and down. “I’ve always wanted to be a strong, muscular girl too!”

Vi chuckled, watching her bounce like a spring.

Merc crossed his arms, smirking like he was about to issue a challenge. “The question is…” He paused dramatically, glancing between Lai and Crafty before pointing straight at Vi. “Can you do one hundred push-ups?”

The two girls gasped loudly, hands shooting to their mouths in exaggerated awe.

Vi laughed, shaking her head at their antics. “Well, let’s see.”

Dropping down onto her knees, she positioned herself on the cracked ground, the three kids gathering close in a perfect little semicircle. They crouched low, hands pressed to their knees, eyes gleaming like they were about to watch the performance of a lifetime.

“Ready?” Vi asked.

“Ready!!” they all shouted.

She dropped to the ground and began her push-ups—fast, precise, muscles rippling under her sleeves as she pumped them out with ease.

The kids erupted into cheers, counting each rep at the top of their lungs. “One! Two! Three! Four!” Their little voices overlapped, getting faster and louder as Vi’s pace quickened.
“She’s so fast! Oh my glob!” Lai cried, stomping her little foot with every number.

Crafty clapped her metal hands together, sparks flying lightly from the friction. “Look at her arms! Look at her arms!” she squealed.

Merc was shouting so hard his voice cracked, but he didn’t stop, his face red with excitement.

Vi tried to focus, but every word they shouted made it harder to keep a straight face. The sheer joy in their voices, the ridiculous way they described her—each line funnier and cuter than the last. She bit back laughter between breaths, her lips twitching into a wide smile as she pushed harder.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Vi wasn’t fighting for survival, or bleeding out, or screaming in rage. She was laughing—sweat beading at her brow, kids chanting her name like she was some kind of superhero.

Vi’s arms pumped like pistons, her chest lowering and rising against the cracked ground in a steady rhythm. The kids’ voices rang out louder and louder as the count climbed.
“Ninety-six! Ninety-seven! Ninety-eight!”

“Go, Miss Vi, go!!” Crafty screeched, hopping in a circle and clapping her metal hands together with a clang-clang-clang.

“Ninety-nine!” Lai yelled, nearly losing her balance from stomping so hard.

And with one last push, Vi slammed out the final rep, her arms locking straight as she lifted herself off the ground with a triumphant grunt.
“One hundred!” all three kids screamed in unison, their voices echoing through the playground.

Vi dropped back on her knees, brushing sweat from her brow with a smirk. “Hah… easy.”

The kids burst into cheers, their tiny hands clapping wildly. Merc threw his arms up like he was celebrating a war hero, and Crafty nearly tackled Vi’s leg in excitement. Lai, however, stood tall, her little chest puffed out with pride as she strutted forward like a commander ready to deliver honors.

“Soldier Vi,” Lai announced, trying to deepen her voice into a dramatic growl. She paced back and forth in front of Vi like a pint-sized general inspecting her troops. “For your incredible strength, bravery, and coolness…”
Merc and Crafty stood at attention beside her, saluting Vi with their tiny hands, eyes wide with admiration.

“…I hereby promote you!” Lai declared, pointing straight at Vi. “You are now Colonel Sparkle-Fists!”

The other two kids gasped, as though she’d just been awarded the greatest title in the world.

Vi blinked, caught off guard by the name—then burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that shook her shoulders. “Colonel Sparkle-Fists?” she repeated, raising a brow.
Lai nodded furiously, her pigtails bouncing. “Yup! That’s the highest rank in the Army Sparkles!”

Vi snorted, holding her stomach. “Oh, you’re killin’ me, kid.” She looked at all three of them, their expectant little faces lit with joy, and raised a hand in salute. “Colonel Sparkle-Fists reporting for duty.”

The kids squealed with delight, clapping and bouncing around her. For the first time in what felt like forever, Vi didn’t feel like a prisoner. She didn’t feel like a weapon.

An hour slipped by like a dream. The sun had begun to dip into the horizon, staining the asylum’s outer courtyard in long streaks of orange and red. Shadows of the chain-link fence stretched across the cracked pavement of the playground, where Vi sat cross-legged in the center with the three kids gathered tight around her.

They had formed a circle, knees almost touching, and Vi was in the middle of telling them fairytales—old stories she barely remembered from her own childhood. Stories about knights, dragons, and heroes who weren’t afraid of anything.

Every few sentences, one of the kids would interrupt with a question, their little voices bubbling over with curiosity.

“Wait- wait! The donkey can fly?” Crafty would ask.

“Could the wispy wind lady blow three buildings off?” Merc would demand, eyes wide.

And Lai would always tug at Vi’s sleeve, whispering, “But what happened after that?”

Vi tried to keep a straight face as they bombarded her, but eventually she gave in, laughing until her stomach hurt. The circle of them turned into a chattering, giggling mess, bouncing from her fairytales into their own stories about heroes and powers.

“My papa was a glob monster, and my mama was from a volcano!” Merc bragged, puffing out his chest. “And it made me do really cool things!”

He placed his hand over his mouth, cheeks swelling. Then, with a loud pffft, he blew out a glowing bubble that shimmered red and orange like molten glass. It hovered in the air before popping with a hiss.

Vi’s brows shot up, impressed despite herself. She clapped once. “Well, damn.”

The kids laughed, rolling back on their heels, delighted at her reaction.

Vi’s smile softened. She tilted her head and asked gently, “Well… where’s mama and papa now, Merc?”

The boy froze, his shoulders stiff. For a moment, Vi feared she’d cut too deep—that she’d stirred something fragile. But his little face didn’t twist with sadness. Instead, he shrugged.

“They disappeared after this witchy guy came,” he said matter-of-factly, “callin’ them demons. Then they took me and used me to forge good weapons and stuff! But…” He paused, eyes flicking down. “I accidentally melted someone. So they sent me here.” Another shrug.

Vi’s throat tightened, but she stayed quiet. Her fists curled against her knees.

Crafty spoke up next, her robotic hands twitching. “I used to be a human like you, Miss Vi!” she said brightly, almost proud. “But my papa told me he could give me a better, healthier body if I got fixed. He sent me to the big man. They dipped me into this really hot, boiling metal water. Everything went dark for a bit… but now I can dance and jump really high!”

To prove it, she hopped onto her feet and sprang into the air with surprising force. She landed with a clang on a balcony rail nearly at the second floor, then hopped down again, her hands clattering with every movement.

Vi blinked, stunned. Shocked by the display, but more by the horror beneath it. The way she described it so cheerfully, as if being remade had erased the memory of pain.
Poor kids.

Poor, broken kids.

She pulled all three of them close in one strong sweep of her arms, drawing them into her chest. Their small bodies pressed against her, their warmth so stark against her calloused skin. She cupped each of their round cheeks, looking into their mismatched, scarred little faces.

“You guys,” she said softly, her voice cracking just slightly, “you’re very different. Different from the demons here. Different from everyone.” She smiled faintly, her eyes wet. “What makes you different… makes you special. Don’t you ever forget that.”

They clung tighter to her, comforted.

But then—

BRRRRRT!

A shrill alarm blared across the courtyard. The ground vibrated faintly under Vi’s knees. The kids stiffened in her arms, their joy draining away in an instant.
Dinner time.

Vi sighed, forcing a smile for them as she rose to her feet. “Come on. You three need to eat something.” She reached out, helping Crafty up by her metal hand as Merc scrambled upright and Lai clung to her sleeve.

“Miss Vi…?” Lai’s voice was different now. Nervous. Small.

The other two shifted closer to her, suddenly subdued, their little hands clutching at the fabric of Vi’s pants. Their eyes darted toward the cafeteria building, to the guards standing at the entrance.

“Can you come with us… please?” Lai whispered. “Mr. Scyllo will hurt us if you don’t.”

The name made Vi’s stomach twist. She froze for only a moment, then followed their gaze.

At the far end of the courtyard, framed in the red wash of the asylum lights, a tall figure waited. A cane in hand. Cold eyes locked on them even from this distance.
Vi’s brows furrowed, her chest tight with fury.

She knew exactly who Scyllo was.

And she wasn’t about to let him lay a single finger on these kids.

Jane stirred, her head heavy, her body aching from whatever cocktail they had pumped into her veins. She forced herself upright, blinking until the dim glow of the barred window came into focus. Her hand brushed against stiff fabric—her leather gear was gone, replaced with the bland gray uniform assigned to asylum patients. The thin material clung uncomfortably, itching at her collar.

She exhaled sharply, scanning the room.

A thin trail of smoke curled near the window, carried on the evening breeze.

Jane’s eyes narrowed.

A figure stood with his back turned, shoulders broad, hat brim tilted forward as he drew on a cigarette. The ember flared bright in the gloom, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw.

Jane’s claws slipped out with an audible click, her instincts firing before her mind did. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, her voice rough, low, dangerous.

The man turned halfway, lips curling into a smirk. He exhaled a thick stream of smoke deliberately toward her face.

The scent hit her, acrid, irritating.

And then she recognized him.

Her eyes widened. “You’re the assassin, aren’t you?” she said flatly, her claws twitching.

Striker’s smirk widened into a grin. “Sure is, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice dripping with lazy confidence. He flicked ash out the barred window and tilted his head, sizing her up. “New here?”

Jane clicked her tongue and let her claws retract, slowly stepping back toward the bed. Her crimson gaze never left him. She sat down on the mattress across from him, leaning forward.
“Still callin’ T.V.-head in?” she asked casually, her tone sharp like a blade hidden under silk.

Striker froze mid-drag. He turned his head slightly, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. “…How did you—”

He stopped himself, exhaling hard through his nose. With a frustrated shake of his head, he turned his back on her, staring out the bars into the abyss of Hell’s skyline.

Jane rose again, moving with the deliberate grace of a predator. She stepped to his side, her presence close, her voice dropping lower. “I eavesdropped in Valentino’s studio,” she whispered. “I’m looking for someone in here. And you…” she glanced at him sidelong, “…you know her.”

The breeze pushed in through the barred window, cooling their skin, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and smoke. Jane reached out without hesitation, flicking his cigarette away with a sharp snap of her claw.
Striker’s eyes followed the dying ember as it tumbled out into the night. His jaw clenched. Then slowly, very slowly, he turned to face her.

“The human girl,” he said, his tone darker now, probing. “Why are you looking for her?”

Jane’s lips curled into a small, dangerous smirk. Her voice was a whisper laced with venom.

“Simply… for… revenge.” Jane spoke deviously, her eyes glowing a bright red.

Chapter 19: Children, don't be afraid of thorns

Blitzo woke with a slow stretch, the warm weight of silk sheets sliding off his bare chest. Beside him, Stolas still slept, the prince’s long feathers rising and falling in steady rhythm. Blitzo let out a soft chuckle under his breath, the kind that was more out of contentment than amusement.

Slipping out of bed, he padded across the room, gathering his clothes from where they’d been tossed haphazardly the night before. He pulled them piece by piece, careful not to make too much noise, though part of him suspected Stolas could sleep through an earthquake when he wanted to.

Once dressed, Blitzo made his way downstairs. The grand hallways of the Goetia palace felt quieter in the late night light, the chandeliers casting soft gold against the polished floors. In the kitchen, the maids were already bustling about, the air warm with the scent of butter and fresh herbs.

Blitzo dug into his pocket, fishing out a small stack of cash. “Hey,” he called over the soft clatter of pans, “Cook us up some dinner before Octavia gets home, yeah?”

One of the maids smiled politely, taking the tip with a nod before passing it along to the others. Blitzo grinned, watching as they split it evenly without hesitation.

Upstairs, Stolas stirred. His hand reached across the bed, searching for the familiar presence beside him. But instead, his fingers met only cold sheets. His eyes blinked open, adjusting to the light. He sat up slowly, gaze drifting to the empty space where Blitzo had been. His clothes were gone too.

A heaviness settled in Stolas’s chest. His feathers drooped slightly, and for a moment, he stared out the tall window at the distant horizon, his eyes clouding with that quiet, familiar ache.

He sighed—long and low—and rose from the bed. Still in his flowing nightgown, he made his way toward the stairs, the fabric trailing behind him. But when he reached the bottom step, he froze.
His heart skipped.

There, in the kitchen, was Blitzo—standing among the maids, sleeves rolled up, laughing as he helped chop vegetables and fetch spices. The sight pulled Stolas from his gloom, replacing it with something warm and steady.

Blitzo turned at just the right moment, catching Stolas’s gaze. A smile spread across his face. “Hey, birdy,” he said with a playful lilt, “tryin’ to help get some dinner ready before Octavia gets home.”

Before Blitzo could turn back to the cutting board, Stolas crossed the kitchen in two long strides, taking him gently but firmly by the wrist. He pulled him forward and kissed him deeply, the kind of kiss that stole the air from the room.

When they finally parted, Blitzo chuckled, his hand coming up to cup Stolas’s cheek for a brief, tender moment. Then he grinned and went right back to helping the staff, tossing a wink over his shoulder.

Stolas lingered for a moment, watching him, the corners of his beak curling faintly. Then he looked at the maids, their eyes darting between the two in amusement, and thought for only a second more before stepping forward to join them—deciding, for once, to give in.

Jane sat on the edge of a low coffee table, her elbows braced against her knees, while Striker lounged across from her in a worn armchair, another cigarette perched lazily between his lips. The dim light from the barred window cut across the room in sharp stripes, catching the thin curls of smoke that drifted upward.

“That human,” Striker began, his tone flat, almost weary, “is way too powerful for both me and you to kill. You’re a hellhound, sure—but your powers? They’re nothin’ compared to hers.”

His voice carried no malice, just a tired truth. This place had a way of grinding down even the sharpest edges. No freedom. No open sky. Just walls, locks, and eyes always watching.

Striker’s mind flicked back to the first time he’d seen Vi. The memory came in fragments—her body thrashing wildly, eyes glowing, power crackling around her like a living storm. That had been the same day he’d brought her here. The same day he’d seen her crouched over Mage, tearing into her with a hunger that made his stomach twist.

He remembered the struggle it took to bring her down—guards swarming, sedatives failing, her roar shaking the walls. She wasn’t human. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

Jane’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, lost in thought. Then she lifted her head, eyes narrowing. “I know who can,” she said quietly, the certainty in her voice pulling Striker’s attention.
His golden eyes met hers as he took a slow drag from his cigarette. “Who?”

“That psychiatrist,” Jane replied, her tone deliberate. “He wouldn’t want to kill Vi… no.”

Striker shook his head, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Exactly. He’s the type to keep her locked up, poked and used until he finds something. Killing her wouldn’t be his style.”

Jane leaned forward, her hand darting out to grip his arm. Her claws didn’t extend, but the pressure in her touch was enough to make him glance down at it.

“There’s a way to make him need to,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. Her crimson eyes held him. “We just have to figure out how to convince him.”

The cigarette hung forgotten between Striker’s fingers. His jaw tightened slightly as he studied her expression.

Whatever she was thinking—it wasn’t going to be clean.

Vi stood rooted to the spot, her body forming a wall between the three children and the man in front of them. Scyllo loomed several paces away, the dim red lighting of the asylum’s courtyard casting sharp shadows over his face. Behind him, a line of guards stood at attention, their hands gripping weapons like they were waiting for an excuse.

Lai’s small hand clung to Vi’s thumb, her little knuckles white. She looked up at Vi, her eyes wide with fear, then quickly glanced toward Scyllo. Merc and Crafty stood close together behind her, trembling.

Vi looked down at Lai and gave the smallest shake of her head—a silent promise to stay between them and whatever was coming.

“It’s dinner time, kids,” Scyllo’s voice rang out, his tone too smooth, too controlled. He took a single step forward, his boots clicking against the concrete.

Vi’s stance tightened. Her heart thudded, not from fear for herself—but for them. The protective, gnawing heat in her chest was impossible to ignore.

“What are you gonna do to them?” she called out, her voice carrying clearly across the space.

Scyllo’s lips curled faintly. “Stop playing house, Vi,” he said, his tone dipping into mocking familiarity.

Her brows furrowed, jaw tightening. Behind her, she could feel the kids’ small, shivering bodies pressing against her legs. Lai’s worried gaze darted between them, tears already welling up.

“What we do here,” Scyllo continued, “is for the greater good. We’re fixing them.” His hand slipped into his coat and emerged holding a syringe filled with swirling green fluid. Under the lights, it almost seemed to glow.
Vi’s eyes locked on it instantly, the sight making something in her gut twist. “They’re just kids, Scyllo!” she shouted, her voice sharp with anger.

He didn’t flinch. “I can assure you,” he said, his tone suddenly gentle, almost soothing, “as soon as the feeding process is complete, we’ll return the children to you. Ensure their wellness.”

The false kindness in his voice only made her grip on the situation tighten.

The guards began to move forward.

Vi stepped back, widening her stance and throwing her arms out like a shield, covering the children completely. Her glare locked on each guard as they closed in.

Then—thwip.

A tranquilizer dart struck her neck. The sting burned immediately, her muscles locking up.

Her knees buckled, her body lurching toward the ground. She fought it with everything she had, teeth clenched, her breaths coming in harsh bursts. Her arms remained spread, trembling, refusing to fall.

Lai let out a sob and threw herself against Vi’s side, Crafty and Merc doing the same. Their little hands gripped at her shirt, their cries muffled against her.

Vi’s arms collapsed inward, pulling them close in one last, desperate embrace. Her vision blurred, her body shaking as she fought to stay awake. “Hold on… stay with me…” she muttered under her breath, trying to keep her voice steady for them.

“Miss Vi, please!” Lai’s voice cracked, loud and panicked.

But then the guards were there, prying the children away.

Vi’s head dropped forward, her hair falling over her face as the kids’ wails tore through the air. Her fingers twitched weakly, trying to hold on just a moment longer—but they were gone, pulled from her arms and dragged toward Scyllo.

The last thing she saw before the tranquilizer fully took her was Lai’s tear-streaked face, reaching for her with tiny, desperate hands.

Vi’s eyes slid shut, her lashes trembling as a single tear slipped down her cheek. Her body, heavy with the tranquilizer’s weight, offered no resistance as the guards hooked their arms under her shoulders and dragged her down the hallway.

The sound of boots echoed against the cold tile until they reached a padded cell. Without ceremony, they shoved her inside. She hit the floor with a limp thud, her body folding awkwardly against the soft, worn padding.

On the other side of the mirrored glass, Scyllo stood still, his gaze steady on the unmoving form of the human. For a long moment, he simply watched.
Then—crackle.

Electric bolts began to snake over Vi’s limbs, crawling up her arms, flickering across her back like living veins of lightning. Her chest hitched, a guttural gasp forcing its way from her throat. Her eyes flew open, glowing faintly as she pushed herself upright.

Her voice tore the room in half.

“Scyllo!”

She lunged at the glass, slamming both fists against it hard enough to send vibrations through the wall. Her breathing was ragged, her teeth clenched, but she kept pounding against the barrier, eyes locked on him like a predator on prey.

Scyllo’s expression didn’t change. He turned, giving Vanessa a brief nod.

“Take control of the room,” he said, his voice cool and final. “Do what we always do to her. Start the experiment.”

He left without another glance, disappearing into the corridor.

In the adjacent chamber, the three children huddled together in the corner—until the workers descended. Syringes filled with swirling green fluid glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights.

One by one, the needles sank into small arms. The serum burned like acid, working its way through every vein, clawing at their bones, forcing itself into their blood. The process wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be.

The children cried out, their screams raw and high-pitched, echoing against the sterile walls. Their bodies convulsed, skin flushing red, swelling as the concoction tried to tear the abnormalities out of them by force.

Lai lashed out in panic, her tiny fists striking the worker in front of her. The man snarled, swinging his baton down hard. The blows landed with sickening thwacks, the girl curling in on herself but still glaring through her tears.

Merc crawled toward Crafty, who had already gone limp, fainted from the pain. Wrapping his small arms around her, he tried to shield her trembling frame from the advancing men.

In her cell, Vi’s screams were primal. She pounded the glass with such force her knuckles split, blood smearing across the surface. She shook her head violently, refusing to look away from the nightmare unfolding before her.

The water began to rise.

Cold at first, then biting as it filled the room, lapping at her knees, her waist, her chest. She pressed her palms against the glass, her tears mixing with the spray. “Stop!” she roared, her voice cracking.

“Leave them alone!”

Vanessa stood in the control booth, her hand hovering above the console. Her throat bobbed in a swallow, the weight of Scyllo’s orders pressing on her like a stone. A tear slid unbidden down her cheek.

If she stopped this now, Scyllo would make her regret it.

Her fist clenched.

She slammed it down on the red button.

The current surged instantly.

The water lit up with a blinding flash, the electricity ripping through Vi’s body in violent waves. She screamed, the sound raw, shaking with both rage and desperation. Even when the water climbed above her head, swallowing her completely, her voice still bled through the bubbles until her lungs finally gave out.

The room fell silent but for the hiss of draining water.

When the last of it gurgled away, Vi lay on the floor, her soaked hair clinging to her face. Through the fabric of her soaked uniform, the steady pulse of her heart glowed—a cyan light burning defiantly in the dark, every beat sharp and steady.

Vanessa’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor of the control room. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face, but it couldn’t block out the sounds that still reached her—
The children’s cries.

The thud of batons against small bodies.

And the unshakable knowledge that she had just helped make it happen.

Chapter 20: You can find precious things with bare feet

Summary:

“There’s a chance,” Vi said quietly. “I know there is. But… it won’t be easy.”

Stella stood on the palace balcony, her fingers curled tightly around the ornate railing. Her teeth ground together as a storm of memories churned in her head — every humiliation, every betrayal, every moment that had slipped beyond her control in the past year.

Her chest rose sharply as she closed her eyes, trying to breathe, but the pressure inside her only grew heavier.

She stepped up onto the bottom rail, the cool metal beneath her heels. The wind from the high altitude rushed past her, tugging at her gown and feathers. She leaned forward slightly, eyes unfocused on the hazy skyline below.

The balcony door slid open behind her.

“Stella!”

The voice was all too familiar — a slick, performative tone that made her feathers prickle.

Andrealphus strolled in, laughing in that high-pitched, refined manner that grated on her ears. A glass of red wine dangled effortlessly between his fingers, the deep liquid swirling lazily as if he’d never known urgency in his life. Two other Goetian nobles trailed behind him, also chuckling at whatever joke had just been told.

“The funniest shit just happened!” Andrealphus crowed, stepping forward. “Stolas is now treating that damned imp like a housewife. How much more pathetic can you possibly be?” His laughter cracked sharp against the marble walls as he took a slow sip from his glass.

Stella’s eyes snapped open, the fire in them burning cold. She dropped her foot back onto the ground, fingers gripping the railing until her knuckles went pale.

“Get the hell out of my sight, you useless fucking bird!” she hissed, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

She snatched a potted plant from its stand and hurled it with all her strength. Andrealphus ducked, feathers brushing the floor, and the pot smashed into the shoulder of the female Goetian behind him.

She squawked in shock, shards scattering across the balcony tiles.

“How dare you speak to me that way, sister!” Andrealphus spat, his composure cracking. He flung his wine glass toward her — a glint of crystal and red liquid spinning through the air.

It shattered against the wall just as Stella charged at him, her wings flaring. Before she could reach him, the palace guards rushed in, seizing her arms and pulling her back with practiced force.

“Stolas and that pathetic fucking imp can die and rot!” she shrieked, her voice shaking with rage as the guards dragged her toward the main hall. Her heels scraped against the polished floor, leaving faint streaks where they slid.

Andrealphus followed behind, straightening his feathers and smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes, his earlier outburst replaced with icy detachment.

At the massive front doors, the guards shoved Stella forward, and she hit the ground hard, her gown pooling around her like spilled ink.

“You are to never set foot here again,” Andrealphus said coldly, pointing a slender finger at her before the towering doors slammed shut with finality.

The echo rattled through her bones.

She scrambled to her feet, her fury bleeding into desperation as she rushed to the doors. Her fists pounded against the heavy wood. “Andrealphus! Let me in!” she screamed, her voice cracking.

But the only answer was silence.

Her breathing turned uneven. The heat in her chest shifted — anger twisting into something rawer, heavier.
And then the tears fell. Never in her whole life has she felt so worthless.

Stella stepped back from the palace doors, her fists lowering slowly. The cold night air nipped at her feathers, carrying away the last echo of her voice. Without looking back, she turned and walked down the marble steps, her heels clicking in sharp rhythm against the stone.

Halfway down, she reached behind her neck and unfastened the jeweled clasp of her gown. The silk slipped from her shoulders like water, pooling on the ground. Underneath, she wore only a black corset and fitted shorts, her tall shoes still clicking with every step.

She pulled the feathered collar up to shadow her face as she made her way down the long drive, not wanting any wandering eyes to catch her in this state.

A yellow taxi idled at the edge of the palace grounds, its paint dulled from decades of use. Stella slid into the backseat, the cracked leather sighing under her weight.

She exhaled, the sound heavy, almost like she was letting go of the last thread of pride holding her upright.

The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror, one brow raised. “To where, ma’am?” he asked, his voice flat but curious.

Her eyes stayed on the passing city lights outside the window, her voice barely above a whisper. “Stolas’ palace.”

The driver didn’t ask why. He just nodded once and pressed his foot to the pedal. The cab lurched forward, disappearing into the dark streets of Hell, the glow of neon signs streaking across the glass as they sped toward the Goetia mansion.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the towering gates of Stolas’s palace, the gold filigree shimmering faintly under the lantern lights.

Stella stepped out, her heels sinking slightly into the gravel as she straightened her posture and stared up at the mansion’s tall spires.

“Uhm… the payment, ma’am?” the driver called, his hand already hanging out of the open window expectantly.

She froze, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. In all the chaos of the night, she’d completely forgotten—she had no souls on her.

A slow sigh escaped her lips. She reached up, fingers brushing over the cold metal at her neck, before unclasping the ornate necklace that glittered faintly in the light.

“Take this,” she said, placing it into the driver’s palm. “It’s worth six million souls. Give it to the pawn shop under the name Stella Goetia.”

The man turned the necklace over in his hand, his eyes widening slightly at the craftsmanship. Without another word, he gave a curt nod and drove off, the hum of the engine fading into the distance.

Alone now, Stella adjusted her corset and made her way up the long path to the grand front doors. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes, the massive double doors looming taller with each step.

When she finally reached them, she stopped, drew in a slow breath, and let it out. Her knuckles rapped sharply against the polished wood, the sound echoing through the entry hall beyond.

Blitzo and Octavia lounged on the couch, a bowl of snacks balanced between them, the glow of the TV flickering across their faces. The muffled sound of the movie filled the cozy silence until the sharp ding-dong of the doorbell cut through it.

“Huh? Who’s that?” Blitzo muttered, tossing a popcorn kernel into his mouth before glancing over at Stolas.

“I’ll answer it,” Stolas said with a small smile. “It might be the dress I ordered for Octavia.” He rose from his seat with his usual grace, smoothing his robe as he headed for the door.

But when he opened it, the smile fell from his face instantly. His eyes widened for a split second before narrowing, his brows furrowing.

“What are you doing here?” Stolas’s voice dripped with venom, each word precise and cutting.

Octavia, curious, leaned over the arm of the couch to peek toward the door—then froze.

“Mom?” she asked, confusion knitting her brow as she stood and walked toward them. Her eyes moved over Stella from head to toe, and the question only deepened.

Gone was the pristine, formal gown she was so used to seeing her mother wear. Instead, Stella stood in shorts, a corset, and heels, looking strangely stripped-down for someone who thrived on appearances.

Octavia’s stomach sank. She knew this look—had seen it before in smaller moments. Her mother didn’t come dressed like that unless she wasn’t here for family.

Unless she needed something.

And that realization made Octavia’s heart sink even lower.

Stolas’s feathers bristled as he stared her down. “Why are you here, Stella?”

She straightened her shoulders, feigning calm even though her eyes darted briefly toward Octavia. “I need a place to stay. Just two days.”

Stolas’s frown deepened. “Two days?” His voice was sharp, skeptical. “You have an estate the size of a small kingdom. Why come here?”

Her jaw tightened. “Because my brother decided to throw me out of it. Temporary, but inconvenient.” She folded her arms, trying to look unbothered. “I didn’t exactly have time to make other arrangements.”

Octavia stepped a little closer to her father, looking between them. “So you’re… just here because Uncle Andy kicked you out?”

“Something like that,” Stella said lightly, though there was an edge to her tone. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ll be gone before you even remember I was here.”
Stolas’s gaze didn’t soften. “That would be a first.”

She ignored the jab, smoothing her feathers with one hand. “I’ll keep to the guest room. I’m not here for you. I just need a roof over my head for two nights, Stolas. That’s all.”

Octavia gave her father a quiet look, silently urging him to relent.

Finally, with a slow exhale, Stolas stepped back from the doorway. “Fine. Two days. Not a minute longer.”

“Agreed,” Stella replied, already stepping past him into the foyer, her eyes scanning the familiar space as though measuring how much it had changed since she last stood there.

Blitzo drifted over to Stolas once Octavia had turned away, her head hanging low. He didn’t need to see her face to know the look—her shoulders said it all.

The girl walked slowly toward the stairs, every step heavier than the last.

“She came here and never even batted an eye at her daughter,” Blitzo muttered, shaking his head with a sigh. His voice was quiet enough to keep from carrying, but it still held a sting of frustration.
“You handle things better than I could,” he added, glancing at Stolas. “But… are you sure you trust her to stay here? Even for a while?”

He reached out, resting a gentle hand on Stolas’s arm.

Stolas didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Octavia as she reached the top of the stairs, her feathers drooping. The sound of her door slamming shut echoed through the hall, followed by the click of the lock.

The sharpness of it cut through him more than he let on.

His chest rose with a slow, controlled breath, but the weight in his eyes betrayed what he was feeling.

“I’m more empathetic than you think, Blitzo.”

Jane sat in the cafeteria, the smell of overcooked meat and stale bread hanging heavy in the air. All around her, patients filled the room with noise—some huddled together in hushed conversation, others shouting across tables, a few smashing their trays or flinging food like it was part of the entertainment.

She dropped onto the bench beside Striker. His tray sat in front of him, untouched except for a lonely clump of shrimp. Jane scooped mashed potatoes onto her spoon and glanced at him.

“Damn, you really aren’t eating anything, huh?” she said, lightly jabbing his arm with the back of the spoon.

Striker didn’t look at her.

“I guess that’s one thing I actually like about being here,” she went on, stabbing one of his shrimp without asking. “Free food.” She popped it into her mouth, chewing with deliberate slowness.

Striker finally spoke, his voice flat. “Jane, it’s been four goddamn months. There’s nothin’ we can do to get Vi killed. Steward’s been breathing down our necks ever since you kept sneakin’ over to the other building like you were on some spy mission.”

Jane smirked, but his tone wasn’t joking.

“You made a mistake coming here, for god’s sake,” he continued. “I’ve been here longer than you. I know how it works. They don’t set you free—they just beat you down until you know you’re destined to rot in here.”
He stabbed a piece of fruit with his fork, stared at it for a long second, then set the fork down. Without another word, he pushed away from the table and stood, his shadow stretching over her tray.
Jane’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t about to let him walk away that easily.

She grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop. “If you really wanna give up on the plan, then just say it,” she said, her voice sharp, deliberate. “I need to know when to stop depending on a partner who’s no use other than lighting up cigarettes.”

The words landed like a hit. She could see it in the faint flicker of his eyes before he yanked his wrist free.

Jane let him go and turned away, picking up her tray. Without looking back, she walked out of the cafeteria, heading toward their shared room.

Striker stood there for a moment, his jaw tight. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and made his way to the phone room.

A nurse at the counter looked up. “Why are you here, sir?”

“Need’a make a call to my sweet wife,” Striker said with a smooth smile. “Ain’t talked to her in a bit.”

The nurse eyed him for a moment, then nodded and waved him through.

Striker stepped inside the small, dimly lit room and sat down in front of the black rotary phone. The walls were soundproofed with old, cracked padding. He lifted the receiver, letting the silence hum in his ear for a moment.

Closing his eyes, he dialed a number he hadn’t called in a long time—one he’d kept tucked away in the back of his mind like an old, dangerous secret.

Striker pressed the call button, the old rotary phone crackling faintly as the line began to ring. He leaned back in the chair, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

A click.

“Hello?” The voice was groggy, cautious. Stella.

“Who is this?” she asked, her words muffled slightly as if she’d just woken. In the background, the faint rustle of blankets—she was covering herself completely, still half-asleep.

Striker chuckled low, the sound dripping with familiarity. “You didn’t really forget about me now, did you… traitor?”

Her silence stretched a beat too long.

“Mm,” Striker continued, his voice curling into a mocking drawl. “Your tone’s different. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Stella’s breath paced up, though her voice carried an edge of apprehension.

“That feeling of being of no use,” Striker said, drawing the words out like a blade sliding from its sheath. “Perhaps?”

Stella’s eyes widened in the dark, her grip tightening on the blanket.

“What do you want from me, Striker?” she asked at last, her voice low and tense.

“You failed to do what I asked you to,” she went on, stress threading through each syllable. “And that is the reason I’m in the position I am now.”

He smirked against the receiver. “You failed trying to hurt your daughter by killing her own father. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if everybody found out what you tried doing to your own family… and then failed?”

Her breath hitched. “You’re in a mental asylum,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady, though there was a tremor of nervousness underneath. “What are you going to do? Gossip about me?”

Striker let a beat of silence hang before answering, his tone dropping into something almost casual. “No. What I want is actually pretty simple, darlin’.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone could be listening in.

“Make the effort to come visit me here.”

Before she could respond, he ended the call with a sharp clack, sliding the receiver back onto the hook. His smirk lingered as he stood, the echo of her tension still fresh in his mind.

Stella sighed softly and took a pillow, pressing her face into it before letting out a loud scream. Stella sat frozen for a moment after the call ended, the dial tone humming in her ear before she finally set the phone back on the stand.

Her hand lingered there, fingers curling, the weight of Striker’s voice still coiled around her thoughts.

With a sharp inhale, she rose from the bed, grabbed one of the plush pillows from beside her, and pressed it hard over her face.

The sound started low—just a muffled growl in her throat—but it swelled quickly into a raw, furious scream, vibrating through the fabric.

She screamed until her lungs burned, until the pressure in her chest eased just enough for her to breathe again.

When she lowered the pillow, her feathers were ruffled, her eyes glassy.

Striker’s words still echoed in her head.

Vi sat slouched on the couch in the dimly lit bedroom, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the closed door. Her hair had grown long enough to brush against her pierced ear, and she absently pushed it back, exposing the silver piercings on her ear. Across the room, the kids slept soundly—Lai curled into a blanket, Crafty’s mechanical hands twitching faintly in her dreams, and Merc sprawled on his back, a tiny bubble of molten magma puffing from his nose with each exhale.

Vi’s lips twitched into a small chuckle at the sight, but it faded quickly. She rose quietly and padded to the bathroom, letting the harsh fluorescent light spill across her face. The cold water stung her skin as she washed it, scrubbing her hands thoroughly with soap, watching the suds swirl down the drain before twisting the faucet off.

When she stepped out, her eyes swept both ends of the hallway, shoulders tense. No workers. No guards. Good.

Each day her unease grew heavier, the thought gnawing at her that sooner or later, Scyllo would push too far—and that she might not be able to get the kids away before it was too late.
She made her way to the cafeteria, as she’d done every day, gathering enough food for herself and the kids. The server’s voice called softly from behind the counter.

“You’re like a mother to them, you know?”

It was the older woman—one of the few staff members Vi trusted. She’d been quietly slipping Vi extra portions for weeks now.

“I’m not ready for that,” Vi replied, her voice low and rough.

The woman shook her head, ladling soup into a pot. “You can’t let them stay here forever. I pray every day this asylum will blow sky-high, just to give the children a chance to escape.” She paused, her hand stilling over the pot. “There was a child here before. My daughter.”

Vi turned her head toward her, her sharp gaze softening.

“It took twelve months before he killed her with his experiments,” the woman said, her voice cracking.

Vi’s stomach sank. She set the tray of food down on the counter and reached out, taking the woman’s trembling hands in hers. Her grip was firm but gentle, one hand covering the other in a rare gesture of comfort.

“There’s a chance,” Vi said quietly. “I know there is. But… it won’t be easy.”

She let go, picked up the tray again, and turned toward the bedroom.

Vanessa appeared in the corridor ahead, her pace quickening when she saw her. “Vi!”

“No, Vanessa.” Vi’s voice was curt, cutting her off before she could even start.

Vanessa kept up beside her anyway. “Look, those two aren’t going to stop planning against you unless you do something about it. You need to scare them or—”

Vi stopped dead, turning to face her. Her eyes flickered with a sudden burst of cyan light.

“How about you stop working for the same bastard who keeps testing on the kids?” Vi snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hallway’s buzz. “I don’t care about any of these asylum thugs, so please—if you don’t mind—stay the fuck out of my way.”

She turned on her heel, marching the rest of the way to the bedroom. The door slammed shut with a swift kick from her heel, the echo rattling the walls.

She set the tray down on the small table, the clatter of dishes sounding far louder than it should have in the quiet room.

Vi let out a long sigh as she sank into the chair, rubbing her eyes with one hand, her other arm hanging limply at her side. Frustration hummed low in her chest, the weight of the day still pressing against her ribs.

From the bed, there was the faintest rustle. She lowered her hand and glanced over.

Three small shapes huddled under a mound of blankets. They’d already been awake before she came in—she could tell by the stillness that wasn’t quite still.

The moment her eyes met the movement, the shapes ducked their heads down in unison, burying themselves deeper as if she hadn’t seen them at all.

A muffled giggle broke the silence. Crafty.

“Don’t laugh—she’ll hear you!” Lai hissed in a whisper that was barely muffled under the covers.

Vi’s lips curved into a smirk. She leaned back slightly, and in the blink of an eye, her form blurred—vanishing from the chair.

The kids dared a tiny peek from under the blanket, but Vi was gone.

Then—whump.

Vi pounced onto the bed like a dinosaur striking, yanking the blanket away with a swift motion. “Gotcha!” she roared in a mock growl, her voice dropping into an exaggerated, monstrous tone.

The kids squealed in delight, squirming in all directions as she loomed over them.

“I found you!” she declared, wrapping her arms around the nearest two and pulling them close. “Now, you will be eaten by the SLUG MONSTER!”

Her mock roar filled the room as she pretended to chomp on them, the children’s shrieks of laughter echoing off the padded walls. Crafty kicked her mechanical legs in the air, Merc tried to wriggle free, and Lai gasped between giggles, “Nooo! Not the slug monster!”

Lai crept up behind Vi, a mischievous glint in her eyes, clutching a paper sword in both hands. With exaggerated stealth, she jabbed it into Vi’s back over and over.

Vi gasped loudly, clutching her chest as if mortally wounded. She staggered a step before collapsing back onto the bed in an over-the-top fall.

Merc burst into laughter and quickly tossed the blanket over her, burying her completely.

Then—silence.

“Vi?” Lai’s playful tone faded into something uncertain. She crept closer, peeking at the still mound under the blanket.

Without warning, Vi exploded upright, arms stretched forward in a stiff, zombie-like pose. “Aghhh! I’ve come back to life… for revenge!”

The kids shrieked and laughed, scattering across the bed as she lunged playfully at them. She caught all three in a sweeping motion, yanking the blanket away and pulling them into her arms.
“Good morning, my soldiers,” she chuckled, kissing each of their foreheads in turn.

Their giggles softened into grins.

“Well,” she said, releasing them, “your breakfasts are ready. Go on and eat.”

The three scrambled to the table, hopping into their chairs with the kind of eagerness only kids could have.

Vi moved to the couch, settling into the worn cushions. She reached for the glass of cold water waiting there and took a slow sip, watching them with a faint smile.

Halfway through her meal, Lai kept glancing over her shoulder, eyes flicking between her plate and Vi. Finally, she slid down from her chair and padded over.

“Vi? Why aren’t you eating?” she asked softly.

“Kid, I’ll be fine,” Vi said with an easy smile. “I already ate way before you woke up. I’m alright.”

She leaned her head gently against Lai’s, letting it rest there for a moment. It wasn’t the kind of affection Lai was used to—there were no grand gestures, no sugar-coated words—but it was warm, steady, and real.

And that made it comforting. Especially coming from Vi, her mother.

Lai hopped back into her seat, legs swinging under the table as she returned to her breakfast. The clink of spoons against bowls filled the quiet—until a deafening bang shattered it.

The sound came from just outside the room.

The kids yelped, their small hands gripping the edge of the table. Vi’s head snapped toward the door, her muscles going taut. She stood, every sense on alert, and crossed the room in long strides.

Pausing at the doorway, she turned back to the three of them. Her expression was sharp, protective. “I need the three of you to stay here, okay? Do not leave until I check what happened.”

The command in her voice was iron, but deep beneath it was something else—an echo of another time, another life. She’d said those same words to Powder before leaving to save Vander.

Slowly, Vi opened the door.

The hallway beyond was painted in blood. The old woman from the cafeteria lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes glassy, a dark pool spreading beneath her. Her chest no longer rose.

Behind her stood Scyllo, his pale gaze fixed on Vi, one of his workers at his side—gun still in hand.

Vi’s eyes widened, her breath catching at the sight.

From inside the room, the kids had a clear view of the body. Their faces went pale with fear until Vi met their eyes and gave a subtle but urgent signal. Hide.

They obeyed instantly, their small minds working fast. They gathered every bowl, every plate, tucking them away to make it seem like only Vi occupied the room.

Scyllo’s distorted voice carried down the hallway. “She tried stopping me. Got a few words out of her though.”

Vi stepped forward, brows furrowing, her hands raising slightly in a placating gesture. “Scyllo, they aren’t with me. I swear.”

“Search,” he ordered.

The men moved at once, pushing past Vi into the room, rifling through every corner, their boots heavy against the floor.

Scyllo walked closer to her, his smirk a razor-thin curve. “Someone in here found out about you,” he said, his tone almost casual. “Familiar with the name… Stella?”

Vi’s eyes narrowed, but her chest tightened.

“She’s looking for you,” he added, turning away as if her reaction was all the confirmation he needed.

Then, without warning, he released a hissing canister. Thick gas spilled out, curling along the floor before rising fast. The air grew heavy, pressure pushing against Vi’s lungs.

She gasped, clutching her chest, her vision tunneling. “S–Stella? I don’t know a Stella—”

Her words cut off as her knees buckled. The last thing she saw before darkness took her was Scyllo’s satisfied smirk through the haze.

She collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Chapter 21: Even if I shed tears, I will keep running

Summary:

Even if the world is full of desolation, we can see the moon when we look up.

Vi’s eyes fluttered open to a haze of thick, choking gas. Her body screamed with pain—every muscle heavy, every joint aching. She coughed hard, vision blurring, the sting in her lungs forcing her to drag her shirt up over her nose.

The smoke swirled like a living thing, twisting around her legs as she staggered upright. Through the shifting veil, she tried to focus, scanning for the kids.

“Lai…” Her voice was hoarse, desperate.

She stumbled into the room, flipping the bed over, yanking open the closets—nothing. The absence was a knife in her chest.

No. No, no… they can’t be gone.

Her breath quickened, anger boiling with fear. Her eyes almost flared red before she squeezed them shut. And then—

A giggle. Not in the room. In her head.

Her sister’s laugh. Mocking. Cruel.

Vi snarled and pushed through the smoke, coughing as her bare feet slapped the cold floor.

Vanessa’s body lay crumpled in the hallway. Vi dropped to her knees, scooping her up without hesitation, lungs burning as she scanned for somewhere safe. The clinic was too open. The gas was everywhere.

The padded room.

Vi carried Vanessa inside, dropped her gently to the floor, and slammed the door shut. She turned the lock and stuffed rags into the cracks to seal it tight.

Then she was moving again, bolting through the corridors toward the control room. Her fingers flew over the switches and dials until she found the right one—air pressure. She cranked it, forcing clean air back into the vents.

She didn’t wait to see if it worked. She sprinted back, bursting into the padded room and locking the door behind her before the haze could slip through.

Dropping to her knees, Vi pressed her ear to Vanessa’s chest. Relief washed over her—there was a heartbeat.

“Wake up!” she barked, shaking her. When that didn’t work, she leaned down and forced air into Vanessa’s lungs.

Vanessa gasped awake, hacking violently. Vi pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Are you okay? What happened? Where are the kids?”

Vanessa’s voice was faint but steady. “Someone came… threatened Scyllo. Blackmail. Said they knew you were still alive.” She coughed again, forcing herself to sit up. “Thank you… for getting me out.”

Vi shook her head. “Where are the kids?”

“They’ve got gas masks in the dressing rooms,” Vanessa said, scanning the sealed door. “If we’re looking for them, that’s where we start.”

Vi’s jaw tightened. “Then we move. Now.”

The two women braced themselves, filled their lungs with what clean air they had, and wrenched the door open—plunging back into the poisoned corridors in search of the children.

Scyllo paced in jagged steps, head rocking side to side like he was trying to shake the thoughts loose.

“How could they ever find out?” His voice cracked into a roar, and his fist came down hard on the table. The metal frame shuddered under the blow. “One of the patients called someone in, and now this entire facility’s going to get fucked by a pack of overlords!”

He ripped open a drawer and hurled a stack of files across the room.

From the doorway came a slow, measured laugh.

“My, my… such colorful language for a man in your position.”

Scyllo’s head snapped up. Stella stepped inside, her heels clicking against the tile, a black gas mask covering her face. She pulled it off with a deliberate slowness, tossing her hair back before shutting the door behind her.

“Well,” she said, as if the room were her stage, “to make up for the little lies you’ve been telling… I have a plan for you.” She strolled to the chair opposite his desk and sat, one leg draping over the other. Her eyes sparkled with venom. “You’ll have Vi publicly executed. And you’ll make sure every tongue in Hell knows it was Stolas Goetia who kept her alive here. That should fix your little… credibility problem.”

Scyllo’s jaw clenched. “If I don’t?”

She didn’t even look up from inspecting her nails. “There will be consequences.”

He slammed both palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Those damn kids are still missing. I’ve already sent guards, but they’re gone.”

Scyllo rubbed his eyes, his voice rising until it cracked. “I’ve got overlords breathing down my neck, your sudden visit, and now—” he swept an arm across the desk, sending papers, glass displays, and a monitor crashing to the floor “—this entire place is falling apart!”

Scyllo studied her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re dangerous, Stella.”

“And you,” she said, standing and smoothing down her dress, “are out of options.”

Striker spotted Jane hunched over the cafeteria table, her body trembling as she coughed violently. She was pale, gasping, eyes watering from the poison-laced air.

He walked up slow, deliberate — the hiss of his own breathing muffled behind the gas mask covering his face.

“How’s that for being useless?” he drawled from behind her, his voice dripping mockery. Jane barely had the strength to turn her head before her legs gave way, sending her crashing to the floor.

Striker crouched, circling her like a vulture as she clawed at her throat for air.
“I don’t let bitches like you disrespect me,” he continued, laughing low and mean. “Wanna know the best thing I’ve done for your little plan?”

Jane’s nails scraped uselessly against the floor as her chest heaved.

“I called someone,” Striker said, leaning close to her ear. “Told ‘em the human girl was still alive, and that her precious, lying cheater of a husband was keeping her hidden. So now Scyllo’s losing his damn mind — gassing up this whole place, tearing it apart to figure out who leaked it.”

He let the words linger, then dropped a gas mask right in front of her.

Jane’s shaking hands grabbed it instantly, strapping it over her mouth and nose. The rush of clean air hit her lungs and she sucked in deep breaths like a drowning woman.

When she finally caught her breath, she looked at him — eyes narrowing, a dangerous smirk curling her lips.

“You could’ve done this sooner, huh?” she croaked, chuckling under her breath.

Striker straightened up, adjusting the straps on his mask, a dark smile tugging at his mouth.
“Follow me to the other building. We need eyes on the human.”

They moved fast through the corridors, boots hitting tile in sync.

Elsewhere, Vi and Vanessa crept through the hallway, the stale haze making every step feel heavier. Vi’s clothes were different now — civilian, nothing that could make her blend with the other patients. She kept herself between Vanessa and the shadows, every movement sharp, ready to strike.

Vanessa’s flashlight cut across the dim corridor. The beam landed on a patient sitting slumped against the wall, coughing hard and spraying flecks of red onto the floor.

Vi rushed over, crouching down. “Are you alright? Come with me!” She tried to haul him to his feet.

The patient shoved her hand away, his voice cracking but venomous. “No need… you human bitch.”

Vi froze.

The man turned his head toward her fully, and recognition struck — the husband of the first imp she’d killed. His eyes were bloodshot, burning with hate.

“The enforcers… they’re all after you. You better run, angel.”

He went limp before she could answer, collapsing lifeless against the wall.

Vi stared for a long second, jaw tightening, a flicker of something dark cutting through her eyes. Then her boot came down hard — the sickening crunch of his skull giving way echoing in the hallway.

Vanessa gasped and instinctively stepped back, heart hammering.

Vi didn’t even glance at her. She turned, walking forward without slowing, her mind locked onto one thing — finding the kids.

The echo of the gunshot ripped through the hallway.

Vi flinched — then her eyes went wide.

Vanessa was on the floor. Still. Blood pooling fast beneath her head.

“Vanessa!” Vi dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she pressed against the wound. It was useless. The glassy look in Vanessa’s eyes told her everything.
“No!” Vi’s voice cracked, desperation twisting into fury.

Movement caught her eye — a shadow at the far end of the corridor. Too far to see clearly. Just a silhouette, still and watching.
Her pulse spiked. She started to stand, ready to hunt them down—

Thwip.

The sting hit her neck.

Vi’s hand shot up, fingers curling around the dart embedded in her skin — her vision already blurring. Her knees buckled.

She turned her head toward the distant figure, jaw clenched, rage glowing faint in her cyan-lit eyes…

…and then the hallway spun, her body collapsing into the blood-smeared floor. Everything went black. Jane and Striker exchanged a grim look — a silent agreement passing between them.

 

Without a word, Striker bent down, hooking his arms under Vi’s shoulders while Jane grabbed her legs. Her limp body felt heavier than it should have, her head rolling against Striker’s chest with every step.

They moved quickly through the smoke-stained halls, boots crunching over shattered glass and shell casings. Neither of them looked back.

At the edge of the courtyard, two enforcers in black tactical armor were already waiting — gas masks gleaming under the harsh floodlights.

“Here,” Striker grunted, dropping Vi into their arms without ceremony. Jane gave one last cold look at the unconscious woman before turning away.

The enforcers lifted Vi effortlessly, her cyan-lit heart faintly glowing under her shirt, pulsing like a beacon. One of them pressed a button on his comm.

“Sir, we got her,” he said into the walkie, voice muffled under the mask.

A crackle of static answered — then a slow, satisfied voice replied,

“Good. Bring her to me.”

An electric spark cracked violently across Vi’s leg, searing through the muscle and jolting her awake. Her eyes shot open, pupils dilated, chest heaving. She didn’t have time to think — her instincts took over.

Her hand shot up, grabbing the enforcer closest to her by the collar and yanking him forward. With one brutal swing, she smashed his head into the ground, the wet crack of bone echoing in the courtyard. Striker and Jane, who had been standing nearby, froze for a fraction of a second — then wisely took several steps back.

“Ah, shit—” Striker hissed, grabbing Jane’s arm as Vi rose to her feet, that cyan glow pulsing violently through her veins. “She’s up!”

Jane didn’t need another warning. They both turned on their heels and bolted into the smoke, leaving the enforcers to handle what they thought was just another tranquilized patient.

The mistake was theirs.

The black-armored guards fanned out, rifles raised, red laser sights cutting through the haze. “Target is mobile — take her down!” one barked into his comm.

Vi stumbled back a step, breathing ragged, eyes flicking from one rifle to another. Then the shots rang out — the sharp, deafening burst of automatic fire tearing through the corridor toward her.

She had no cover. No time. And no chance of outrunning them.

Something inside her snapped. Not rage this time — something older, buried so deep she hadn’t touched it in years.

Hextech.

It surged up her spine like liquid fire, her breath hitching as blue runes ignited across her arms and legs. The air shimmered around her, heat and static distorting the space as an orb of radiant cyan energy blossomed above her head.

The bullets never touched her.

They struck the surface of the sphere and ricocheted back at impossible angles — tearing through the armored enforcers like paper, punching clean holes through steel walls. The men dropped instantly, their screams cut short.

The sphere pulsed harder. Vi could feel it — the unstable hum of energy reaching a breaking point. Lightning leapt from her skin to the floor, carving jagged burns into the tile.

And then… something else bled into the light.

Dark matter.

It seeped out from the edges of the Hextech shield, warping the air, twisting into oily tendrils that writhed like living shadows. The toxic gas that had been flooding the building was drawn toward it, feeding it, turning it into something far worse — a volatile chemical storm.

Vi staggered forward, trying to control it, but the fusion of Hextech energy and corrupted gas was already beyond her. Her chest burned, her veins lit with searing cyan fire.

The orb ruptured.

The explosion was instant and absolute — a blinding detonation of lightning, dark matter, and poisonous vapor. The shockwave tore the asylum apart from the inside, steel beams snapping like twigs, concrete walls shredding into dust.

Flames bloomed in the wake of the blast, carried on the toxic wind. Every window burst outward, shards of glass raining into the courtyard. Smoke choked the air, thick and acrid, as alarms screamed their last before cutting to silence.

When the dust began to settle, the asylum was nothing but a skeleton of twisted steel and smoldering ruin.

Vi stood at the center of it all, her fists trembling, the glow in her veins fading to embers. Her knees buckled beneath her weight, the adrenaline draining out of her body. Her vision blurred, ears ringing with the ghost of the explosion.

The last thing she saw was the faint silhouette of three small figures in the haze… before her body gave out and she collapsed into the rubble, unconscious.

“Crafty! We need to hurry before they take Vi!” Lai yelled, her small hands gripping the jagged bricks as she scrambled up the crumbling asylum wall.

“Lai—Vi’s right there!” Crafty’s voice cracked, panic rushing through her as she paused halfway up. She pointed toward the yard beyond the smoke, where shadowy figures were already dragging Vi’s limp body away. “They already took her!”

Her mechanical ears twitched, gears whirring softly. Without another word, she shut her eyes and let the metal plates in her head shift, turning her ears into large, feline-shaped cones. The sounds of chaos sharpened—gunmetal clicking, boots grinding on gravel, muffled shouts through gas masks.

She strained to separate them from the ringing in her own ears, and then—there it was. A voice, distant but clear enough.

“Move her to the square—public execution.”

Crafty’s eyes shot open, ears snapping back into their usual shape. Her breath trembled. “Lai… they’re gonna kill her. Somewhere where everybody could see, mom.”

Lai froze on the wall, her gaze flicking to Merc. He looked back at her, fear bubbling under his usually playful expression.

The silence between them lasted a heartbeat too long. Then Lai’s jaw tightened. “I have a plan, Sparkle Team.”

Before either could answer, the ground rumbled. A deep, violent tremor shuddered through the wall under their feet. Cracks splintered along the bricks, dust raining down.

The asylum groaned like a dying beast, chunks of ceiling and wall collapsing in the distance.

The three of them screamed as the bricks beneath their hands gave way. Merc didn’t hesitate—his hands flew up, summoning a huge shimmering bubble that ballooned outward like molten glass. It caught them mid-fall, stretching and sagging before dropping gently to the ground.

They scrambled off the slick surface, chests heaving.

When they looked back, they saw the ruins—blue orbs floating like ghostly fireflies above the wreckage. The faint hum in the air told them exactly whose power it was.

“Vi’s still alive!” Merc gasped.

Lai’s eyes locked on the orbs, and in that moment, the fear in her face hardened into something else. “Okay, we need to think quickly to help our mom. We will use our superpowers, even if we haven’t used them in so long.”

Crafty’s brows furrowed. “But Lai—”

“This time is different!” Lai cut in, her voice sharp but trembling. “We need to be the same as her. We can’t leave our mama behind. She’s always been here to protect us.”

Merc’s voice wavered. “But Lai… what if we die?”

For a moment, Lai didn’t answer. The heavy truth hung there like a weight between them. Then, she smiled—soft, small, but with that stubborn warmth that made her feel older than she was.

“We won’t die,” she said quietly. “Vi says that we’re strong. We need to show her that we are.”

She stepped forward and held her hand out, palm down. “Army Sparkles?”

Merc looked at Crafty. Crafty looked at Merc. And then, without a word, they both stepped forward, placing their small hands on hers.

“Army Sparkles,” they whispered at first.

Lai’s other hand came down on top of theirs, and a bright ball of light bloomed between their palms. It pulsed with their combined energy, weaving together their odd, mismatched powers into something whole.

The air shifted—colors bursting like watercolor across the grey sky. Flowers spilled into the cracks of the broken ground, bright and impossibly alive. The smoke cleared for just a heartbeat.

And they were there again.

The playground.

The old swing set swayed in the breeze, the slide glinting in the sunlight. Merc was laughing so hard his bubble magic popped mid-air, sprinkling him with harmless droplets. Crafty was balancing on the top of the monkey bars, pretending she was a spy. Lai was sitting in the grass with a crown of dandelions she had made for all three of them.

They could smell the fresh bread from the bakery just down the street. Hear the faint bark of the neighbor’s dog. Feel the warmth of a sun that never seemed to set in those memories.

They remembered chasing each other in the sand pit, Merc tripping and landing face-first, spitting out grains as they all laughed until their sides hurt. They remembered hiding behind the slide when a summer rainstorm came, huddled close and singing silly songs until it passed.

That was the day they named themselves Army Sparkles—because, as Lai had declared, “We’ll be bright enough to blind anyone who tries to blow us away.”

And then, slowly, a light began to glow behind the trees at the edge of the playground.

It grew brighter, golden and soft, washing the entire scene in a warmth that didn’t belong to the sun. The air felt lighter, the wind calmer.

They turned, and there she was.
An angel.

Wings stretching far and high, feathers glinting in the light. Her hair caught the glow, and her eyes—those familiar cyan eyes—were fixed on them with the kind of pride only a protector could have.

Not as she was in the asylum—scarred, battered, and tired—but as they saw her. Strong, untouchable, eternal.

The light wrapped around them like a blanket, a silent promise: “No monsters are gonna get you when I’m here.”

They were still holding the glowing sphere between their hands.

The sphere between their hands pulsed faster and faster, the light inside swirling like a tiny star on the verge of collapse.

Then—

BOOM.

A shockwave of blinding light burst outward, petals and motes of gold flying into the air before dissolving into sparks. The ground beneath their feet hummed with power, and their small bodies felt different—stronger, lighter, sharper.

Crafty flexed her fingers, and the mechanical lines in her arms glowed brighter than ever before, the whir of her gears now like a purr of a beast ready to strike. Her eyes could see farther—past walls, past smoke, as if the world had been peeled open for her to read like a map.

Merc’s volcanic abilities surged from his fingertips in wild, eager bursts, each one shimmering with streaks of gold and red instead of orange. Bubbles no longer trembled or popped too soon—they hovered like soldiers awaiting orders.

Lai’s own veins glowed faintly under her skin, angelic light running through them like rivers. She felt taller, braver… almost like she was borrowing a piece of Vi’s strength. Her heart was steady, and her fear burned away in the heat of determination.

Merc stomped one foot into the ground and threw both arms up like a cartoon hero. “Army Sparkles, on their way to save Colonel Sparkle Fists!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, voice echoing over the crumbling courtyard.

Lai’s lips twitched into a grin, her eyes wet but fierce. “Let’s move out!”

Crafty jumped, “Here we come!”

And without waiting, they bolted—three streaks of color darting through the smoke and rubble, leaping over broken walls, sprinting toward the unknown where Vi could possibly be.

The air still stank of gas, the ruins still smoldered from the explosion, but it didn’t matter. Every step felt guided—like the angel they had just seen was still somewhere above them, clearing the way.

The Army Sparkles were on the march.

Vi was forced to her knees, the cold, jagged stone scraping her skin through the fabric of her torn clothes. Thick, radiant cords—woven from some angelic material she couldn’t name—wrapped around her arms, torso, and neck like a noose that had yet to tighten. They pulsed with a blinding, holy glow, each throb stealing more of her strength. Her muscles refused to answer her, no matter how hard she willed them to move.

The field was drowned in noise—boots stomping on the dirt, the metallic clink of weapons being readied, the hollow click of safeties disengaging. Dozens of soldiers, lined in a semicircle, had their rifles trained directly at her head. The muzzles glinted in the sunlight, ready to spit death the second someone gave the order.

Beyond the firing line, hundreds of eyes watched from the barricades and balconies—some jeering, some frozen in silent disbelief, others craning their necks just to see the monster they’d been told about.

Stella’s heels clicked against the stone as she approached, her smile as venomous as the jewels that hung from her ears. She crouched slightly, leaning in so her perfume stung Vi’s nose.

“You’ve been kept alive far longer than you ever deserved,” she said, voice smooth but lined with malice. “Stolas was a fool to hand you to Scyllo, thinking you’d rot quietly here. And after what you’ve done…” Stella’s smirk deepened. “I will never let a runt like you walk away—not after you laid a hand on my daughter.”

She tilted her head, her gaze sharp and cold. “This will be your end.”

A sharp laugh escaped her lips, carrying easily over the tense crowd.

Scyllo stepped forward then, his shadow falling over Vi. “That Goetian,” he said with disdain, jerking his head toward Stella, “threatened to strip my life away if I didn’t take you in. I obliged. But enough is enough. You are no human, no demon, no angel—just a dangerous thing we can’t name, and that makes you worse than all of them.”

He turned his head slightly toward the crowd, raising his voice until it boomed over the square. “You will die here today. In front of every witness. So no one will ever question again what happens to abominations like you.”

Vi’s jaw clenched, her shoulders straining against the ropes that burned her skin like molten chains. The bindings flared brighter, tightening around her ribs until her breath came shallow.

Stella leaned in once more, her voice like a whisper meant to cut. “Eating someone alive on television? Committing terrorism in broad daylight? You should have been a corpse long ago, little street rat.”

Her hand brushed Vi’s cheek, almost tender, before shoving her head down so she was forced to stare at the dirt. “And today, we’ll make sure you finally join the dead.”

From the back of the crowd, a tall figure lingered in the shadows—Asmodeus, hands clasped behind his back, watching the chaos unfold with unreadable eyes.

Vi knelt in the dirt, the celestial rope biting into her skin with every twitch of her muscles. The glow of it made her sweat run hot down her temples, mixing with dust and blood that had dried along her jaw. Her shoulders heaved from the weight of the bindings, but her eyes—sharp, wet, and alive—were locked on Stella and Scyllo with a glare that could cut steel.
Her heart pounded in her ears, the crowd’s murmurs swelling into a wall of noise. She could feel the heat of every gun barrel pointed at her, the soldiers’ fingers curling tighter around their triggers. The rope pulsed again, almost as if it could sense her anger.

Vi inhaled deep, tasting the grit in the air, and then lifted her chin.

“Stella!” she roared, the force of her voice silencing half the onlookers. “I understand I’ve wronged your daughter—” her voice cracked but quickly hardened, “—but that was all a misunderstanding! I’m not an angel, if that’s still what you’re telling everyone.”

She turned her head toward Scyllo, spitting in the dirt between them. “And YOU—” her voice cut like broken glass, “—you are the real monster here. You use your patients like animals to test on… even children. Innocent children who have never wronged you in their entire lives.”

She looked past them now, eyes locking with faces in the crowd—ordinary people, workers, maybe even former patients. “All of you… this asylum? It’s not a place for healing. It’s a goddamn prison for torture. Patients here are neglected, beaten, starved, pumped full of poison until they can’t even scream anymore.”

Her chest rose sharply, every breath ragged from the strain of forcing her voice against the rope’s suffocating grip. “Scyllo is not a good man,” she snarled. “And none of you should be siding with him.”

The soldiers shifted uneasily, some glancing toward Scyllo as if waiting for reassurance.

Vi’s voice rose again, echoing against the stone walls around them. “You all have to believe me! You can stand here and shoot me dead, fine—but this man?” She jabbed her chin toward Scyllo. “He isn’t here to change lives. He isn’t here to heal. He is a sadist who abuses his power, just like the rest of the overlords you bow to.”

Her eyes swept across the crowd one last time, her voice dropping low but burning with venom. “They’ve all lied to you. Every last one of them.”

Vi yanked at the ropes, ignoring the searing pain they sent shooting through her arms. “And if you all stand here and watch me die without doing a damn thing…” Her cyan eyes shot up to look at Scyllo. “…then maybe you deserve the chains you’re in.”

A ripple went through the crowd—fear, doubt, something unsteady—and Stella’s jaw tightened as she stepped closer, heels digging into the dirt.

The celestial rope dug into Vi’s wrists until her fingers tingled, but she didn’t take her eyes off Jane when the woman stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. Jane’s boots crunched on the gravel, her expression sharp enough to draw blood.

“Who in their right mind expects to believe a psychopath like you?” Jane’s voice cut through the air like a blade, dripping with disgust. “Someone who committed cannibalism live on television? Yeah, Vi, everybody saw that shit.”

A few in the crowd murmured, the word cannibalism slithering through them like a spark looking for dry grass.

Jane’s lips curled. “You killed the love of my life. And now…” she tilted her head, letting the pause bite, “…you’re here to die in humiliation.”

Vi stared at her, the insult hanging heavy between them, and something clicked in her mind. That voice… that sharp edge in it. The memory hit like a slap. The screaming in that burning room, the way someone had shouted that name—Mage.

Her stomach turned, but she swallowed hard. Her voice dropped, rough and deliberate. “You,” she breathed, her cyan eyes narrowing, “were the one who kept calling his name. Mage.”

Jane’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t flinch.

Vi’s voice grew stronger, venom lacing every word. “You want to see me humiliated? You want to see me die? Fine. But mark my words—” she leaned forward against the pull of the rope, the glow searing against her skin, “—you will rot away before I ever do.”

Jane stepped closer, boots grinding into the dirt. “The only thing rotting here will be your corpse, you little freak.”

The crowd shifted, sensing the heat between them, and Stella’s eyes flicked between the two women, calculating whether this personal grudge could work in her favor.

Vi’s lip curled into a smirk despite the rope’s chokehold. “You’ll have to kill me yourself, Jane. And from the look in your eyes…” She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper, “…you don’t have the spine for it.”

Jane’s eyes blazed, and she opened her mouth to spit back another line—

“Stolas sent Mage to kill me,” she said, each word heavy enough to make some soldiers glance at one another. “And I only found out the moment I heard her side chick’s voice on the phone… and saw it with my own eyes.”

Jane stiffened, but Vi didn’t stop.

“I killed Mage to save myself,” Vi said, her tone like a blade dragged across steel. “That’s the truth you’re all too blind to see. You want to talk about monsters? Monsters don’t fight to live — they take life for sport. I fought because I had no choice.”

Voices went through the gathered mass — some faces tight with disgust, others shifting uncomfortably, looking anywhere but Vi. A few voices called out over the low buzz:

“Kids are being abused there!”
“She still ate someone, don’t forget that!”
“Scyllo’s been killing kids in there more than Vi has killed anyone!”
“She’s still a damn terrorist!”

The arguments began to flare in pockets, and Scyllo’s jaw clenched as the divided noise grew louder. Jane’s glare never left Vi’s face, but she seemed to take satisfaction in how half the crowd snarled at her.

Then Stella stepped forward like she owned the ground beneath her. Her heels clicked sharp against the stone as she moved between Vi and the soldiers, her eyes sweeping over the gathering. She raised her hand for silence, and the soldiers obeyed before the crowd did.

“Listen to yourselves,” Stella’s voice rang clear, aristocratic and cold. “Bickering over whether or not to pity this thing.” She gestured to Vi with a flick of her fingers, like pointing out a rat in the gutter.

“This… creature,” she continued, pacing slowly, “committed unspeakable acts—on camera, for all of Hell to see. And now she stands here, bound, whining about injustice, hoping her pretty little sob story will turn you against the very people keeping you safe.” Her eyes cut to Vi with a knife’s edge of contempt. “She is dangerous. And dangerous things are destroyed.”

A few soldiers straightened their stance at her tone.

“She mocks your laws. She mocks your leaders. She mocks you, every single one of you who would risk your lives letting her breathe another second.” Stella turned toward the army and gave a single, deliberate nod. “Load your weapons.”

The metallic click of rifles and enchanted cannons filled the air, drowning out the rest of the crowd. Vi’s head turned slowly, scanning the faces around her — the soldiers with their sights leveled, the civilians who couldn’t meet her gaze, and those who still looked like they wanted to step forward but were frozen by fear.

“You think a few desperate words will save you?” Stella leaned close enough for Vi to feel her breath. “I’ll give you a mercy you don’t deserve. This ends now.”

She raised her hand high in the air. “Aim.”

Dozens of guns rose in unison, all pointed squarely at Vi’s chest.

The moment Stella’s hand dropped to signal the kill, a blur of small figures broke from the edge of the crowd.

“Wait!” Vi’s voice cracked with terror.

The three children tore across the dirt toward the execution circle, their little feet pounding in sync, eyes blazing with defiance. Before anyone could process what was happening, the first volley of bullets ripped through the air—only to slam into a radiant wall of light.

Lai stood front and center, arms outstretched, her entire body trembling under the force of the assault. The barrier she held shimmered like fractured glass, each impact sending ripples through the air. With a grunt, she thrust her hands forward, hurling the bullets back toward the soldiers in a dazzling arc of angelic energy.

Behind her, Crafty’s arm warped and twisted, growing into a thick, gleaming shield. She dropped in front of Vi, planting her feet like an immovable wall, the gunfire sparking harmlessly against the metallic surface. She grinned—fearless, almost playful—like this was just another round of “war” with their mama.

Vi’s heart dropped into her stomach. “No! Get away from here, now!” she screamed, her voice breaking. She yanked and twisted at the glowing ropes, skin burning where the light bit into her wrists. “Stop shooting! They’re just kids! Stop!”

Crafty didn’t listen. “Merc—bubbles!” she barked.

Merc gave a fierce nod, planting his hands on the ground. Three massive orbs of molten magma erupted in front of Vi, spinning and hissing, eating away any bullet that dared to reach her. The air around them turned blisteringly hot.

The battlefield shifted—soldiers staggered back, confused at the sudden chaos.

Then Crafty’s chestplate split open with a mechanical hiss, and a storm of knives burst out, each blade cutting the air with deadly precision. Soldiers fell one after another, the ones fumbling to reload barely able to raise their weapons before they were struck down.

Through it all, Lai’s barrier flickered, dimmed—then flared back to life with a blinding white surge. She was sweating, her arms shaking violently, but her face was locked in that same stubborn smile.

Vi could feel her throat tearing from screaming their names. “Please! Just fucking listen to me, please! Stop this!”

But the kids didn’t run. They stood there, between her and death itself, their little bodies holding back the world like it was nothing.

The world blurred around Vi, the battlefield vanishing into a flood of memories.

Merc balancing on Vi’s shoulders, both of them laughing after pulling some harmless prank on an unsuspecting patient. Crafty sparring with her in the training room, giggling every time Vi exaggerated her “loss.” Lai curled up under Vi’s arm as she read them a bedtime story, the kids drifting off one by one as her voice softened.

They were hers. Not by blood, but in every way that mattered.

The sound that yanked her back to reality was sharp—too sharp. An angelic bolt cut through the air and slammed into Merc’s chest, the holy energy tearing through him like fire through paper.

“Merc!” Vi’s scream ripped out of her throat raw, desperate, a plea and a curse all at once. Her vision blurred with tears, her glowing cyan eyes burning brighter as she thrashed against the ropes, every muscle in her body straining. She could feel the light cutting into her skin, but she didn’t care.

Crafty saw the wound. Her lips trembled for a heartbeat—just one. Then she forced herself into that same crooked smile Vi had always seen in her, turning her head just enough to look at Lai. Lai’s own tears were streaming freely now, but she nodded, tightening her stance.

Vi’s voice cracked, the words dissolving into sobs. “Please, don’t—” Vi’s voice became a blur to Crafty’s ears.

Crafty glanced over her shoulder, meeting Vi’s eyes for the last time. That grin was still there—playful, defiant. She raised her oversized metal arm and threw a series of exaggerated “air punches” toward Vi, the same silly move she always did to make her laugh. Then she turned away and charged forward into the gunfire.

Scyllo was being dragged away, but a knife stabbed through his skull, he laid there now, lifeless.

Knives flew from her like a storm, each blade finding its mark. The soldiers scrambled, shouting over the chaos, hurling explosives at her.

The first hit blew a chunk of her side apart, sparks and metal tearing free. The second hit was worse, a deafening blast that swallowed her in fire and smoke.

When the haze cleared, the only thing left was her torso—scorched, twisted, and covered in little doodles Vi had drawn for her: monkeys, signatures, their little faces–

Demons screamed and scattered. Even the soldiers faltered.

From the far edge of the chaos, Striker crouched with his rifle, lining up his shot—not at Vi, but at Lai.

Lai turned just in time to see it coming. Her gaze darted to the magma bubbles Merc had left behind; they were thinning now, dripping into useless puddles. She knew what that meant.

Her smile trembled. She looked back at Vi, and the glow in her eyes sharpened.

“No! No, my baby, please, no!” Vi’s voice was shredded now, her entire body jerking against the glowing bonds. Her mind flashed back to a quiet moment weeks ago.

A memory flashes,

“What’s your strongest superpower, Lai?” Vi had asked.

The girl had grinned, sitting cross-legged on her bed. “I can let out this giant beam that takes down everyone who attacks us! But it… it takes me down too. Still—” her eyes had sparkled, “—anything to make my angel mother up there proud!”

The memory made Vi’s heart feel like it was being crushed in a vice. “Please, stop!”

But Lai was already moving. She pressed her palms together in prayer, the air around her vibrating. Gold and white light began to build between her hands, growing brighter, hotter, until the very ground beneath her cracked.

When she opened her eyes again, they blazed with divine fire.

The beam erupted. It was blinding, a pillar of pure destruction that tore through the execution grounds like a wrathful sun. Soldiers were vaporized where they stood. Jane was thrown face-first into the dirt. Striker was hurled back, his rifle snapping in two, with Stella tumbling beside him.

Half the demon audience was gone in an instant. The rest fled screaming into the distance.

When the light faded, Lai was on her knees, swaying, still smiling through her tears. She mouthed something—too faint to hear—before collapsing completely.

Vi’s scream was wordless this time. Just grief.

The explosion tore through the battlefield, the angelic ropes binding Vi snapping apart in a burst of searing light. She stumbled forward, her hands clawing at the dirt as she scrambled frantically, searching for them.

Merc’s small, lifeless body was the first she found. Vi scooped him into her arms as if she could will the warmth back into him, pressing his head to her chest, rocking like a mother lulling a sleeping child. Crafty’s ruined torso lay a few feet away, her scribbles and doodles still etched across the metal. Vi cradled it, as though it were still her.

She searched, desperate—only to realize Lai was gone completely. Not a trace.

And then she screamed.

It was a sound that seemed to tear through the field itself—raw, cracked, and full of something that made even the air go still. A cry so sharp that the demons who had gathered to watch scattered, the fight forgotten, fleeing from the inevitability of what Vi might become.

Stella stood rooted in place, her breath caught. For the smallest, most dangerous fraction of a second, she saw herself in Vi—not the fighter, not the so-called monster, but a helpless mother kneeling in the dirt with nothing left to hold onto. Her lips parted, but no words came. She turned her face away, unable to bear it. What made her chest ache even more was the fact that Vi probably was telling the truth about Scyllo, about everyone.

From a distance, Striker stirred, coughing from the dust. He pushed himself upright, his body aching, his ears ringing. And yet, through the haze, Vi’s voice cut through—ragged, breaking, the kind of scream you didn’t just hear, but felt in your chest.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

He froze, hand tightening around his gun without raising it. The sound pulled something ugly and uninvited to the surface—a memory he didn’t want, one that left his jaw tight and his chest heavier than he liked.

For a heartbeat, he stayed there, eyes locked on her as she clung to what little remained of the children.

Then, with a slow exhale, he looked away and turned his back, walking off, stepping over Jane’s dead body without a word. The screaming followed him, echoing in his head no matter how far he went.

Blitzo stood frozen in the distance, the chaos around him fading into a dull roar. His eyes locked on Vi—kneeling in the dirt, arms wrapped around what was left of the children as if the world would tear them away if she loosened her grip. Her shoulders trembled, her cries raw and jagged, echoing into the hollow quiet that had settled after the blast.

A single tear broke free, sliding down Blitzo’s cheek. It wasn’t just the sight of her that gutted him—it was everything. Too much. The lies, the blood, the weight of knowing that Stolas, the one person he’d thought was at least half-honest with him, had hidden the truth. It was that same choking, gnawing feeling in his chest that he’d felt years ago.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself forward, boots crunching on shattered stone and scorched earth. Every step felt like moving through water until he was beside her, close enough to see the dirt and blood smeared across her hands, the way her knuckles whitened from holding on too tightly.

Kneeling down, he reached out. His voice was low but urgent.
“I’m so sorry, Vi… I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t—” He hesitated, glancing around the ruined courtyard. “We have to go, okay? The overlords might come for you. You can’t be here when—”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on the still faces in her arms, as if acknowledging Blitzo would make her lose them all over again.

“Vi…” he tried again, his hand brushing her arm to pull her up.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes blazing cyan. The sudden surge of power was instant—a crackling electric flash burst from her in a violent arc, striking him square in the chest. Blitzo grunted, thrown back onto the ground, the sting of static racing across his skin.

“Get the fuck away from me!” she roared, her voice laced with a deep, demonic undertone that seemed to vibrate in the air.

She turned back immediately, clutching the bodies tighter, her forehead pressed to Merc’s hair as though she could shield them even now.

Chapter 22: Come play with the misfits

Summary:

“...That’s the last time I try to be emotionally available to you.”

Vi stood at the edge of the cliff, the cold sea wind tearing through her torn clothes, tangling her hair like ghostly fingers. Below her, the ocean raged—waves smashing against jagged rocks and high stone walls, as if nature itself was screaming. Salt clung to the air, sharp and biting.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t cry.

She just stared. Blankly.

The world below looked quiet from here. Peaceful. A peace she hadn’t known since—

No.

She didn’t want to think anymore.

“Really gonna do it, huh, sis?”

Vi’s eyes didn’t move, but her breath hitched. That voice. It was hers.

Jinx.

It was cruel how the mind could recreate the voices of the dead. Unreal, but familiar.

Vi didn’t look back. She only flexed her fingers, staring down at her palms as memories flooded back.

Blood. Screams. The kids. Mage. The smell of burnt skin.

She was tired.

So, so tired.

She took a step forward, toes peeking off the cliff’s edge.

She inhaled sharply, lungs tight, eyes closing. And then—

She leaned in.

But just as the wind caught her, something grabbed the back of her hoodie and yanked her violently backward. She hit the ground hard, knees scraping against the stone, breath knocked out of her lungs.
She gasped, wheezing as she scrambled to turn around.

A man stood there.

Tall. Unfamiliar. Unshaken.

Vi staggered to her feet, fists trembling.

“What do you want from me?” Vi tiredly spoke, voice cracking under pressure.

The man smirked, calm and unnervingly amused.

“It’s been years since I stood in front of a human,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve heard what happened. What you lost. What you became. And here you are, ready to throw yourself off a cliff when there’s another way out.”

He didn’t ask permission. He placed a hand against her chest. Then, with a sudden push, shoved her hard toward the edge again.

Vi gasped, catching his wrist just in time. Her boots scraped against the gravel as she tried not to fall from him again.

He stared down at her, not with cruelty, but purpose.

“Instead of wasting your time reminiscing and trying to escape it all,” he growled, “why not start planning against the ones who did this to you?”

He pulled her back again, gripping her firmly as he planted a steady hand on her hip.

Vi immediately shoved him off, recoiling.

Her fists clenched, her stance widened, her glowing cyan eyes flickering like dying embers—rage barely contained beneath the grief.

The man only chuckled again. Confident. Cold.

“Judas is the name,” he said, offering his hand as if this were a casual introduction. “nice to meet you, Violet.”

Vi’s chest rose and fell. Her eyes stayed on his hand. She didn’t take it.

“You’re not stopping me,” she said quietly. A single tear slipped down her cheek. “You’re just delaying it.”

And then she moved again—faster this time—trying to throw herself forward with the weight of everything in her bones.

But Judas grabbed her by the front of her shirt, yanking her back with surprising strength.

“No!” he barked, voice suddenly serious.

Vi’s hands pressed against his chest, trying to push him away.

“Let me go,” she whispered, her voice so broken, so childlike, it barely sounded like her. “Please…”

Judas stared at her, searching her eyes. His expression softened just for a second.

“No,” he said at last, his voice soft but unrelenting. “You’re coming with me. Get your head straightened.”

Judas leaned in, lowering his voice into something darker.

“You’ll feel it getting better… once you’ve done what I have planned for you.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something unnatural in them—like he saw more than just a broken woman in front of him. Like he could peel her apart and read everything inside.
Vi didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

She stood there, half-bent, arms limply at her sides. Her fists had uncaged. Her breathing had slowed, but not calmed. Her shoulders were trembling—not from cold, not from fear—but from the slow collapse of everything she’d held inside.

Judas studied her, his smirk fading. That cocky edge gave way to a rare stillness. It had been years—decades even—since Hell had seen a tragedy like this. A massacre. A mother left with nothing but charred memories and dead children.

And it had to happen to a person like her,

Vi.

He watched her as she stared past him, her eyes unfocused, haunted. Her body wasn’t just injured—it was defeated in the way few souls in Hell ever truly were. And that made her perfect.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Judas said quietly. “That you’re useless now. Empty. That even if you make them pay, it won’t bring them back.”

Vi’s eyes twitched. Just barely.

“But pain?” he continued, stepping closer. “Pain is a tool. If you sharpen it, it stops cutting you and starts cutting them.”

Vi slowly looked up at him. Her eyes were dull. Hollow. But there was something behind them—something dangerous.

“I’m not your puppet,” she rasped. Her voice was low, barely held together. “You’re not gonna use me like the rest of them did.”

Judas let out a low laugh.

“I’m not here to use you,” he said. “I’m here to weaponize you.”

He extended his hand again, not forcing it this time. Just holding it out. Offering.

“You want revenge, Vi?” he asked. “Then come with me. You can bleed alone forever… or you can learn how to make them suffer like they made you.” Judas leaned closely into Vi’s ear,
“They didn’t die for nothing.” Judas snapped before leaning off, and without another word, he walked away slowly.

Vi stared at his back. Her jaw clenched. A storm brewed behind her eyes—regret, grief, guilt, and rage all churning into something colder, heavier.

Her fists trembled at her sides.

The ocean still roared behind her, but it no longer felt like a calling.

It felt like a grave.

Her glowing cyan eyes shimmered with tears that didn’t fall. Instead, the light in them burned brighter—sharper. As if the pain itself was being repurposed into something more dangerous.
Vi took one step forward.

Then another.

And another.

She didn’t say a word.

She just followed.

Judas heard the footsteps and smiled to himself, not looking back.

The game had changed.

And now, it was her move.

Blitzo sat on the balcony of I.M.P headquarters, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers as he stared into the abyss of the city lights. His eyes were bloodshot, distant. Everything was fine once—chaotic, sure, but manageable. Now, everything felt rotten at the core.

Vi was loose again.

And everyone expected him to deal with it.

But he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t even bring himself to care.

The guilt was louder than any mission briefing or bounty contract. It had all started with him. And somewhere deep down, Blitzo couldn't help but believe it might end with him too.
He took another swig, tipping the bottle up as his weight leaned just a little too far forward—until hands yanked him back.

“Blitzo!” Millie shouted, snatching the bottle from him. “What the hell are you doing drinking on the damn balcony like that?! You could’ve fallen!”

Blitzo blinked, sluggish and slow, before giving her a hollow laugh. “Stolas lied to me, Millie…” he slurred, stumbling back inside, swaying until he plopped down on the couch. “He lied... to my face. And I believed him like a dumbass.”

Millie followed, angry—but more worried than anything. “Blitzo, you cannot keep doing this. Ever since that human girl showed up, you’ve been spiraling! We thought—I thought—things would change after Vi died. But you’ve been worse.”

She stood over him now, voice rising. “You’re still sitting here with a bottle in one hand and self-pity in the other! What happened to the Blitzo we knew? The one who fought through everything like a damn hellhound?”

Blitzo wiped a hand across his face. His voice cracked, low. “I don’t know, Millie. I really don’t. It’s like… her energy got inside me. Vi—she’s still in my head. Still there. I see her. Always.”

He placed a trembling hand to his throat.

“She’s got these… blue braids. And I see ‘em around my neck. Choking me. Laughing sometimes. Crying, too. Sometimes she’s bleeding. Sometimes it’s me.”

Millie’s anger softened. She crouched beside him. “Blitz…”

“And every time I close my eyes, I see her again. But she’s in different clothes. Like a fucked-up fashion show in my head. I don’t know what’s real anymore, Millie.” His voice broke as he gripped her wrist. “I think something possessed me. Something beyond this plane. I need help. I need someone to help me.”

He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to Millie’s hand. She quickly pulled him into a hug, stroking his back as he quietly began to gag.

“Oh no—” She fumbled for the nearest trash can and shoved it in front of him just in time. “Jesus, Blitz.”

The room fell silent but for the sounds of his retching. Then soft footsteps.

Moxxie stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable at first. But as he walked over, there was nothing but pity behind his glasses. He sat beside Blitzo, letting the silence sit for a while before speaking.

“Boss… you still got us. You’ve got me. Millie. And your daughter… wherever she is, she’s still out there. Don’t give up now.”

Blitzo looked up, tear-stained and pale. Moxxie added, quieter now:

“You’re not alone, even if you feel like it.”

Blitzo turned his head slowly toward Moxxie, blinking like a busted-out old TV screen, tears still clinging to his lashes. Then, a slow, crooked smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Thanks, Mox…”

Moxxie exhaled in relief, nodding—

Just as Blitzo violently threw up all over him.

A thick, wet splatter hit Moxxie’s shirt, chest, and part of his face. Millie gasped and backed up, covering her mouth.

Moxxie didn’t even move. He blinked. Twice.

Blitzo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. “Oh… that was—yeah, that one was chunky.”

Moxxie stared at nothing in particular, voice dead-flat. “...That’s the last time I try to be emotionally available to you.”

Verosika sat before her mirror, tapping foundation into her skin with delicate, practiced strokes. Her voice hummed a sugary tune, soft and hollow. The light bulbs circling the glass cast a warm glow against her flawless features.

The door creaked open behind her.

“Hey there, Verosika,” Vortex greeted, stepping in with his usual laid-back grin.

She caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled, fluttering her lashes. “Hey, Tex. How’s that construction site I bought for the concert?” she asked, turning slightly in her chair.

Vortex scratched the back of his neck, stepping over to the dresser and opening a drawer. “Still under investigation. After that explosion, they found... all kinds of stuff. Drugs, unmarked fluids—some weird occult traces, too. The Hellwatch Unit’s checking if Vi’s claims were legit. It’s been a week, hasn’t it been?”

Verosika rolled her eyes, brushing mascara onto her lashes. “They’re never actually going to put her down, are they?” she muttered, clicking the tube shut and standing up.

“She’s just a human. What could her existence possibly mean in this place?”

Tex shrugged, still digging through for a hoodie. “Well, everything’s changed since Satan got wiped. Wrath Ring’s basically lawless now, and Lucifer? Who knows if he’ll ever crawl out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.”

Verosika pulled a glittering chain from her closet, holding it up to her neck. “I remember the first time I saw that girl. That human.” Her voice turned quiet, eyes unfocused. “She was already cracked in the head after Vox and Valentino got their hands on her.”

Vortex stopped mid-motion and turned toward her, brows furrowed. “Valentino and Vox? Those two? What the hell did they do to her?”

Verosika went silent. The necklace dangled from her hand, swaying like a ticking clock. Something deep flickered in her expression.

Then, with a forced smile, she turned toward the door. “I have to go. See you at the concert!” Her heels clicked as she made a swift exit, leaving behind her perfume and a lingering weight in the room.
Vortex stood still, watching the door slowly creak shut.

The arena throbbed with neon lights, pulsing in sync with the crowd’s wild heartbeat. Strobe beams sliced through thick clouds of artificial fog, casting chaotic shadows across the stage like ghosts. The crowd roared her name—lustful, frenzied, devoted.

“VERO! VERO! VERO!”

Bodies swayed, collided, and clapped. Hips bounced against each other, skin against skin, demons grinding in ecstatic unison like some grotesque bacchanalia. The very floor seemed to quake beneath their feet.

At the center of it all, Verosika Mayday stood like a goddess draped in fame.

Her corset shimmered with glittering rhinestones that caught every beam of light, while her pastel pink hair whipped dramatically in the air, caught in an artificial breeze. One hand rested confidently on her hip, the other holding a diamond-encrusted microphone. Her lips curled into a seductive smile.

She moved like liquid temptation—strutting, winking, hips rolling with calculated flair.

Behind her, dancers twirled and dipped like spinning dolls, all painted in decadent makeup and drenched in cherry-sweet perfume. The bass thundered louder. Fireworks spat pink and gold confetti into the crowd, and the roar grew deafening.

At the edge of the stage, Vortex stood statue-still. Sunglasses on. Muscles tense beneath his fitted jacket, arms crossed like steel gates. He scanned the audience mechanically, expression unreadable, a silent protector in a hellish paradise.

Then… it happened.

A loud hiss echoed through the speakers.

From behind Verosika, a plume of smoke billowed into the air—not the choreographed kind. Not pink or gold. This was grey. Bitter. Chemical.

Verosika blinked, stumbled a step. Her eyes darted to the side of the stage. She furrowed her brows, glaring toward the technician’s booth. But it was empty. Completely abandoned.

A flicker of unease crawled up her spine.

Still, the show must go on.

She resumed singing—albeit less confident—strutting across the stage while her dancers kept going. But the audience was shifting. Chatter started replacing cheers. Eyes glanced up at the stage’s massive LED screen. Something was wrong.

The screen stuttered.

Then glitched.

And then, a slow, methodical message formed:

“HERE COMES VI.”

Each letter glowed in erratic, blood-red font. Flickering.

A heavy thud sounded from above.

Verosika turned—then froze in horror.

From the rafters, a technician’s lifeless body dropped down, slowly lowered like a puppet on strings. His arms dangled limp. His torso bled. His eyes, blank and glassy, stared out toward the audience as if trying to speak.

The crowd went still.

A scream erupted. Then another. Chaos bloomed like a wildfire.

Demons pushed and shoved each other toward the exits, drinks spilling, wings flapping, security shouting over the comms in garbled panic. Dancers scattered offstage, heels clicking frantically.

Verosika stumbled backward, gasping. Her microphone slipped from her hands and hit the ground with a hollow metallic clink.

A lone figure climbed up onto the stage.

Dressed in tattered gear, patches of red cloth tied around their arms and boots, they raised a smoking flare. With a snap, the device ignited, spewing thick crimson and bubblegum-pink smoke across the stage like a funeral pyre made of glitter and rage.

Verosika took another step back, covering her mouth in disbelief.

The rebels had arrived.

Far away, on the rooftop of an abandoned building blanketed in graffiti and broken tiles, Vi crouched low behind a rusted telescope mounted to a tripod.

She didn’t flinch at the screams.

Instead, she adjusted the lens, tracking the riot forming in the once-controlled concert arena.

Below, spotlights flared and sirens whined as the crowd stampeded through barricades. Rioters swarmed the stage, tearing down banners of Verosika’s face, spraying red paint across her lips, distorting her glamorous image into a bleeding, monstrous caricature.

Vi slowly pulled her eye from the scope.

“There they go,” she muttered under her breath.

A loud slap landed on her back, jarring her slightly forward.

“Atta girl,” said Judas, voice gruff with satisfaction. He grinned beside her, towering in his heavy coat and boots, his tattoos glowing faintly under the moonlight. “First the scare. Then the message. Always set the stage with a warning.”

He lit a cigarette, watching the distant panic as if admiring fireworks.

“Oh—and don’t stress about the tech guy,” he added casually. “He knew what he signed up for. Part of the little game we’re playing.”

Vi didn’t respond. She looked back through the telescope.

The flare-wielder onstage—once a corpse puppet—was now alive and dancing atop the scaffolding, surrounded by other rebels chanting slogans and trashing Verosika merchandise. A fistful of posters were set ablaze in a barrel, flames licking the air like tongues.

Vi slowly exhaled.

“This is... unnecessary,” she said. Her voice wasn’t angry. Just tired.

She stood up, brushing ash off her jacket, and handed Judas the telescope.

“This only makes it worse. People—demons—will think I’m unhinged. That I’ve gone full terrorist.”

Judas gave a dry chuckle, taking the telescope without looking at her.

“Have you ever learned the true meaning of revenge, Vi?”

He stepped in close, his breath smoky and sharp with bitterness. “This isn’t about pity or justice. This is about pain. About payback. About giving these high-rank, high-horse bastards exactly what they deserve.”

He leaned even closer, voice low and hot beside her ear. “You’re not here to play victim. You’re here to burn their ivory towers down.”
Vi’s jaw clenched.

Judas backed away, pressing the telescope against her chest with both hands.

“You’re not a fox, Vi. Stop acting like you’re trying to sneak through life. You’re a beast. Embrace that.”

Then he walked away.

Vi stood there, unmoving.

The wind picked up around her. The sirens in the distance were fading. And just as she closed her eyes to breathe, she felt it again—
A slithering sensation along her back. Cold. Familiar.

“I mean,” said a voice, soft and manic, “you really are insane.”

Vi turned her head slightly.

There was Jinx—braided hair a vibrant blue, her body pressed against Vi’s back like a ghost wearing skin. Her reflection wasn’t cast in the shattered glass of the nearby window. Only Vi could see her.
“Turns out we really are sisters,” Jinx whispered, lips brushing her ear.

“Crazy sisters, huh?”

Vi didn’t reply.

Her eye began to glow—a sharp, radiant cyan, flickering like a fire that refused to die.

And for a moment, just one moment, the weight of guilt… lifted.

Her lips parted.

And she smiled.

Verosika let out a shrill scream, the echo of it swallowed by the chaos erupting around her. Panic swept through the concert grounds like wildfire. Her platform heels clacked desperately against the stage until she gave up on them entirely, kicking them off mid-run and stumbling barefoot across the floor in pure terror.

“Fucking insane bitch!” she shrieked, her voice cracking as her long, manicured nails tore at her expensive jewelry. She yanked the bracelet from her wrist and threw it to the ground like it was cursed. Her designer outfit—once flawless—was now smeared in smudges of red chemical dust and ash from the smoke bomb, clinging to her sweat-slicked skin.

She frantically rubbed at herself, as if trying to erase the filth—erase Vi—from her presence.

Vortex was already on the move. He had been tracking the situation the moment the smoke rolled in. With his muscular frame cutting through the chaos, he reached Verosika in a flash, throwing a protective arm around her shoulders. “We’re getting the hell out of here!” he growled, pulling her into a sprint.

Demons were shoving past each other in the crowd, the audience now a storm of shrieking bodies and stumbling heels, all fleeing the terror that had hijacked the spectacle. Behind them, the stage still glowed an ominous crimson and pink, the words “HERE COMES VI” still burning on the screen like a prophecy.

Vortex yanked open the backstage exit and shoved her through. With wide, horrified eyes and stained red lashes, Verosika could only look over her shoulder once more at the burning memory of her own concert-turned-nightmare.

She didn’t say another word on the ride to the pride ring. Her hands trembled in her lap the entire way.

“They’re rebelling now, are they?” a voice drawled smoothly, radio-static lacing his tone like an old broadcast gone wrong.

Alastor slowly turned in his chair, a manic grin painted across his face, eyes glowing with flickers of red. As the chair creaked to face them fully, Verosika and Vortex stood just inside the lavishly dark room, their clothes still dusted from the chaos.

“As a powerful being in this realm,” Alastor continued, standing with a flourish, “it is imperative that we determine if this uproar is truly Vi’s doing. She has, after all, vanished since the asylum was burned to the ground. Quite the little disappearing act, don’t you think?” His grin widened, almost inhuman now, distorted by his vintage radio timbre.

He sauntered across the room, footsteps echoing faintly. The walls were covered in crimson velvet and pinned documents—photos, bloodstained blueprints, and crime scene snapshots—scattered across a towering bulletin board. His bony fingers landed on a worn photograph of Scyllo, his thumb tapping the face with disdain.

“She made bold claims, certainly,” Alastor said. “Accusations, declarations, and the asylum’s sins brought into the light. But those demons rebelling? They’re the ones who will pay for the fallout. Vi simply lit the match. The fire spreads itself.”

“But if we take Vi out now,” Verosika cut in sharply, her arms crossed, lips still stained with red smoke, “the rebellion dies with her. They’ll have no one left to fight for.”

Alastor's smile faltered—but only for a moment. He turned his full attention to her, tilting his head like a broken marionette. The light in the room dimmed unnaturally, shadows pulling in around him.
“My dear,” he said in a much lower tone, “that’s not how it works.”

He stepped closer, his expression no longer playful but venomous. “Take it down a few notches with that attitude of yours… because I do not. Fuck. With. That.”

Each word snapped out of his mouth with growing static, his eyes deepening into something far more monstrous—something ancient. His silhouette twitched and shifted as he leaned in just close enough to make Verosika bristle.

Then, just as suddenly, the air lightened. Alastor stepped back with a jovial clap, flashing his grin once more. “Besides,” he chirped, “what do you expect from someone so mentally fractured? Poor girl couldn’t even string a full sentence together without screaming.”

Verosika’s expression soured. “This is useless,” she muttered, standing up abruptly with a toss of her pink hair. She stormed toward the exit, heels clacking furiously against the floor. “Play your little games, Alastor. I’m done wasting time.”

Vortex gave the radio demon a long, unreadable look before turning to follow her, the door slamming behind them both.

Alastor stood there in the quiet, humming a cheerful jazz tune to himself as he stared back at the photo of Vi tacked beside Scyllo’s.

The static in the room never quite left.

Vi descended the concrete stairs with slow, uncertain steps. The air was heavy with dust and the scent of rusted metal, and the only light came from flickering bulbs swaying from exposed wires above. She expected silence—paranoia, maybe—but instead, what greeted her was… something else entirely.

A group of demons stood gathered at the base of the stairwell, waiting for her. They weren’t armed. They weren’t sneering or taunting her. They were smiling.

Vi stopped in her tracks.

The faint sound of wind echoed through the broken windows, but the tension in the room was soundless—thick, charged. Her gaze scanned across the group and her heart sank to her gut. On each of their cheeks, smeared or carefully painted, was her symbol. Her insignia. Her mark.

What the hell?

She stepped down further, slowly, her boots echoing with each thud. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, instincts ready to spring into a fight… but no one attacked. Instead, they parted for her, opening a path.

Vi blinked.

Another came up behind her and lightly patted her shoulder. Another held out a rag for her to wipe the soot off her hands. And another—a young-looking one with glowing green eyes—smiled like she'd been waiting for this moment all her life.

Why?

Why did she feel… lifted? Why did this feel right?

Her chest tightened with confusion. She hadn’t felt this in years. The warmth, the acceptance—no, the reverence. She didn’t understand it. Not fully. But it clawed at something deep inside her that had been abandoned since Piltover. Since Caitlyn.

She slowly sat on one of the empty crates, eyes scanning every face. They weren’t mocking her. They weren’t afraid. They respected her. And that was terrifying.

Judas stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, watching her silently. His half-shadowed figure leaned against the broken wall like he had been there all along, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

Vi turned to face him, the glow of the underground lights catching the soft bruises still healing beneath her eyes.

"You aren’t a fox, Vi," Judas said, his voice low and final—like a seal being branded onto her soul.

Vi looked away from him, but her gaze was drawn back to the crowd of demons… her crowd. Her army. Her people, whether she wanted them or not.

There was a hum. A deep, magnetic buzz in her bones.

Cracks of pale cyan lightning began to dance along her arms, crawling up to her shoulders like veins of raw power beneath her skin. Her breaths became shallower, but not from panic—from something else.

None of them backed away.

The energy flared, whiplashing off her in sudden bursts. Sparks licked the air and the floor vibrated faintly beneath her feet.

Still, they stayed.

Still, they looked at her like she was theirs.

Vi’s eyes snapped open, glowing with fierce cyan light, brighter than before—unnatural and blinding. The soft haze of despair that once clung to her melted into something else.

Power.

Chapter 23: Hellfire it will be, Wrath

Summary:

“Vi… what happened?” he asked, his voice unsure. “What the hell was that?”

“This just gets funnier every single time,”

Sorath laughed, his voice melodic and taunting like a golden bell dipped in venom. He paced in a lazy circle, his long serpent tail swaying behind him in a sharp, almost choreographed motion, each flick of it a punctuation to his amusement.

His golden suit shimmered with each stride he took—sun-forged embroidery laced across his chest and cuffs, contrasted by the sleek black leather pants that clung to him like sin, and red-trimmed lapels that burned like molten fire. The man was a walking spectacle of pride and decadence.

He twirled once with a theatrical flair before leaping backward to perch himself onto the edge of his desk, crossing one leg over the other with regal nonchalance.

The room around him—the palace—gleamed like a cathedral made for gods.

Every marble tile was polished to a mirror shine, every chandelier danced with firelight. Golden banners adorned the high archways, etched with sun sigils and ancient glyphs in a tongue long forgotten.

“Stolas is done for,” Sorath declared dramatically, grinning with fanged delight. “Ahaha! Caught lying to the entire Wrath Ring—imagine! And not just a white lie, no, no, no...” He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in the palm of his gloved hand, eyes glowing with giddy mischief.

“Even the Pride Ring has turned their backs on him. The judgmental bastards are practically frothing at the mouth!”

With a spin, he pushed off the desk and descended the grand staircase that coiled down the palace hall, each step accompanied by the soft drag of his ornate sun-gold coat. The fabric whispered across the marble like wildfire licking against stone.

“And you know what’s the real cherry on top?” he added, voice dripping with delicious malice.

“The imps still think it was only Stolas who knew Vi was alive all this time. Ohhh, just wait until they find out the whole elite council had their hands dirty in it.” He giggled, high-pitched and unnatural, as if laughter was a weapon he sharpened for sport.

As Sorath descended to the lower halls, rays of sunlight cut through the stained-glass windows behind him, refracting golden light that danced across the walls like holy fire.

And there he was—walking in the light like it belonged to him, like he was the light, arrogant and untouchable.

Belial loomed just beyond the gold-lit hall, a silhouette veiled in shadow where the palace light dared not linger. He peeked around the corner of a gilded pillar, eyes like molten voids narrowing on Sorath. The air around him grew heavy—dim, like all light had been smothered by his presence. His aura bled into the marble, corrupting the brightness with a creeping, suffocating darkness.

He moved silently between the pillars, black coat dragging behind him like a funeral shroud. His voice rumbled low, nearly a growl, laced with ancient wrath.

“You are beneath the shadows now, Sorath. A relic dancing in light that no longer belongs to you. The demons of this realm have dismissed you—considered you useless. An overlord unfit to rule.”

Sorath turned with a lazy smirk, lounging against his sun-crusted throne, a half-filled glass of blood-red wine glinting in his hand. He swirled it once, letting the light play across the surface before setting it aside with grace.

“Ah, Belial...” he cooed, almost amused. “Still clinging to the poetry of threats. Let me tell you something, shadow prince.”

He rose from his throne, sunfire flaring behind him in ethereal wings of radiant flame. Each step echoed with confidence as he descended, eyes glowing like twin suns in eclipse.

“I’ve waited for this moment all my life—to rise. I am the Sun, Belial. And even when I fall, I rise again. That is nature. That is law.”

Belial’s scowl remained unmoved, but Sorath didn’t falter. He walked in slow, predatory circles around him, the solar heat clashing against Belial’s suffocating cold.

“The sins cast me out,” Sorath murmured, “and I took it as an advantage. Their ignorance gave me silence—time to observe. And you know what I’ve seen, in all that stillness?”

He stepped behind Belial, dangerously close—pressing his warm chest to the cold of Belial’s back, lips inches from his ear. One hand brushed behind him like a lover's caress—false and mocking.

“I have everything on that Vi. Every secret, every scar. I could bring their whole rebellion crashing down with a single truth. And when I do, the wrath ring will kneel. And I will be their king.”

Then came the whisper, hot against Belial’s skin.

“You were forbidden from the human world, and yet one of them walks our halls. Tell me, Belial... how does it feel to be replaced?”

Sorath’s laugh rumbled from his chest, deep and melodic, blooming into cruel delight.

As Belial lifted his arm to strike the demon behind him, his clawed fingers curling with violent intent, Sorath’s laughter abruptly cut through the air—then vanished. No sound. No presence. Just stillness.

Belial’s strike sliced through empty space, hitting nothing but cold air. His breath hitched slightly, not in fear, but in pure, simmering rage.

He stood there, frozen for a moment, eyes flicking across the wide expanse of the golden hall. His gaze scanned every corner, every glimmering surface—expecting movement, a shimmer, a shadow. But Sorath was gone. Not a trace of heat, not even a scent. Just silence and the echo of his own fury.

Stolas stood still and alone in his palace, the silence gnawing at him like rats in the walls. Why had he ever trusted Stella to stay that day? What was he even thinking?

He sat down on the edge of his bed, head hung low. Octavia hadn’t spoken a word to him. She left every night without saying where she was going. Ignored his texts. Skipped dinner. She was slipping away from him, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

A sob broke from his throat. He clutched a pillow and buried his face into it, trying to quiet the sound, but it filled the room anyway. His chest trembled as tears soaked into the silk. Everything was falling apart—everything he tried to hold together. And it was all because of her. That human. That cursed girl who refused to stay buried.

He wished more than anything that he hadn’t stood there like a coward when Scyllo took her. He remembered it like it was happening all over again—speaking on the television, keeping his voice calm for the cameras. And just out of frame, Vi was being dragged to the vans. Struggling. Screaming. A bag of money dropped at his feet like an afterthought.

And he had taken it.

He told himself it was out of his hands. That maybe she’d die quietly in that asylum and disappear forever. But she didn’t. She clawed her way back, and now she was leading revolts, burning through the Wrath Ring like wildfire, turning demons against him. She was the infection—and he had let her in.

The worst part? He wasn’t the only one who knew. The other sins had known Vi was still alive. And they had said nothing.

But it was only him being crucified.

He stood and walked to the balcony, staring out at the palace walls vandalized in red paint. Symbols of rebellion. Slurs. Blood mixed with protest signs and rotting food. His home had become a target. His name a curse. And yet he still stood alone in the firestorm.

He clenched his jaw, rage twisting inside him like a storm. Then, without a word, he opened a portal to the House of Asmodeus.

The club was lit up in gaudy lights, pounding music vibrating through the walls. At the center, Asmodeus spun lazily around his pole, tossing a wink at his crowd. But he froze when he saw who had just stepped through the portal.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the public disgrace himself,” Asmodeus sneered, slinking down from the pole. “You’re looking a little rough, Stolas. Trouble in paradise?”

Stolas said nothing. Just kept walking forward.

“You finally come crawling up here with your tail between your legs?” Asmodeus chuckled, hands on his hips. “You must really be desperate.”

Stolas’s body began to twist and morph—bones cracking, wings unfurling, his form stretching into something monstrous and terrifying. Shadows poured off him, and when he spoke, his voice shook the building.

“You knew, Asmodeus. You knew she was alive. Just like the others.”

Asmodeus stepped back, surprised by the sudden fury, before flashing into his own demonic form. Larger, darker, but not immune to fear. “Don’t come in here throwing blame, Goetia,” he hissed. “Scyllo took her. You let it happen.”

“And you watched! All of you did!” Stolas roared. “None of you stopped him. You stood there—afraid to act. You called me weak, but you were all too busy polishing your crowns and strutting for the cameras.”

Stolas stepped forward, towering over Asmodeus, eyes burning red. “You’re all about pride,” he growled. “So with that pride—you used her disappearance to prop yourself higher. You sat on that cum-stained throne of yours and convinced the sins not to interfere.”

Asmodeus raised a brow, smirk fading. “You gave Scyllo the chance—”

“But you let it happen,” Stolas cut him off. “You all did. As long as I was the one burning, none of you cared.”

Silence stretched between them, Fizzarolli frozen in place behind Asmodeus.

Flames erupted around him, black and red, licking the floor. The air turned heavy, suffocating. The entire room recoiled.

Fizzarolli stood at the edge, pressed against the wall, wide-eyed with panic.

Stolas’s form returned to normal, but his eyes burned with fury. “I won’t be the only one to carry this fault.”

Asmodeus stared at him, expression unreadable, his glamor flickering.

“I hope your pride keeps you warm when she tears your house apart next,” Stolas said coldly.

Without waiting for a reply, Stolas opened a portal and vanished into it, leaving behind silence, smoke, and the aftertaste of something terrible just beginning.

Vi stood on the rooftop of a crumbling building far from the rings of Hell — a forgotten place Judas had kept hidden, where outcasts from every circle found shelter. In front of her, a large fire crackled, flames licking at the wind. The sky above was black and empty, distant from any infernal light.

Judas stepped into the glow, holding something heavy in his arms. Her gauntlets — battered, dust-covered, salvaged from the ruins of the underground junk site. He stopped in front of her, offering them with both hands.

“These things are heavy,” he joked softly.

Vi didn’t respond. Her face was still, unreadable. She took them without effort, eyes lowering to the metal. There—etched into the steel—were the faint, childish markings Jinx had once drawn on them. Her breath caught.

She sank to her knees, gently setting the gauntlets down. With quiet care, she opened one and pulled out the hexgem inside — the core. The heart. She stared at the glowing orb for a long time. Judas watched from a distance, confused but saying nothing.

The wind blew harder. Vi slowly walked to the fire, the gem clutched in her hand. Just before the flames, she turned and looked over the distant cityscape — Hell’s jagged skyline bathed in red.

Was she really ready to throw this away?

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. Her face didn’t move. No sobs. Just grief, pure and deep. She faced the fire again, lifted her hand — and let go.

The hexgem dropped.

It hit the flames.

And then—it didn’t burn.

The fire shifted. It pulsed. It turned cyan.

Suddenly, a surge of energy exploded outward—Hextech energy. Vi gasped, her body lifting from the ground, arms trembling as blue orbs of light orbited around her. The crew downstairs came rushing to the rooftop, halting in horror.

“What is happening to her?!” Judas shouted, taking a step forward—only to be thrown back by a wave of magic pulsing from Vi.

She floated mid-air, hair whipping around her face, her eyes glowing like cyan stars. Runes spun around her body, flashing symbols from a world she no longer belonged to. And within those visions—she saw Jayce. Council chambers. A hooded man held her in his palm. Her sister. Caitlyn. Flashes of the past raced through her skull like lightning.

Judas stumbled back in awe, barely catching himself near the building’s edge.

The wind howled, swirling. The fire blew out.

Then—all at once—the wind died.

The light around her collapsed inward, the orbs vanishing, every last spark of Hextech magic flowing into her chest. Her body slowly lowered back to the rooftop. Feet touched the ground. Her head hung low.

Her veins glowed faint cyan beneath her skin, pulsing. Her heart flickered through her ribs like a reactor.

She opened her eyes — bright, alive, unstoppable.

Vi looked at her arms, the new light beneath her skin. Then down at the hexgem, lying in the ash. She picked it up slowly. It was untouched. Empowered. Reacting to her.

She turned to face Judas and the others.

They stared in silence. No one could speak.

Vi was something else now.

Something more.

“Vi… what happened?” he asked, his voice unsure. “What the hell was that?”

Vi turned her head to look at him, her eyes dimly glowing. “Hextech,” she replied. “A piece of technology someone from Earth created. I… I don’t know what I am anymore, Judas.”

There was something in her voice now—like a second tone beneath her real one. A soft hum, supersonic, almost inhuman. Electric bolts jolted faintly across her skin, crawling up her arms.

“I’m more than I should be,” Vi muttered, her tone calm but laced with panic. “I need to get rid of this, Judas—”

“No,” Judas interrupted, shaking his head. “No, no. Can’t you see, Vi? You’ve become more powerful than ever. This could change everything. For us. For you. Whatever Hextech did to you… you might be an overlord now.”

Vi’s eyes snapped to him—and in a flash, she struck.

A surge of energy burst from her, slamming Judas to the ground.

“I never want to become one of them!” she roared, her voice monstrous, booming across the rooftop.

The silence that followed was thick.

Vi stood over him, trembling, her chest rising and falling in panic. The fury drained from her face, quickly replaced by regret.

She didn’t mean to.

“Judas…” she whispered, stepping back.

Judas groaned and slowly got to his feet, his body aching from the blow. “No, no—it’s okay,” he grunted, brushing dust off his coat, even as small shocks sparked from Vi’s presence. “I understand. You’re not an overlord. We’d never see you as one of them.”

Electricity crackled from her shoulders to her fingertips.

“But now you’re powerful,” he said, voice softer. “We’ll see what that means by tomorrow morning. Just… get some rest.”

Judas turned to leave, his steps limping. The rest of the crew slowly followed, glancing back and murmuring under their breath. No one really knew what they had just witnessed.

Vi was left alone on the rooftop again.

She lowered herself to the concrete, curling near the now-dead fire. The wind bit at her skin, but she barely noticed. Her body still surged with energy—constant, unnatural, like something alive was pumping through her veins.

Sleep felt impossible.

She stared into the ashes, barely blinking.

Something inside her had changed.

And she didn’t know if she’d ever get it back.

Chapter 24: Heavy will I carry this burden

Summary:

Hell reminded her of Zaun. The Undercity. Not in shape, but in feeling. The filth, the glow, the constant tension that something was about to go wrong. But this place wasn’t Zaun. It wasn’t home.

Stolas sat in front of his mirror, eyes low. His cape slipped from his shoulders as he rose to his feet, vision blurring in the glass—until he saw her.

Vi.

Her face appeared behind him, smiling mockingly at his royal reflection, blood smeared across her skin like war paint. His breath hitched. She had his daughter, pampering her face.

Then she was on the other side of the mirror, caressing his daughter’s face.

“Aww, don’t hate your daddy now,” Vi cooed, voice syrupy and sharp. “He’s just powerless and doesn’t know how to handle things with his brain.”

Her words echoed, bouncing off the walls of his mind.

The reflection shifted.

Vi again—but this time she was hitting Octavia. Beating her. The sound of it muted, but the visuals were too sharp to ignore.

“Should’ve killed me a long time ago, huh?” she spat, her cyan eyes glowing like firelight through fog, staring directly into him.

Stolas screamed and slammed his fist into the mirror. Glass exploded in shards across the room, slicing into his knuckles. He stood there, panting, blood dripping, eyes wide.

He didn’t move for a moment. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.

“Never thought I’d catch you blubbering,” Sorath said, his voice from the shadows again. “Wonder if Octavia ever saw that.”

Stolas grabbed a pair of scissors from the table and hurled them across the room. They struck the wall, just inches away from Sorath.

A faint glow flickered, Sorath stepping slowly into the light.

“...Sorath?” Stolas’ voice cracked, eyebrows raising briefly—before hardening into something colder. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“That surprised to see me?” Sorath chuckled, brushing dust from his golden coat. “I know it’s been years since you and the others threw me away, but—”

“Why are you here?” Stolas snapped.

Sorath’s grin widened. “Stolas, when have I ever harmed you? You’re acting like I’m here to ambush you.”

He stepped closer, “You know,” His flame-lit eyes narrowing, “Like you did with me.”

The way he said it—low and guttural—sent a chill crawling up Stolas’ spine.

“What the hell do you want?”

Sorath paced slowly behind him.

“You carry a burden,” he said. “One not only you created—but one all the rulers did. They made sure that as soon as anyone outside that asylum knew Vi was alive, it would all trace back to you. Because you, Stolas, are the most vulnerable hell prince this realm has ever known.”

He paused. Let the weight settle.

“When I was left behind by my old ‘friends,’ I didn’t lash out. I waited. I watched. I let the chaos unfold and planned for this moment—”

“Sorry,” Stolas cut in flatly, wiping blood off his hand. “Can you get to the damn point?”

Sorath sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I’m offering you a way out,” he said. “You and I… we could partner up. Go after Asmodeus. Expose his lies. Show the demons and imps the real story. Your side.”

He stepped closer now, his coat brushing the edge of the broken mirror’s frame.

“And then, we take down the demons following Vi.”

Stolas didn’t answer. Just stared, jaw clenched.

“You and I both know Asmodeus has done nothing but destroy reputations to keep his own throne polished,” Sorath continued. “We can’t let someone like that run the Wrath Ring.”

Then he leaned forward, gently lifting Stolas’ chin and turning his face back toward the mirror—toward the broken reflection.

“Or…” he whispered, right into Stolas’ ear. “We run this ring together. As respected… feared rulers.”

Stolas stared at the glass, fractured and blood-smeared.

But in that moment, with Sorath beside him, a strange calm crept in.

Not peace.

But the eerie relief of not being alone in his descent.

Someone—at least someone—was still willing to stand beside him.

Even if it meant standing in fire.

There they were again.

Asmodeus lounged beside Fizzarolli in a velvet armchair far too lavish for the filth they were discussing. The club lights around them were low, casting red glows onto half-drunk glasses and bitter smiles. He twirled his wine with a careless wrist, legs crossed, one finger tapping on the stem of his glass.

“It’s impossible he’s gonna get any of the imps’ attention back,” he said, voice slick and tired. “Not after that. Even if every demon in the rings found out we were involved—hell, even if they saw it with their own eyes—that faggot of a prince would still look like the idiot father who kept his daughter’s attacker alive.”

He raised his glass in mock toast to his own words before taking a sip.

Beezlebub scoffed, slouching in her seat with her legs over one armrest, her claws tapping lazily at her phone. “Please. We’re five rulers, he’s one. One. Who’s gonna believe the prince of tantrums when we have centuries of influence dripping from our names?”

She tilted her head toward Mammon, grinning. “Right, Mammy? You’ve got half of Wrath eating from your gold-stained palms.”

Mammon spat out a fish bone with a plink, letting it clatter on the floor. “Tch—yea, but y’ain’t countin’ the wildcards.”

“What wildcards?” Fizzarolli asked, blinking between them with nervous curiosity, clearly not meant to be part of this level of conversation.

Mammon leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes flicking toward Beezlebub.

“There’s three overlords we know of who’ve been pokin’ their filthy noses around Vi,” he said, teeth gleaming. “They ain’t just random beasts either. These are names.”

Beezlebub finally put her phone down.

“Abaddon,” she muttered, like the name tasted bitter. “That bitch’s still alive?”

Asmodeus laughed, rolling his eyes. “Barely. Last I heard, she fumbled a mission Lucifer gave her—to protect Satan. And what happened? Boom. Satan’s out. Gone. Whatever’s left of him is ash now.”

“She failed a ruler’s protection assignment,” he went on, leaning forward. “Vi’s just a little human science project. What makes you think Abaddon won’t fuck this one up, too?”

Beezlebub flicked a shard of glass off the table, watching it spin. “Because she’s not guarding Vi… she’s hunting her.”

Leviathan finally spoke, her voice cold and bored from the other end of the room. She was sprawled across a long black couch, fingers tracing patterns on the fabric like she was drawing symbols in her mind.

“You’re all too reactive,” she said, almost in a sigh. “The difference between protecting Satan and pursuing Vi is enormous. Satan had power, armies, influence. Vi has… emotional instability and odd powers in her veins.”

She looked at them now, eyes sharp like sea-glass. “She’s unpredictable. That’s why she’s dangerous.”

Fizzarolli gave a tiny nervous laugh. “So… wait, are we saying Vi’s the problem or Stolas?”

“Both,” Beezlebub said without hesitation. “Vi’s a fuse with legs. But Stolas? He’s the dumbass holding the match, convinced he can control the fire.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then Mammon leaned back in his seat, feet propped up on the table, shrugging. “Well, whatever. Either way, this ends one of two ways. She dies. Or she gets too strong and someone else dies. Ain’t that the circle of Hell?”

Beezlebub raised her glass this time. “To the circle of Hell.”

Asmodeus clinked his against hers. “Let’s just see how it all plays out.”

Fizzarolli, nervously trying to laugh along, looked between the powerful rulers around him and quietly wondered which of them would be the first to bleed if it didn’t.

Verosika jolted upright with a strangled gasp, her body lurching forward like it was yanked out of a pit. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts as she stared down at her trembling hands, struggling to tell if she was still trapped in that same nightmare—the one that refused to let her go.

Her mind buzzed like static, a violent hum rattling her skull. Her eyes twitched involuntarily, vision struggling to adjust to the dim light. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, pounding with an anxiety that didn't feel like her own.

Then came the ringing.

A piercing, high-pitched shriek blasted through her ears like glass shattering inside her head. She screamed, grabbing both sides of her head and pressing her palms hard against her ears in a futile attempt to silence it. Her body thrashed and rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

She stayed there for a moment, panting, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Then she heard it.

A pulse in the air. A wave. Like something unseen had breathed her name through the walls.

It pushed against her skin—subtle, electric, cold.

Verosika blinked, then slowly got to her feet, dazed and shaking. The pull came again, not physical, but somehow real. Her gaze drifted toward the front door.

She didn’t want to move.

But her body did.

Step by hesitant step, she made her way across the apartment, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her bare feet. Her hand hesitated on the knob for a moment before twisting it open.

The night greeted her with silence.

Hell was still.

The streets outside were empty, abandoned in an unnatural calm. All the neon signs had dimmed, the clubs and bars long shut. The air itself felt suspended—like even the demons had decided not to breathe tonight.

Then she saw it.

A glow—faint, but brilliant—emerging on the horizon. Cyan. Almost divine.

It was far off in the distance, high in the sky, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm.

It had been a hell of a week for Loona—more chaotic than usual, more violent, more twisted. Hell really was turning into its own parody ever since that human fell from Earth.

She stepped into the old bar, its rusted neon sign barely flickering, casting a weak red glow against the cracked sidewalk. This place—where it all may have started—used to be alive. Crowded, messy, loud. Demons of every kind used to dance here. Some even laughed. There was energy. Now it was quiet. Hollow.

Loona’s boots tapped against the dusty floor as she walked in, the only sound beside the faint hum of an old jazz record spinning somewhere in the back. She found her usual seat. Same barstool. Same view of the cracked mirror behind the shelves. Alexandre, the weary old bartender, was already filling a chipped glass for her without needing to ask.

She grabbed the drink with a low grunt, tail lowering as she took a long, tired sip.

“This place is shutting down soon,” Alexandre said, not looking at her as he wiped down wine bottles with a half-clean rag. “Should’ve stayed working that store in the East Sector. But I got caught up with some shit. Can’t believe they actually kept that human girl alive.”

Loona raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.

“I remember seeing her once,” he continued. “Hard to believe that’s the same person who ate someone. Thought she was just some starving Earth kid.”

Loona finally looked up from her glass. “You knew her personally?”

“Yeah. She used to come in my store all the time. Didn't have a cent on her. So we struck a deal. I’d slide her stuff she needed, and she’d bring me stuff I needed.” He poured himself a shot and knocked it back in one go. “But then she broke the deal. Crashed the whole damn store and walked out without a word.”

He handed her the whole bottle this time.

“Everything’s going to shit because of her,” Loona muttered, voice sharp, tired. “She’s a human—”

“With abilities,” Alexandre cut in. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But even so… we have rulers here. Monsters with centuries of strength and power. And they still can’t pin her down? Don’t tell me they’re scared of some Earth girl with junk tech in her blood.”

Loona leaned her head into her arm, fidgeting with the rim of her glass. “I heard she’s still hiding out there somewhere. That nobody’s even seen her since the asylum incident. But her followers—those freaks she picked up—they’re not hiding. Crashing homes, ambushing overlords, torching shit in broad daylight.”

Alexandre nodded grimly, eyes shifting toward the front windows. One of them was cracked. The other smeared with graffiti—Vi’s symbol, spray-painted in bold red.

“Demons defending a human,” he muttered. “Fucking fantastic.”

They sat there in silence for a moment. The record in the back finally skipped.

And still, neither of them spoke.

Hell had changed.

And not even the alcohol could make it feel normal again.

Vi sat up slowly, eyes burning from the lack of sleep. Her body throbbed, a dull ache spreading through every inch of her as if her bones were humming with pressure. Cyan blood pulsed under her skin—unnatural, cold—and with each beat of her heart, it felt like her veins were on fire.

She let out a pained grunt, dragging herself up from the creaking mattress in the dark. Her breaths were shallow, uneven. She barely remembered how long she’d been here—days maybe, or weeks—but the building she’d been hiding in was still as broken and silent as when she first arrived.

With stiff movements, she made her way downstairs to the bathroom. The hallway was lined with chipped walls, graffiti that bled into itself, and mold that crept like rot along the ceiling. She entered the small, dust-covered bathroom, blinking toward the old tub. It was stained and rusted, but when she twisted the faucet, water stuttered out in fits.

Surprisingly, it worked.

Vi plugged the drain and watched as the tub began to fill. The sound of water echoed around her like distant rain. She started to strip out of her clothes—still the same filthy, blood-dried ones she wore when she first landed here. Every inch of fabric clung to her like a second skin, heavy with sweat and grit. She locked the door behind her and stepped one foot into the tub—

—but the moment her skin touched the water, a sharp jolt of energy snapped through her body like lightning.

CRACK!

A cyan surge erupted from the water, blasting her backward. Her spine slammed into the tile wall. She screamed, chest heaving, heart racing as a numb, electric pain danced through her limbs.

“What the fuck,” she whispered under her breath, trembling.

She lay there for a few seconds, then slowly crawled to her clothes and pulled them back on, body still twitching. Whatever that energy was—it wasn’t normal. It was like something inside her had short-circuited the water itself.

Vi left the filled tub behind, completely untouched now, and staggered down the creaking stairs. She passed the broken doorway leading to the main room, where Judas lay curled up on the couch, passed out and snoring faintly. She moved past him quietly, her bare footsteps gentle on the floorboards.

Once outside, the air hit her—dry, humid, suffocating with that constant stench of sulfur and metal. She looked up toward the city of Hell in the distance, its skyline painted in neon violence. Red lights blinked from towers, fire belched from open cracks in the ground, and signs flickered with corrupt advertisements like they were yelling into the night.

She stared at it blankly.

Hell reminded her of Zaun. The Undercity. Not in shape, but in feeling. The filth, the glow, the constant tension that something was about to go wrong. But this place wasn’t Zaun. It wasn’t home.

And she wasn't Vi anymore. Not completely.

Her boots scraped against the gravel as she slowly started making her way toward the city. Her limbs still ached, but she kept moving, pulled by something.

Then, just outside a nearby door, she saw a familiar silhouette—Verosika.

The demon popstar stood there, alone, almost like she’d been waiting.

Verosika followed the sound.

That godawful, pulsing ringing in her skull had dragged her for blocks—like some shrill, broken melody she couldn’t tune out. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t hers. And it was getting worse the closer she got to the bridge. Her heels clicked against the cracked stone as her pace quickened, heart racing. She wasn’t used to feeling scared—not really.

But something was wrong.

Then suddenly—

A hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

Her scream caught in her throat. An arm wrapped around her neck like a vice, cutting off air as she thrashed. She tried to claw, kick, elbow—anything—but her attacker was too strong. Way too strong.

Vi.

Dragging her back.

Vi wrestled her toward the abandoned building, feet scraping the ground. Verosika fought until her vision tunneled and the air gave out, body going limp in the grip of the human who wasn’t acting so human anymore.

Judas bolted upright from the couch, eyes wide as Vi kicked the door open and threw Verosika’s fainting body to the ground like trash.

The man snored quietly, "Cody..." He groaned, some odd dream he's having. "Nuggets.." He mumbled.

“Vi—what the hell—” he started, disoriented.

Vi stood over the unconscious demoness, breathing hard. Her eyes were blazing, veins still faintly glowing that eerie cyan.

“Wanna rant about revenge?” she said bitterly. “Tell me what we can do with this bitch right here.”

She kicked Verosika’s side—not too hard, but just enough to earn a soft, unconscious moan. Vi grimaced and pulled her boot away, disgusted.

Judas rubbed his face and sighed, “Very well then.” He grabbed a coil of rope and crouched down to tie Verosika’s ankles. “What a catch,” he muttered, beginning to drag her toward the stairs, clearly struggling. “You really think we can use her?”

Vi didn’t answer. She stepped forward, brushed him aside, and gripped the rope herself, hauling Verosika’s limp body up the stairs with no visible strain.

Judas blinked, stunned. “And still a human, apparently,” he muttered under his breath.

Upstairs, Vi shoved a dusty chair into the center of the room and slung Verosika into it, tying her arms behind the backrest.

“She better not wake up in a mood,” Judas warned.

“She will,” Vi replied flatly. “And that’s what I want.”

“She could give us away. You’re not actually thinking of letting her go after this, right?” Judas asked, watching her work.

“I knocked her out before dragging her here. She doesn’t know where we came from. And women like her?” Vi looked at Verosika with distaste. “Dumb rich women like this one are not capable of anything other than slutting themselves out.”

A low groan answered her.

“Hey, rude!” Verosika slurred, her head lolling forward. She was awake now, blinking through a haze. “Gods, you’re still bitter? I thought I at least broke you back when you nearly shattered my nose at Valentino’s club.”

Vi and Judas turned toward her.

“So what now?” Verosika croaked. “What could you possibly want, Vi? You wanna play psycho again? Break a few more bones?”

Her lip curled spitefully. “You’re worse than most of us.”

Vi crossed her arms, head tilting.

“You’re a succubus,” she said slowly. “Isn’t your entire purpose to fuck yourself on anything that breathes until your contract-holder gets bored of you? Pretty rich for someone like you to talk about sad lives.”

That shut Verosika up.

She looked away, swallowing hard, lashes lowered. That one landed deeper than she wanted to admit.

But only for a moment.

“Yeah?” she hissed. “And what the fuck are you, huh? Oh wait—stuck. Stuck in hell with no way out!”

Vi didn’t blink.

She stepped forward and backhanded Verosika clean across the face—but it wasn’t just a slap. A jolt of electricity surged from her palm into the succubus’ skin, snapping her head sideways.

Verosika yelped, writhing, breath stolen from her lungs.

“You’re gonna sit here and listen,” Judas growled. “Because I’ve got a plan. And if you don’t do exactly what I say—”

Judas stepped forward. “—then your life is ours—”

“Judas, unnecessary.” Vi snapped without turning.

He paused, then shrugged and stepped back, scratching his neck awkwardly.

Verosika glared up at Vi, blood now trickling from the corner of her lip. “You’re actually fucking insane.”

Vi leaned in close.

“I’m not going to kill you,” she whispered. “But only under one condition.”

Verosika blinked.

Vi’s voice was cold, steady. “That concert of yours. You’re going to perform it. Every flashy, slutty, attention-hungry second of it. But not for you. For me. You’ll be the distraction, all eyes on you… while I tear someone else apart.”

Verosika blinked slowly. “That’s your plan? Use me as bait?” She tilted her head, the faintest smirk curling her lips. “You know… I’m all body if you wanna use me for something else.”

Her legs slowly parted, the movement fluid, deliberate. Her wrists twisted against the restraints, body arching back slightly in the chair—showing off curves she knew always got her what she wanted. Her pink eyes locked onto Vi’s, the air subtly humming with that telltale succubus charm as her magic began to snake through the room.

Vi didn’t flinch. She looked back—but her irises were glowing again, that same bright cyan, burning cold with rage.

Terrifying. Inhuman.

Verosika’s smirk faltered.

“Or… yeah. Your plan,” she muttered, legs snapping back together as she straightened herself on the chair. “Loud and clear.”

Vi turned her back with a low grunt, shaking her head. No amusement. No weakness. Just pure disappointment.

She started walking away.

“Aww, don’t just leave me here, you evil lesbian!” Verosika shouted after her, straining against the ropes. “My arms are literally cramping—hello? Torture is illegal!”

Vi started walking back.

Then, wordlessly, turned back around… with a shovel, Vi slams it right next to her head.

The succubus slumped instantly, unconscious once again.

Judas blinked, startled. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Vi wiped her hands off on her pants and said simply, “It’s a shovel.”

Judas frowned. “No, Vi, that’s not what I—” He stopped, groaning as he rubbed his face in exasperation. “You know what? Never mind.”

He turned around, intending to walk it off—but paused when he looked down at himself.

“…Goddammit.”

Awkward silence.

He glanced at Vi, who had already disappeared into the hallway.

Then Judas sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he hurried off toward the bathroom—hands covering the very obvious tent in his pants.

Chapter 25: To do good is to be bad

Summary:

“Temper, Abaddon,” she chided gently, her tone as smooth as wine. “We were bred for precision, not outbursts.”

Vi lay on the rooftop, flat against the cold concrete. The sting of it barely registered anymore—not when her entire body had been aching for days, and her mind hadn't known rest since whatever this was began. Since that cyan fire started pumping through her veins like hextech blood.

She hadn't slept. Not once.

The early light of Hell's twisted sunrise crept over the skyline, painting the city in sickly shades of amber and red. Still, the breeze had a rare gentleness to it, brushing against Vi's face, ruffling her unwashed hair. For a second, she could pretend this place wasn't what it was.

She sat up slowly, knees cracking from the tension. Her gaze lingered on the rooftop's gritty texture before she rose and walked over to the gauntlets resting beside the rusted vent.

She crouched down, pulling the single hex gem from her pocket. Her hand hesitated before she pressed it into the slot on the right gauntlet. The gem clicked in place.

A low hum. A cyan glow.

The weapon came to life.

But only one.

Vi turned her head toward the second gauntlet. It was incomplete—missing its gem. She approached it slowly, running a gloved hand across its paint-smeared metal. Bits of pink and blue flaked off onto her fingers, the remnants of Jinx's chaos now fading away. Her throat tightened at the memory.

She sat beside it, resting her head gently against the cold surface.

And then she hummed. Just a soft melody—half-forgotten, but deeply rooted. One her mother used to hum when tucking her and Powder in on nights they were too scared to sleep. Vi's voice was hoarse, quiet.

But she smiled.

"Didn't think you had a voice for lullabies," came Judas' voice from behind.

Vi didn't move. Just blinked and kept humming until she stopped.

Judas climbed over the edge and stood beside her, hands in his coat pockets. The breeze tousled both their hair, carrying silence between them for a moment before he spoke again.

"This is the calmest I've seen you," he said, sitting down next to her. "Did you finally sleep, or did you just knock yourself out again after that whole shovel stunt?"

Vi didn't laugh. She barely exhaled.

Judas leaned back on his palms. "What's the plan then? Who's the target?"

A long pause.

"...Valentino," Vi said at last.

The name left her mouth like poison. Her jaw clenched after.

Judas' expression hardened. "Ah, yeah. That bastard."

He looked out at the city.

"You're not the only one with a vendetta against him," he added, quieter. "But I get it. You usually don't go for people unless they've gone after someone you wanted to protect."

He turned to her, watching carefully. "Is this for someone? Or is this finally for you?"

Vi closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again—staring into the distance.

"Angel," she said. "He was the first to help me when I got here. And the only one who didn't ask for anything in return. He's still trapped under Valentino. I need to get him out."

Judas placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle.

"You know, saving one guy is noble. But there are thousands of imps like Angel. Getting fucked up, used, spit out by overlords—while the Sins do the same."

Vi didn't respond. But Judas noticed the shift—the subtle stiffness in her shoulders when he touched her. Slowly, he removed his hand.

Vi stared out at the city.

"I've been hurt way before I got here," she said, voice flat but deep with weight. "Spent my whole life in prison. As a kid. Grew up behind bars, getting beaten by enforcers and telling myself every single lesson my dad taught me."

She paused.

"I failed," she whispered. "I lost them all. Powder, my mom, my brothers. I can't let it happen again. I won't."

Judas stayed quiet for a while. Then he let out a slow breath and stood.

"You know, after everything I've seen—how much pain you've taken, how much you've lost... it's not revenge I see in your eyes."

He looked at her, serious.

"That's the most human I've seen in you. But Vi... sometimes to do something good, you have to embrace being bad."

He offered a final glance, then turned toward the stairwell.

"Get ready," he called over his shoulder. "Verosika's downstairs moaning about her concussion."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "I might've told her you hit her with a shovel."

Then he vanished, leaving Vi with her gauntlet, she softly chuckled before getting up to make her way down the stairs.

Abaddon sat silently in front of the tall, dust-lined mirror, brushing her red mane with absent strokes. Her glowing orange eyes stared past her reflection. The air in the darkened room was heavy, silent—until the door creaked open.

She tensed.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps echoed into the room, and a figure emerged from the shadows—elegant, composed, and cloaked in velvet green.

"Long time no see... sister," came the silken voice. Veritas stood behind her now, her pale green eyes glowing faintly like cursed emeralds, hands folded in front of her.

Abaddon met her gaze through the reflection. Her eyes narrowed.

"You finally decide to show your face," Abaddon muttered, rising to her feet.

Veritas tilted her head slightly, unbothered. "Temper, Abaddon," she chided gently, her tone as smooth and controlling. "We were bred for precision, not outbursts."

Abaddon stepped forward, eyes low. "I won't fail this time."

Veritas raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "You've never failed. You only learned. This guilt you cling to—it festers, clouds the mind. You do not need it. It does not serve you."

Abaddon looked away, jaw clenched.

Veritas's voice softened, but it retained a cold edge of formality. "Asmodeus has entrusted us with more than vengeance. He desires a statement. And we shall deliver one, together. You need not carry the burden alone this time."

There was a silence.

Then Veritas reached forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Abaddon's forehead, like a queen bestowing favor.

"Our brother will join us soon. We act as one now. The sins are watching. The throne demands more than raw anger—it requires control, poise... and blood."

She turned on her heel, heels clicking softly, and made for the door.

Abaddon stood frozen. In the mirror, her eyes were still—glowing with restrained fury.

"I no longer need help," she whispered bitterly, her nails biting into her palm.

She wasn't going to prove anything to Veritas. She would prove it to them all.

Alone.

Vi descended the steps slowly, each one echoing dully in the empty space below. But when she looked up, her breath caught—Verosika was gone from the chair.

The ropes were loose on the floor.

"Judas—!" Vi's voice barely escaped her throat, ready to call out—

"I'm right here," Verosika interrupted, leaning lazily against the stone wall just behind the staircase.

Vi turned fast, fists clenched.

"Worried?" Verosika raised a brow, arms folded, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. "Heard everything upstairs. Gotta say, I didn't think you had it in you—feelings? For someone like you? Weird."

Vi scoffed lightly, looking away. "What do you expect from a human?"

Her voice was quieter. Something in her posture softened.

Verosika's teasing grin faded into something more thoughtful. She stepped forward, taking Vi's hand—firm, bold. Vi gasped and recoiled, eyes wide with confusion and alarm.

But Verosika just smiled gently and reached again—slower this time, gentler.

"I'm willing to go along with whatever your plan is," she said, her voice uncharacteristically calm. "Empathy's not usually in my arsenal, but... consider this a rare exception. You can trust me, or not. I won't blame you if you can't."

She let go, chuckling under her breath.

Vi's brows furrowed. She didn't respond. Something was crawling under her skin—something old. Something dangerous.

Then, behind Verosika, the shadows moved.

Lai flashed by, sprinting through the hallway—giggling, covered in blood. Merc lurked behind her. Demons laughed in the corners of her mind, louder and louder.

Vi blinked hard. No. No, not now—

Caitlyn appeared.

Gun raised. Cold blue eyes staring her down. Just like that day.

Vi choked on her breath and stumbled back, grabbing her head with both hands. Her chest heaved as she tried to shut the visions out—erase them—but they burned too deep.

"No—!"

With a scream, Vi hurled the chair Verosika had been tied to. It shattered into pieces against the wall. The impact echoed like a gunshot.

Verosika jumped, startled. Her voice wavered.

"Vi... are you okay?"

She stepped closer cautiously, reaching again—

Vi shoved her back.

"You're a nobody to me," she spat. "You're just bait."

Verosika's breath hitched, her expression flickering with hurt. "Vi, I was just trying to—"

"Don't touch me."

Vi yanked her arm away and glared, her eyes a storm of fury and panic. Then, without another word, she stormed off down the corridor.

Judas appeared at the doorway just as she passed, watching her disappear with concern etched on his face.

Verosika exhaled, folding her arms again. "Yeah... girl's got more trust issues than I've ever seen," she muttered, still shaken. "She was like that when I first met her too."

Judas stepped toward her slowly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I saw what you were trying to do," he said with a small, sympathetic smile.

"You're too cute to be living like this," Verosika muttered, the old flirt back in her tone. She chuckled softly.

Judas smirked, cheeks flushing slightly. "What even is your name?" Verosika asked, tilting her head.

He hesitated. "Uh... it's—"

"You don't have to tell me," she interrupted, smiling knowingly. "I already know who you are, Judas."

Judas stiffened. He looked away, shame swimming behind his eyes.

"You've been gone a long time, huh?" Verosika stepped closer, gaze softer now.

She reached up and gently turned his face to meet hers. "Don't worry. I won't tell her."

Her finger tapped under his chin. "Besides... she said your name last night. I'm not deaf, you know."

Judas laughed—quiet, awkward, but real.

Verosika joined in.

Then her voice dropped, curious and sharp. "So what are you really planning, hmm? Manipulating someone like her..."

Judas leaned in, whispering low: "That's rich—coming from you."

Verosika winked. "Snitch, obviously."

Chapter 26: Thank you, Jayce Talis

Summary:

“Goddamnit, Judas!”

Abaddon rose from her seat and strode toward the door, where Veritas and Juke sat at opposite ends of the long table. She moved deliberately, settling herself in the empty chair between them.

“Gods, still carrying that stormcloud over your head, Abaddon?” Juke drawled, his lips curling into a sly grin. He was dressed immaculately in a dark suit adorned with feathers trailing from his waist, his hair bound back so that each dark curl was perfectly defined. His features were almost too flawless, the crimson of his eyes glinting with mischief. “You seem untouched by time, little sister. Still the youngest, still… stunted.”

He chuckled to himself, but Veritas’s low, melodic laugh followed. “Oh, Juke,” she said, lifting her wine with practiced grace. “Your tongue may dance like silk in the wind, but the seeds you plant are far from gentle. Do have some mercy on our poor sister.”

Abaddon’s glare shifted between them, her voice cold. “Why do you both persist in meddling with a mission Asmodeus entrusted to me?” She leaned forward, her last word bitten out like venom. “I am perfectly capable of handling the human on my own. I have endured years of training so I never have to endure either of your… fucked interferences again.”

Her hand struck the table with a sharp crack. “If Asmodeus has trusted me enough to give me this task, then I have the chance to prove myself. Why should I need either of you?”

“That,” Juke barked, rising abruptly, “is no way to speak to your family!” His voice, sharp as glass, cut through the tension.

Veritas, unshaken, only exhaled softly and shook her head. “My darling sister,” she began, her voice warm but edged with unyielding poise, “we are not here to rob you of glory, but to ensure you achieve it. If we were to unite— as we were meant to from birth— the mission would be swifter, cleaner… inevitable.”

She stood, her every movement unhurried, and placed a slender hand on Abaddon’s shoulder. “We do this not to hinder you, but for you. And I promise, it will be worth your trust.” Her smile was a soft, dangerous thing, offering comfort and warning in equal measure.

Juke circled the table with a dismissive flick of his hand. “In the meantime, fix that wretched attitude of yours.” He vanished into the hallway with long, effortless strides.

Veritas’s gaze lingered after him before returning to Abaddon. “Hotheaded, isn’t he?” she murmured, the corner of her lips curling faintly.

“He reminds me of our father… perhaps that is where he inherited his stubborn spirit,” Veritas said, her voice a velvet thread laced with something sharper. Abaddon’s gaze followed Juke as he disappeared down the corridor, her eyes hard.

Veritas turned, her curvaceous form moving with practiced grace, the sweep of her gown catching the faint torchlight. She glanced over her shoulder, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Come, sister. There is something I wish to share with you.”

Abaddon followed, her pace deliberate, until she was beside Veritas. They walked together until the balcony loomed before them, bathed in a dim, infernal glow.

“What are we doing here?” Abaddon asked, suspicion in her tone.

Veritas lingered at the threshold, her eyes half-lidded as she drank in the cool breath of the night air. She stepped forward, fingertips gliding over the smooth obsidian railing until they found a hidden recess—then pressed.

A soft click broke the silence. The stone shifted, and a concealed compartment emerged, revealing a collection of sealed letters marked with Satan’s insignia.

Abaddon’s eyes widened. “Our father kept this hidden?”

“Our father is a vault of secrets,” Veritas murmured, her smile dark. “But even the deepest vaults yield to patient hands.” She withdrew a single folded letter bound with gold-threaded ribbon. “This one… is for you.”

Abaddon accepted it, unfolding the parchment. Her eyes scanned the words:

I am not a man of open sentiment, ironic for one who governs law. Abaddon, I have given you my strength—strength enough to make you the greatest soldier Hell has ever seen. Do not disappoint me.

It bore the sharp flourish of Satan’s signature.

Abaddon’s brows knit together. In one violent motion, she tore the letter in half, letting the pieces fall before grinding them beneath her heel. “I hate him,” she hissed. “A weapon? That’s all I am to him? When have I ever begged to be forged into his knight? This is absurd!”

“That anger,” Veritas said, tilting her head, “is justified. He was never a father in truth, only a craftsman of tools. We were not children to him, Abaddon—we were experiments. He broke and remade us until we fit his design.” Her voice softened, though the venom beneath remained. “It is why Juke and I… chose to undo the mission Lucifer entrusted to you.”

Abaddon’s glare hardened. “You never once considered what I endured after that.” She turned sharply and strode away, her footsteps echoing like the snap of a closing door.

Verosika stood on the stage, hips swaying in slow, taunting motion as the bass thumped through the floor, the music pumping loud and clear. The lights painted her in candy-pink and neon blue, smoke curling up from the stage vents.

From a shadowed balcony above, Vi and Judas watched the performance like predators waiting for the perfect moment. Vi adjusted the scope of her compact rifle, scanning the crowd. Her gaze froze when a sleek, low-slung car purred up to the curb. The door opened, and a tall moth demon stepped out, draped in a gaudy, fluffy coat and crowned with that same ridiculous, oversized hat. Valentino.

Judas’s voice was steady but urgent. “Vi, take the shot.”

But Vi didn’t lift her rifle. Her eyes flashed faintly, electricity rippling beneath her skin. She didn’t want a clean kill from a distance—she wanted to face him.

Without a word, she slipped away from the balcony and vanished into the building’s corridors. Pulling a hooded cloak tight around herself, she kept her head low as she emerged into the mass of bodies. The crowd was drunk on music and lust, too lost in the rhythm to notice the cloaked stranger moving among them.

On stage, Verosika’s gaze caught Vi’s through the haze. Her smile didn’t falter, but there was the briefest flicker of acknowledgment. She kept singing, kept swaying, her voice dripping with honey.

Valentino strutted onto the stage with a cloud of shimmering pink fog, spreading his arms wide to a wave of cheers and whistles. “Hello, sluts—and the much hornier sluts! The Valentino has arrived!” His voice dripped with arrogance, the kind that demanded attention.

“I know you’ve all been waiting for me,” he continued, tipping his hat, “and my dearests, I have been waiting for you.”

The cloaked figure stepped up toward the stage. Heads turned, whispers rippled. “Who the hell’s that?” someone muttered.

Valentino’s smile faltered. “Uh, who are you supposed to be?”

Vi tore away the cloak, her eyes locked on him. In the same heartbeat, Verosika—without missing a beat in the show—tossed a microphone to Vi with casual precision, while smoothly stealing Valentino’s. “Everybody, the show is about to get even hotter!” she purred into his mic, whipping the crowd into a fresh frenzy.

Vi’s grip tightened on the microphone. Electricity crackled from her fingers, dancing along the metal casing. She swung it in a vicious arc, smashing it against Valentino’s head with a shower of sparks.

He staggered back, clutching the side of his face, then grinned wide, revealing fangs. “Oh, baby… you just made a very big mistake.”

With a snap of his fingers, threads of shimmering pink energy lashed out from the stage, snaking toward her like living whips. Vi ducked the first strike, vaulting over a monitor, but the second caught her leg, burning into her skin. She snarled and countered, her one gauntlet snapping into place with a sharp metallic click. Blue lightning surged outward, shattering the nearest speaker and filling the air with ozone.

The crowd roared, thinking it was all part of the act. Verosika only fueled the chaos, strutting to the music, tossing her hair back, winking at the audience as if nothing dangerous was happening at all.

Valentino lunged, his movements unnervingly smooth, his whips snapping again—this time around Vi’s wrist, yanking her forward. He met her with a brutal knee to the gut that sent her reeling.

She spat blood onto the stage, electricity flickering erratically across her chest. Her vision blurred, her breathing ragged. Another strike came, and she barely rolled away, the whip carving a sizzling line through the wood where her head had been a second before.

“Come on, sweet thing,” Valentino taunted, drawing the whip back with a cruel smile, “dance for me.”

Vi’s gauntlet sparked violently, overloading. She surged forward in a desperate charge, her fist colliding with his chest in a blast of electric force that hurled them both backward. The lights above flickered wildly, the bass stuttering as the sound system crackled.

The crowd went feral, screaming and cheering as if the chaos was just another surprise act.

From the corner of her eye, Vi saw Verosika spin under the spotlight, still keeping the beat alive, still holding every single gaze in the house—masking the true fight from anyone who might interfere.

Valentino pushed himself up, grunting and snarling. Vi staggered to her feet, lightning still crawling across her skin, her hands trembling from the effort. She was still standing—but barely.

And the real fight had only just started.

Valentino adjusted his hat with deliberate slowness, his eyes narrowing into thin, venomous slits.
“Still standing? Guess I’ll just have to fix that.”

The pink whips burst from his palms again, twin streaks of light carving through the smoke-filled air. Vi darted sideways, the edge of one strike grazing her shoulder and sending a sharp burn through her armor. She gritted her teeth, letting the pain fuel her momentum, closing the gap in a lightning-quick dash.

Her gauntlets slammed forward, discharging a shockwave that rattled the stage. Valentino twisted out of the worst of it, but the force caught him across the side, sending him skidding. He dug his claws into the floorboards, dragging to a stop before she could follow up.

“Oh, you hit hard, sugar,” he sneered, “but I hit where it hurts.”

He flicked his wrist, releasing a burst of concentrated pink haze directly into her face. Vi coughed violently, vision swimming as the sweet, suffocating fog wrapped around her senses. Through the dizziness, she saw his silhouette closing in—too close.

His claws raked across her side, the blow sending her spinning toward the stage’s edge. She caught herself on a lighting rig, sparks showering from its cables, then swung back into him, driving her heel into his ribs. The crowd roared louder, the thundering bass masking the sickening crack beneath.

Valentino staggered, but his grin only widened. “Mmm… feisty.”

Vi didn’t answer. She charged, every muscle screaming, her gauntlets locking around his neck. Electricity surged, her bolts crawling up his body, making his limbs twitch violently. For a brief, glorious second—she had him.

Then the stage curtains tore open.

Security demons in matching black-and-pink stormed in from both sides, their heavy boots pounding the boards. Two massive guards hit Vi from behind, forcing her arms apart and wrenching her backward. Others rushed to Valentino’s side, shielding him in a tight wall of bodies.

Even pinned, Vi thrashed, lightning snapping wildly from her gloves, forcing the nearest guard to recoil. But there were too many.

Valentino wiped a smear of blood from his mouth, straightening his coat. “You’ll get your encore someday, baby,” he purred, voice dripping with venom. “But not tonight.”

The guards hustled him toward the wings while Verosika twirled into the spotlight, flawless and unbothered, her voice cutting through the chaos.
“Let’s keep this party going, shall we?” she sang, the crowd exploding in cheers, none the wiser that they’d just witnessed an attempted execution.

Vi’s chest heaved, her glare locked on the disappearing moth demon until he vanished behind the curtain.

And she swore—next time, she wouldn’t let him walk away.

“Valentino, you better get the fuck back here!” Vi’s voice ripped through the chaos, sharp enough to cut the air.

The crowd froze mid-cheer, realization dawning like a slow, sick wave—this wasn’t a performance. The human wasn’t here to entertain; she was here to kill.

Then—movement. A figure lunged into view, six arms whipping through the air in perfect, lethal synchronicity. It was monstrous—part spider, part man, part something far worse, as if three bodies had been fused into one writhing abomination.

Vi’s eyes widened. She scrambled to her feet, trying to process what she was looking at, but there was no time. The creature hurled an angelic sphere toward her, a blazing sun of divine light. Her gauntlet flared to life, hextech gears grinding, and a shimmering shield burst outward—catching the sphere and sending it screaming back into the monster’s chest.

The thing let out a shriek that rattled glass.

From across the rooftops, Judas waved, his silhouette outlined against the smoke. His hand signal was clear: the bomb was set.

Vi’s stomach dropped. She whipped her head toward the cluster of imps just as the explosion tore through the street. Heat slammed against her back, and for a moment all she could hear was ringing.

Hextech runes spun upward through the smoke, glowing symbols unraveling into floating blue orbs. The imps slowly lowered their arms from their faces, blinking, disoriented. They glanced around at the wreckage, at the shimmering orbs drifting like slow snow.

Everything around them was in ruins.

“Goddamnit, Judas!” Vi’s voice cut through the dim room as she stormed back and forth, boots hitting the wooden floor with sharp, angry thuds. “You were only supposed to set that thing off when the overlords came in swinging! Do you have any idea how many of them could’ve died?”

Judas sat stiff in his chair, glaring at her. “No, you told me to trigger the bomb the moment trouble started. That thing was going to rip you in half!” His tone was razor-sharp, a vein throbbing in his temple.

“That’s not the point!” Vi snapped, slamming her palm on the table hard enough to rattle the empty glasses.

“Yes, it is the point,” Judas shot back, standing now, his shadow stretching over the table. “And it seems like you still don’t get it. These are demons, Vi. Every single one of them has done something rotten enough to land here. Why are you so damn worried about keeping them alive?” His fist hit the table, the wood groaning under the impact.

“Because they weren’t involved!” Vi’s voice rose into a near roar, a pulse of raw energy spilling out of her that made the air itself vibrate.

“Well, even if they weren’t—it doesn’t matter!” Judas’ voice matched her volume now. “That’s not why we’re here. Your whole plan was to kill Valentino. You failed. And while you were playing hero, I was sitting there watching the perfect chance slip by. One click on that angelic bomb, and he’d be dead right now.”

Vi froze, her breath catching in her throat. The tension in the room became almost unbearable, like the air was turning into stone. She stepped closer, eyes locked on his. “You told me… you weren’t gonna use me as a goddamn weapon.” Her voice was low now, dangerous. “But you lied.”

She turned on her heel and stormed toward the balcony doors, shoving them open. Cool night air rushed in, but it didn’t cool the fire in her chest.

“Vi!” Judas barked, reaching out instinctively. But his fingers only closed on empty air. “Goddamnit.”

Abaddon hissed when the gauze tightened around her waist, the bandages already stained faintly red. She kept her eyes on the floor, jaw clenched, while the other two endured the same treatment. Bruises and deep cuts marred their skin—reminders of a fight that hadn’t gone the way they expected.

“This wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” Juke muttered, his voice hoarse. He winced when a maid dabbed at the deep gash along his ribs. “She’s human, but she hits like a freight train.”

Abaddon gave a short, bitter laugh that broke into a groan. “She’s got something. I don’t know what the hell it is, but every time I got close, it felt… wrong. Like the air around her was bending.”

Veritas tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in thought. “It wasn’t mere strength. There was an… energy, something intangible that shielded her at the last instant. I have studied combat long enough to know when something beyond skill is at play.”

“Energy?” Juke scoffed. “Felt more like getting hit by a battering ram. Twice.”

“I am not speaking of her strikes,” Veritas replied sharply, her voice cool and measured. “There was a shimmer—just before my blade would have connected, it broke against nothing. Invisible… but real.”

Abaddon frowned, tightening her jaw. “So, what? Magic? Tech? Some kind of blessing?”

Veritas’s lips curled faintly, though it was far from a smile. “Whatever it is, it is both her weapon and her defense. We will not bring her down until we understand it. Charging at her blindly again will only end the same way.”

Juke leaned back as the maid wrapped the last of his bandages. “Then we figure it out. Fast. Because I don’t plan on getting tossed across the room by a mortal twice in one lifetime.”

Veritas adjusted the cuffs of her blood-stained sleeve, her gaze distant. “She’s dangerous… and the unknown makes her far more so. The next time we cross paths, we will be ready. And if we are not—” Her tone dropped into a quiet warning. “—she will be the one standing over us.”

Chapter 27: Human Savior

Summary:

"Are you actually going to trust him?" Jinx's voice was sharp, playful, yet hollow — echoing too much inside Vi's skull, like it came from somewhere behind her own eyes.

Vi took some gauze, peeling away the old blood-soaked wrappings from her arms.

"Vi," Judas said, his gaze flicking toward the gauntlet lying in the corner, unused and gathering dust. "That gauntlet of yours... think we could get it fixed?"

Vi's head turned slowly toward him, her eyes cold. "Didn't know we were talking again."

She went back to winding the gauze.

"You expect me to talk to you after the stunt you just pulled?" she continued, finally turning fully to face him. "I should've known from the start you wouldn't be any different from them. I didn't think even imps could rot the same way overlords do." She shoved past him toward the table, snatching another roll of gauze.

Judas stepped in her path, not forcefully—just enough to make her pause. "God, Vi... you're still going on about this? One mistake, and suddenly I'm the devil in your story?" He gave a hollow laugh. "You're acting like I sold you out for fun. I was trying to keep us both alive."

Vi scoffed. "By throwing me under?"

"You think I wanted that?" Judas leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You have no idea what kind of trouble you'd be in if I hadn't said what I said. They were looking at you like you were already dead. I bought you breathing room."

Vi's eyes narrowed. "You bought yourself out of the fire."

"And dragged you with me," Judas snapped back. His tone softened immediately after, a snake retreating into velvet. "You're still here, aren't you? You're still breathing. That gauntlet of yours? Broken. You? Hurt. You think you're untouchable, Vi, but without someone watching your back, you're just a bleeding mortal with a death wish."

Her grip on the gauze tightened. "I don't need you to watch my back."

"Yeah?" His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Because you've been doing such a great job keeping yourself out of trouble lately. Look at you—you can barely lift your arms without wincing, and you're still acting like you've got this all under control." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the gauntlet. "That thing won't fix itself. And the next time they come for you, you won't have the element of surprise. You'll need me."

Vi stared at him for a moment, her jaw working, before looking away. "You think I can't survive without you? Watch me."

"Vi," Judas said, softer now, almost pitying, "you're angry because you think I betrayed you. But in this place? Betrayal is just another word for survival. You can hate me all you want... as long as you live long enough to do it."

"Don't forget who's helping you make your way to your revenge," Judas murmured, his voice low enough to feel like it was meant for her ears alone. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the narrow hall.

Vi stood there, the gauze still clenched in her hands, her eyes fixed on his back until he disappeared from view. Her gaze shifted, narrowing for a moment before softening—just slightly.

Part of her hated how his words dug in like a splinter she couldn't pull out. A part of her wondered if maybe he was right. He had kept her alive when no one else would. He had taken risks—stupid, reckless risks—that had somehow worked in their favor.

But the rest of her, the stubborn, burning part, refused to let that give him any leverage. She'd been betrayed enough to know that help always came with a price, and Judas's price might be one she wasn't willing to pay.

Judas made his way down the creaking stairs, one hand pressed to his stomach as it growled in protest.
"Damn... when was the last time I actually ate?" he muttered under his breath.

He snagged the battered hat from the table and slid it on, pushing the brim low over his brow before stepping out into the streets. The air outside was heavy with ash and heat, the sky above the City of Wrath painted a bruised, smoky red. Judas kept his head down, hands buried deep in his pockets, weaving past the usual drunks and half-dead scavengers.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Leaning against a soot-stained wall was a familiar figure, shoulders relaxed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Judas stopped, exhaling slowly before speaking.

"Thomas. Speak."

Thomas looked up through the haze, a thin smile pulling at his mouth. "Hello, traitor." His voice was dry and rough, like gravel. He took the cigarette from his lips, letting it dangle lazily between two fingers. "Any luck on that human yet?"

Judas smirked, shaking his head. "She's hardheaded. Stubborn as hell. But soon enough... she'll give in." He leaned against the wall beside him, watching the smoke curl upward. "It's almost funny—name 'Judas' doesn't even ring a bell for her. Makes me wonder if she ever learned religion at all."

Thomas arched a brow. "Can't charm her?"

Judas gave a short, humorless laugh. "Can't make her fall in love either. Swings only for some woman she cried to me about. One hell of a tragic story, too." He plucked the cigarette from Thomas's fingers, took a slow drag, and let the smoke pour from his nostrils.

"You still got that spark in you," Thomas said, reclaiming the cigarette. "Push her into it. Force it."

Judas chuckled darkly. "Yeah, sure—until I get fried. Literally. I'd be a pile of ash every time I tried to fuck her."

Thomas barked out a laugh, the sound rough and short-lived. Judas smirked faintly, but his stomach interrupted with another growl.

"You got any money?" he asked. "Haven't eaten in days. Been glued to that damn place just to make sure she doesn't slip out again."

Thomas shook his head, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter. "Nah. But there's food at my place." He tilted his chin in the direction of the alley.

Judas pushed off the wall, following as Thomas stepped away. "Lead the way," he said, the brim of his hat hiding the faint, calculating grin tugging at his mouth.

As they made their way through the narrow streets, the air heavy with the faint stench of ash and iron, Thomas finally pushed open the creaking door to his place. The dim light from the candles on the table cast jagged shadows along the cracked walls. He set down two plates, each with a thick slice of bread, and poured dark red wine into glass goblets.

"Bread and wine," he murmured with a dry smile, sliding into his chair. "How ironic."

Judas sat opposite, leaning back in his seat as Thomas tore a piece of bread. The quiet clink of the goblets was the only sound for a moment before Thomas spoke again, his voice low.

"Tell me, Judas... do you really think Lucifer's going to hand you your overlord powers back even if this whole thing with the human works out? He's been silent through all of this. Even when the problem with that girl started—he could've stepped in, crushed her himself, but he didn't."

Judas smirked faintly, swirling the wine in his glass. "I heard he's off chasing his 'mystery wife.' Been gone for years, yet he runs to her like she's the only thing that matters." He took a slow sip. "Guess some woman is worth more than an entire kingdom rotting in his absence."

Thomas gave a short, humorless chuckle. "You know... if you actually succeed in getting rid of Vi, the respect you lost might just crawl back to you. But you're going to have to try harder than this. Remember why you're here, Judas." His words lingered, almost a warning, almost an invitation.

He reached out under the table, brushing his fingers along Judas' thigh. The movement was deliberate, testing.

Judas' gaze sharpened, the glint in his eyes shifting from amused to predatory. Without a word, he leaned forward, grabbing Thomas by the jaw and pulling him into a hard, unrestrained kiss. The taste of wine still lingered on both their tongues.

Chairs scraped against the floor as they rose, the air between them thick with heat. Fingers clawed at fabric, tearing away layers until clothes pooled on the floor. The table groaned under their weight as they slammed against it, the bread and wine toppling to the ground—forgotten.

Vi sat on the cold stone of the balcony floor, her shoulders slouched, head bowed. A faint scrape of movement pressed against her back — the solid weight of someone leaning there. She turned her eyes just enough to catch a flicker of blue in the moonlight... a long, frayed braid swaying softly in the night air.

"Why are you here?" Vi's voice came out thin, almost brittle, a whisper swallowed by the wind.

"Are you actually going to trust him?" Jinx's voice was sharp, playful, yet hollow — echoing too much inside Vi's skull, like it came from somewhere behind her own eyes.

"Not a good idea." Vander's voice slid in right after, distorted, as if bubbling up from deep underwater.

Vi's hands curled into fists. She slammed one down onto the stone, the sharp jolt grounding her for a second. "I'm not! He's the only one helping me right now — I don't think Judas would— no. Not after the promise he gave me—" Her words came out ragged, punctuated with short, shallow breaths.

Her vision flickered — the blue braid gone. Jinx was no longer behind her but now teetering on the balcony's edge, toes hanging over the drop.

"You know, sis," Jinx said, voice smooth, almost sing-song, "you never let your guard down. When you don't trust someone, you follow your instincts. And your fists..." she wiggled her fingers in mock cheer, "always start the conversation."

Vander's tone slid beneath hers, blending like oil into water. If you think Judas is here to save you... just don't hate yourself when you find out otherwise.

Jinx tipped her head, then leaned back. Her braid caught the wind as she fell, her figure dissolving before she could hit the ground.

Vi staggered to her feet, chest heaving. The air felt heavier now, thicker, like the city below was pressing up at her. She pushed inside, stomping down the steps, her mind fixed on finding Judas — on demanding answers before the whispers could root any deeper.

"Judas, look— I don't know what I'm doing here, and maybe you should just stop trying to—" She froze.

His hat was gone.

The absence hit harder than a punch.

Vi stood there, silent. She didn't call his name. She didn't search the rooms. She just sank into a nearby chair, her arms loose at her sides. Strangely... she wasn't angry. Not even disappointed.

Just empty. She stood up, grabbing her cloak.

Judas panted heavily, leaning over Thomas before slowly pulling away. He straightened, buckling his belt with hands still trembling from the moment. Thomas sat up, chuckling as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"It's been a while, huh?" he murmured, brushing Judas' neck with a lazy trail of kisses.

Judas' breath steadied. "I need to get going. You wanna come with me to the hideout?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Thomas nodded, rising to his feet. He grabbed his bag, slid his phone inside, and zipped it shut before falling in step with Judas. Together, they stepped out of the cramped apartment, met immediately by the chaos of the city—the car horns, the shouting, the uneven hum of neon signs buzzing overhead.

They hadn't gone far before a figure blocked their path.

"Hello, Judas."

The voice was oily, stretching into a smile that didn't touch the eyes.

"Juke," Judas breathed, taking an instinctive step back.

The grin split wider before Juke lunged. Judas barely had time to shout before the impact sent him crashing onto the pavement.

"Thought you weren't coming around anymore," Juke sneered. "Remember me?"

His arms warped grotesquely, metal weaving through flesh until each limb became a pair of gleaming, curved razors. He slashed in rhythm, his attacks flowing with an unsettling, dance-like precision. Judas scrambled backward, boots scraping on the concrete, but Juke was already on him.

Fingers like talons seized Judas by the chest and hauled him up until they were nose to nose.

"Aww, look at you," Juke taunted. "Powerless."

The words came with a brutal shove of steel into Judas' stomach. He gasped, the air leaving him in a single, broken sound.

Down the street, Vi caught sight of the struggle—and froze.

Her eyes widened. The black cloak she'd been wearing slid from her shoulders, falling to the ground as she broke into a run.

Imps nearby turned their heads at the commotion, but Vi was already scaling the steep walls with practiced precision, vaulting from ledge to ledge until she dropped into the fray.

Her fists came down like a hammer, slamming into Juke with the force of a collapsing wall.

She rolled off him, planting herself on both knees, crackling blue arcs racing across her legs.

Judas stared at her in stunned silence—only to turn and see Thomas already fleeing.

"Thomas!" he shouted.

The man looked back once, then kept running.

Judas' voice caught in his throat. Helplessness set in like a weight in his chest. He didn't even see where Juke had gone—until the demon stood once again, now facing Vi.

"Why are you playing hero, Vi?" Juke asked with a smirk.

Vi didn't answer. She only shifted into her stance and began to close the distance.

Juke moved first, his blade-arm slicing through the air toward her. Vi sidestepped and drove her fist into his gut, the impact exploding outward in a shockwave that threw him back. She followed in a blur, her uppercut snapping his head back and sending him reeling again.

But Juke's scream turned into a feral grin. His arm came down, deflecting her next blow, and the edge caught her skin—a shallow cut, followed by a sudden thrust of steel into her stomach. The air fled her lungs in a sharp gasp. She stumbled to her knees, the world swimming, then collapsed, her body twitching before going still.

For her, the streets fell away, replaced by an endless void.

Other versions of herself waited there, shadows moving in the dark.

"Vi! Wake up!" Judas' voice was distant, muffled.

"No—no, no!" Vi's voice cracked in the emptiness.

One of the other Vi's—the one with the red jacket—approached, her boots echoing on invisible ground. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a hex gem, its surface pulsing faintly. Without hesitation, she pried Vi's mouth open and shoved the gem inside.

Reality snapped back.

Vi's eyes flared wide. She surged forward with inhuman strength, closing the gap to Juke in a blink. Her hands clamped around his waist, fingers digging through skin and bone until, with a single tearing motion, she ripped him in half.

Blood painted her face and arms, spattering onto the street.

Judas stared, frozen in shock, as Abaddon and Veritas arrived just in time to see Vi seize him by the collar and vanish into the night.

When they reappeared, it was beside the hideout. Vi's cyan-glowing eyes faded back to their normal hue as she lowered Judas to the ground.

He leaned against the wall, coughing blood.

"Dammit, what the hell were you doing out there?" Vi demanded, yanking up his shirt to inspect the wound.

Judas could barely form words, his voice rasping.

"Vi..."

Her brows furrowed. She dragged him inside, grabbed gauze, and wrapped it tight around his stomach.

"Hey, don't die on me, man—" her voice wavered.

"There's... a gem. In my bag," Judas groaned.

Vi scrambled through it, pulling out a small purple gem. "Okay—what do I do with this?"

With the last of his strength, Judas guided her hand to press the gem against his wound. A blinding light bloomed between them.

Vi squeezed her eyes shut—then saw, for the briefest moment, the figure of Lai—before a small explosion of force knocked her back.

The gem had shrunk.

"You're alive!" she gasped, relief breaking through the adrenaline. "Shit, man—what the fuck were you doing out there? Were you leaving me?"

Judas blinked at her, the words a blur, but the sight of her—bloodied, breathing—was enough. His gaze flicked down to her stomach.

"Vi... you're still bleeding."

He stood, staggered, and pulled her into an embrace.

She froze, surprised. "Okay, I—" She swallowed, glancing down at her wound. Strangely, she couldn't feel it at all.

"You saved me," Judas said softly.

"Yeah," she replied, a faint laugh in her voice. "I was looking for you, and there you were, being dragged around like a damn rat."

His expression eased, but somewhere behind his eyes, his plan lingered.

Would it still be worth it?

Veritas cradled Juke's lifeless form in her arms, her hands trembling as golden tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "Brother..." Her voice cracked, soft yet laden with grief so heavy it seemed to press upon the air itself. "Oh, my dear brother..." she whispered, her words breaking into a sob as her tears dripped onto his still chest, each drop shimmering like molten gold.

Beside her, Abaddon knelt, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened. "That wretched human," she seethed, her tone sharp enough to cut stone. "We must end them—tear them apart until nothing remains." Her fury grew palpable, the ground beneath them rumbling as if responding to her rage. Her hair lengthened in wild, silken waves, and the golden stripes across her face began to blaze with light.

Veritas lifted her gaze, the grief in her expression slowly sharpening into wrath. Her eyes ignited into a searing emerald glow, strands of her hair bleeding into the same verdant hue. She drew in a breath and released a guttural, soul-deep scream that reverberated through the Wrath Ring, the very air shivering at the sound.

From the shadows, the imps watched in uneasy silence, exchanging fearful glances. They could feel it—if this fury was left unchecked, it would not be vengeance alone that tore the land apart.

Chapter 28: It takes a lot to trust

Summary:

“Judas… welcome back.”

Judas stood beside Vi on the balcony, the city's smog curling upward into a bruised sky. Three weeks they'd been preparing for their target—Valentino still at the top of the list. Vi glanced sideways at him, her arms resting on the cold railing. "You know, you never really told me who you were. Why was Juke after you?" Her eyes searched his face for cracks.

"I used to be an overlord, Vi." His voice was deliberate, almost heavy.

Her brows lifted. "What happened? Why's everyone got it out for you?"

"I used to be human too. A follower, at first. After I betrayed the one I followed, I ended up here—hell made me an overlord. God gave me chances to redeem myself, but I... didn't take them. I built trust with other overlords just to stab them in the back. Lucifer trusted me most, until he figured out what I was planning. That's when he stripped me of my title... and my powers. Now I'm just another powerless face in the crowd. Juke was one of the overlords I betrayed."

A humorless chuckle slipped from him. Vi gave a small laugh and shook her head. "So what now? Tryna climb on my shoulders to restart?" she teased.

Judas didn't answer. He just turned away. Her smile faded, the joke hanging awkwardly in the air. "...You were supposed to, huh?" she asked, softer now.

He stared at the floor for a moment before sighing. "Yeah. I was. But... I gave that up after I saw your potential. I—Vi—" He reached for her hands, his voice unsteady. "I'm just glad you saved me."

He leaned in slowly, the intent clear. Vi pressed her palm firmly to his mouth, stopping him cold. "Judas, man, you know I don't swing like that." Her tone was sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Judas turned away immediately, throat tight, muttering, "My bad." His face lit up a dark red.

Vi groaned and smacked Judas on the arm, "Oh, come on now, man, you're being too fucking weird now! You're like a brother to me, man!" she complained, stomping her boot against the ground in that impatient way she always did when annoyed. Judas exhaled heavily, feigning offense, "I wasn't even gonna kiss you!" he lied with the worst poker face imaginable, rubbing the spot she hit and letting out a low laugh.

"Whatever, Judas, goddammit," she muttered, rolling her eyes before leaning her elbows on the balcony rail. The city below was restless tonight—streets alive with neon glow, sirens echoing in the distance, and faint music spilling from some club in the lower districts. Vi's gaze lingered, her mind shifting back to their target. "Three weeks is a long time to plan, y'know. I hope you're not getting cold feet."

Judas shook his head slowly. "Not cold feet. Just... when you've been in this game as long as I have, you start thinking about the cost. What happens after Valentino falls? You're gonna have a target on your back the size of hell itself."

Vi smirked faintly, "Wouldn't be the first time."

Judas didn't laugh this time. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer, almost like he was memorizing her, then he turned back toward the shadows behind them. "Just remember," he said quietly, "people like Valentino don't stay down unless you're willing to go all the way."

Vi's smirk softened into something unreadable. She didn't answer him—just kept staring at the pulsing chaos of the city, fingers tapping lightly against the balcony rail, already itching for the fight to come.

Her skin was stained a deep, unnatural red, the crude disguise letting her melt into Hell's crowd of demons. The weight of the coat over her shoulders hid the bulging satchel strapped to her back—every step making the angelic bombs inside clink against each other like restless teeth.

She pressed herself against the cold brick behind Valentino's studio, chest heaving, breath steaming into the night air. The muffled thump of music bled through the walls.
Six bombs went in first—each crudely tagged with a childish monkey doodle. Vi caught herself smirking at the drawings before the mission's weight pulled her face back into steel.

Head lowered, she pushed through the front doors. The air inside was a thick cocktail of sweat, booze, and perfume. Demons laughed over clashing glasses, the poles lit in pink and gold haze. Angel Dust was nowhere to be seen—only some nameless dancer twirling under the lights.

Vi drifted through the tables, a man's voice cutting through the din.
"Hey there, beautiful. Your eyes look nice and bright."
She just nodded, crouching to plant explosives beneath their table.
The men hooted at her like she was part of the show—until a meaty hand fisted in her hair, forcing her back down.
"Uh-uh, babygirl," the man snarled. "You're not teasing any of us here."

Vi's gaze lifted, steady and cold. Her fingers closed around his wrist—iron tight.
"Money comes first."
They laughed, but coins and bills still slid into her hand. She pocketed them without looking, straightening up.
"I'll be back. Just wait."

One by one, tables, planters, and storage boxes swallowed her bombs until the bag was nothing but fabric. She returned to the entrance, becoming another shadow among many.

Valentino took the stage—Angel Dust in silk, moving under the lights while the overlord lounged to watch. When their eyes met, Angel faltered for a heartbeat. Vi tipped her chin toward the emergency exit.

Seconds later, she was outside again, rain washing away the red paint from her skin. Angel rushed into her arms.
"God! I never expected you to—what are you gonna do?" he asked, grinning despite the chaos around them.

"I planted bombs inside. Run until you find Judas—tiny island near the beach. Have this." She pressed an angelic bomb into his palm. "Tell him to trigger the bombs."

Angel didn't waste time. He ran.

Vi slipped back through the emergency exit, the bass-heavy music now a death knell. She walked straight toward the stage. Valentino's eyes narrowed at her shoes, memory sparking—recognition hardening into fury.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"

The crowd froze. Vi pulled off her hood. Recognition rippled through the faces of the men who'd paid her earlier.
"You exploit your workers. Slut them out even when they don't want to." Her voice was low, dangerous. "I'm sorry, Valentino—sorry you have to force someone just to feel loved."

Somewhere in the room, a bomb clicked.

Vi's fists snapped into place, hextech shields curling around her like a cocoon as the world erupted into fire. The blast tore Valentino from his feet. Glass, wood, and flesh came down in a choking storm.

When the ringing in her ears faded, Vi was already moving. The shield dissolved, her boots crunching over debris. She found the overlord coughing in the wreckage, blood running down his temple.

She straddled him without a word and started punching.
Again.
And again.
And again.

"Vi! Have mercy, please!" Valentino gasped, his voice breaking. Vi's eyes burned an intense cyan before she drove her fist into him again, the crack echoing in the air.

"Mercy?" she snarled, yanking him up by the collar and slamming him into the rubble, the debris splintering beneath him. "Remember when I used to beg like that too?" Her voice was a sharp blade, her glare locking onto his.

But before she could strike again, Abaddon and Veritas—fused into a towering abomination—lunged forward. The monster's kick smashed into Vi's jaw, throwing her across the battlefield.

She rolled, coughing, and froze mid-breath as her gaze took in its twisted, familiar features. Eyes widening, she surged to her feet, electricity flaring from her arms as her cyan glare blazed even brighter. She charged, lightning crackling in her wake—

The monster moved faster. It sidestepped with inhuman precision, then whipped into a roundhouse kick that caught her full force, sending her skidding back into the dust.

Veritas and Abaddon unfused with a sharp, wet snap of flesh and magic, their forms splitting apart like molten metal cooling into two distinct shapes. Both of them began to stalk forward, slow and deliberate, their footsteps heavy with intent. Vi's muscles tensed, every nerve in her body screaming at the incoming danger.

Without warning, Veritas exploded forward in a blur of motion, her boot slamming into Vi's face with a bone-jarring thud. She didn't stop—again and again, her heel crashed against Vi's cheek and jaw, each strike ringing in her skull. "You killed our brother!" Veritas shrieked, her voice breaking with rage.

Vi grunted, tasting copper, and in a burst of strength, she caught Veritas' leg mid-kick. With a roar, she twisted her whole body, swinging Veritas violently to the side and sending her skidding across the cracked asphalt. She staggered upright, just in time to raise her arms and block a heavy swing from Abaddon.

"Your brother was gonna kill mine!" Vi shot back, her voice raw, dodging a wild punch that whistled past her ear. She countered with a brutal hook to Abaddon's gut, her fists driving forward in rapid, piston-like bursts. Each blow drove Abaddon back a step, though she deflected some with sharp parries and absorbed others with a grimace.

Abaddon snarled and summoned her sphere with a flick of her wrist, hurling it toward Veritas. Veritas caught it mid-spin, her own sphere materializing in her other hand. The two artifacts pulsed with unstable light as she slammed them together, their energy fusing into a blazing, molten mass.

"Vi!" Abaddon barked, and in a synchronized motion, Veritas hurled the combined sphere like a comet straight at her.

Vi's eyes went wide. She twisted her body at the last possible second, the projectile screaming past her head, and Abaddon snatched it back out of the air with one hand.

"You are going to die!" Abaddon roared, lunging forward.

From behind, Veritas wrapped her arm around Vi's throat, wrenching her backward. Vi growled and drove her boot into Veritas' shin before spinning on her heel and smashing her knuckles into Veritas' jaw, sending her stumbling.

And then—headlights.

A car came barreling toward them, its engine howling like a beast. From inside, Judas' voice rang out in a guttural, panicked scream. Veritas turned her head—too late.

The front of the car erupted in a blinding flash, the bomb strapped to its grill detonating with a deafening boom. The force hurled Vi and Abaddon backward, debris raining around them. Instinct took over—Vi flung her arm outward, hextech gauntlet sparking, and a shimmering shield flared to life around herself, Judas, and—unintentionally—Abaddon.

The shield flickered and died, and Judas stepped out from the smoking wreckage.

"You need to get the fuck out of here, now, Judas!" Vi barked, charging toward him.

But Judas just laughed, his breath ragged. "No need, human."

He raised his arms slowly, and a deep, blood-red aura spilled from his back like liquid fire. His scream tore through the air, his eyes igniting into a hellish crimson glow. The ground around him cracked as demonic magic swelled, licking up his frame like flames.

He glanced at Vi—relief in his expression—before they both turned to face Abaddon.

Abaddon smirked, her voice dripping with venom. "Judas... oh, the known traitor."

She lunged at him, dagger flashing. Judas sidestepped with preternatural speed, and Vi seized the opening to smash her fist square into Abaddon's face, sending her reeling.

Judas grinned at her between ragged breaths. "Fighting together now, aren't we?"

His words barely left his mouth before Abaddon closed the distance, driving her dagger deep into Judas' side.

"Judas!" Vi's scream cracked in the air.

Abaddon twisted the blade, dark energy seeping from the wound like smoke. "Ahh... much better," she whispered with a sick smile.

"Fuck! No! Goddamnit!" Vi snarled, charging her, rage burning away all thought. Their clash was savage—blow for blow,

Vi charged after Abaddon, fists blazing with hextech energy, her roar tearing through the air. Abaddon's mane whipped back as she caught Vi's wrists before a single blow could land.

"You're too late, Vi," Abaddon rasped, blood bubbling at her lips. "That dagger will send your little friend to the purgatory. Do you even know what purgatory is?"

Energy crackled between them, the pressure from Vi's abilities splintering Abaddon's arm with a sharp crack. Still, Abaddon laughed.

Vi's gaze darted to Judas—standing apart, arm outstretched toward her.

Abaddon laughed, her grin widening. "You—" she spat blood, chuckling, "you can't do anything about it."

Hextech energy surged wildly around them, wind tearing at their clothes. Wrath burned in Vi's eyes so fiercely that Abaddon flinched—just for a moment—seeing something darker there, something almost infernal.

Her own fiery gaze blazed brighter as she pushed back against Vi's power. Then the ground beneath Abaddon twisted, a portal yawning open and dragging her down. Her grin vanished as the darkness swallowed her whole.

Vi collapsed to the ground, breathless and dazed. "Where did you go?" she shouted into the empty air.

Her head snapped upward, scanning the clouds. She broke into a run toward the hideout, rain soaking her hair, arms flailing as she called out, "Judas! Can you hear me?"

Only the storm answered.

Chapter 29: Purgatory, Chorís kátharsi

Summary:

“I’ve only got a year left before I’m free of this place. Heard from your boyfriend that you’ve been siding with a human in Hell… protecting her.”

His voice dripped with fang and mockery as he leaned in close.

From the distance, Judas reached his hand toward Vi—fingers trembling—right before his body shattered into dust and light, rocketing upward into the void that lay between heaven and hell.

“No!” His cry tore from his throat as he hit his knees, the cold floor biting against them. Below him, the world hung still, frozen in time—a perfect, cruel frame of the moment before Abaddon tore him away.

Panic clawed at him. His breath came fast and sharp, nails digging into the stone until they scraped.

“Don’t worry,” a voice rasped from beside him. “It won’t take long.”

Judas turned, finding a man draped in a white robe laced with black, its fabric shifting faintly like smoke. His face was shadowed, but the weight of his gaze felt like chains.

“You’ll learn,” the man went on, voice hoarse with an exhaustion that seemed ancient, “there’s no purifying that soul of yours.”

Judas pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” he growled through clenched teeth.

The man slowly turned, the motion deliberate, dark hair falling across his face before he brushed it aside with a flick of his hand.

“Cain?” Judas muttered, brows knitting in disbelief.

Cain’s lips curved into a slow smirk, and then he laughed—low, bitter, as if the sound had been trapped in his chest for centuries. “I’ve heard plenty about you,” he said, eyes glinting. “Pulling a murder on your own brother?”

Judas’ glare sharpened, venom in his stare. “Oh, drop it. That was years ago, for god’s sake.” Cain rolled his eyes.

“Enough with the ferocity—you act like you’re innocent, Judas,”

Cain said, stepping forward with measured malice.

“I’ve only got a year left before I’m free of this place. Heard from your boyfriend that you’ve been siding with a human in Hell… protecting her.”

His voice dripped with fang and mockery as he leaned in close.

“You possibly don’t have any of your abilities anymore.”

Judas rose to his feet, shoving Cain back. “Oh, I do. Just not in the place meant for purification,” he spat, sarcasm curling his tone.

Cain’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Judas… what would happen if I got rid of the one who’s supposed to save you?” He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long over Judas.

Worry flickered in Judas’ gaze before his fist shot forward, striking Cain hard. Cain staggered back, clutching the spot with a faint laugh.

An angel swooped in, gripping Judas’ arm and pulling him away.

“You won’t do shit, Cain!” Judas shouted over his shoulder as he was dragged back.

Cain simply smiled, lifting his hand in a slow, taunting wave.

The angels forced Judas back, pressing him against a tall stone pillar. Gleaming cords of light coiled around his wrists and chest—angelic ropes that burned faintly against his skin.

“You are to stay here until you’re calm,” one of them said flatly before turning away, their footsteps fading into the hollow stillness of the purgatory.

Judas sank down against the pillar, the ropes tightening with his every breath. His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders slumped, a hollow, defeated look settling over him.

Abaddon plummeted from the torn edges of the portal, her body striking the stone floor of a vast, shadowed stadium. The air was thick with the heat of torches burning in elevated braziers, their flames twisting unnaturally in shades of crimson and gold. The echo of her impact rolled through the arena like distant thunder.

Before her, elevated upon a dais, stood Stolas—elegant and unshaken. His black royal garb gleamed faintly in the firelight, every fold precise, the fabric trimmed in silver so fine it shimmered like moonlight. A royal-blue cape spilled behind him, pooling onto the floor in a silken wave. Beside him loomed Sorath, dressed in black and gold that spoke of dominion and unyielding authority, his golden cape catching every flicker of the torches like liquid sunlight.

“You almost failed again, Abaddon.” Stolas’ voice was calm, but there was an undertone sharp enough to cut bone. His hands were clasped loosely before him, the gesture deceptively gentle.

Abaddon lifted her head slowly, chest heaving. “S–Stolas?” she rasped. Her face was streaked with blood and dirt, shallow cuts tracing across her cheekbones, bruises blooming like dark violets along her jaw.

Sorath took a single step forward, his boots clicking against the obsidian floor. “Asmodeus has been expecting you to have your work finished,” he said, his tone regal but edged with disdain. “Why haven’t you, child?”

Abaddon’s breath caught, her voice trembling. “She… killed my whole family.”

A faint scoff escaped Sorath, and his eyes—bright and merciless—locked on hers. “No,” he said, his voice low but forceful, “don’t cry. Use that anger as your weapon. There is no place for tears here. No place for weakness.” His words fell like iron. He strode past her without another glance.

The overlord’s composure broke. Her tears fell freely now, burning as they traced the cuts on her cheeks. A raw scream tore from her throat, echoing against the high walls of the stadium. She lunged toward Sorath, her hand gripping a blackened sphere crackling with chaotic energy.

Sorath turned with calculated calm. A surge of golden flames erupted from his hands, forming a shimmering barrier that roared with unbearable heat. The wave of force slammed into Abaddon’s body, halting her charge mid-stride. The air smelled of scorched stone and burning metal.

“We saved you,” Sorath said coldly. “That alone is more mercy than a soul like yours deserves—especially after your father died because you failed to protect him.” His words struck harder than the barrier itself. With a flick of his wrist, the golden wall pulsed outward, tossing her back across the floor. She hit hard, a yell breaking from her lips.

Sorath’s gaze darkened. “It’s time you learned, Abaddon. I suspect the human is already on her way to find you. Prepare yourself, because she will not show you the hesitation you’ve shown others.”

Abaddon dragged herself up onto her knees. Sweat mixed with blood on her bare skin, a slow trickle running down her abdomen from a deep gash. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, each one laced with pain.

She turned her eyes toward Stolas. He had been watching silently, his expression unreadable—until now. A faint tremor colored his voice as he spoke. “I know,” he said softly, “how it feels to have your loved ones stripped from you.”

From the folds of his cape, Stolas drew a sword—its blade black as a starless void. He stepped toward her with deliberate grace, the steel catching glints of firelight. Like a monarch knighting a champion, he lowered the blade and tapped it gently against one shoulder, then the other.

Before her eyes, the sword began to change—its black edge igniting into molten gold, flames spiraling up its length until the steel itself seemed to melt into living fire. Stolas lowered himself and extended the weapon toward her.

“Avenge them, child.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Sorath.

Both princes stepped closer, their hands resting firmly on Abaddon’s shoulders. The contact was heavy—not of comfort, but of command.

Abaddon’s eyes began to burn, not with tears, but with something far more dangerous. Her irises deepened into a molten red, and blood—thick and glowing—streamed from her eyes like liquid wrath.

Lucifer’s gaze darted nervously through the pitch-black void, its silence pressing against his chest like a weight. “Lilith?” His voice trembled, vanishing into the abyss as if the darkness swallowed it whole.

A faint, shivering shape caught his eye in the distance—curled in on itself like something abandoned. His heart lurched. Charlie. Without hesitation, he sprinted forward, the emptiness stretching endlessly under each footfall.

Dropping to his knees, Lucifer reached out, pulling her into his arms as though she might vanish if he didn’t hold her tightly enough. “My daughter! What—what has happened to you? All this time—” His voice cracked. “You’ve been here!” His embrace was trembling, desperate.

A sound rose from her—low at first, like a quiet whimper, then building into a strange, unnatural screech that made his bones ache. Slowly, she lifted her head.

Lucifer’s breath caught. This wasn’t Charlie.

Before his eyes, her features began to ripple and distort. The warmth of her skin turned cold under his hands. Her jaw unhinged far beyond human limits, the skin stretching as her mouth split open into an abyss of writhing shadow. Her eyes widened until they were nothing but stark, gleaming whites, void of recognition.

The air itself seemed to convulse, and from within her mouth poured the voices of countless souls—overlapping cries of agony, pleas for salvation, and the hollow wails of the damned.

Lucifer staggered backward, the sound clawing at his mind.

Through the cacophony, a phrase cut through, whispered and screamed all at once:

“Wrath ring, no king.”

His gaze snapped up—and there, in the far reaches of the darkness, Lilith stood. Her body was turned toward him, perfectly still, her face hidden in the shadows. Slowly, her head twisted, spine following unnaturally until her gaze met his.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then, with a sudden, inhuman burst, Lilith launched forward—her feet barely touching the ground as she closed the distance—her mouth opening into a soundless, deafening screech that filled the void and rattled the air like shattering glass.

Chapter 30: Everything did nothing

Summary:

“No… no, I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Wake up. Tell me what just happened.”

Vi ran.

Her lungs burned with every ragged inhale, each breath scraping her throat raw as she tore through the twisting streets. Her boots pounded against cracked stone, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the roar of the voices behind her—screams and guttural howls blending together into a chorus of hellish pursuit. The air was thick with smoke and heat, clinging to her skin like oil, making every movement feel heavier.

She didn’t dare glance over her shoulder, but she could feel them gaining—jagged claws dragging along the walls, the scrape of bone against stone, their fury rolling toward her in waves.

Something metallic clattered against the ground. In the corner of her vision, she caught the dull flash of it—her bomb. It must have slipped from her bag mid-run. Without breaking stride, she skidded down low, fingers curling around the cold casing. She bit the fuse clean, tasting bitter grit and the tang of dust on her tongue, then hurled it blindly into the horde.

The explosion bloomed like a second sun. The air behind her ruptured with a deafening crack, heat and dust slamming into her back as if to shove her forward. For an instant, the screams cut into higher, sharper notes—then there was only the sound of tearing, wet impacts as debris and shredded bodies slammed against the walls. The street reeked of burnt flesh.

Vi didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She just kept running.

Her thoughts spiraled in on themselves, every step hammering the same regret deeper: I should never have gone alone. I should never have gone looking for Abaddon without him.

The staircase loomed out of the shadows. She took the steps two at a time, her legs screaming in protest, until she burst into Judas’ room—sanctuary, or what was left of it. Her legs buckled and she hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through her bones.

She dragged herself backward until her spine met the wall, her chest heaving. Her breath came in shallow, stuttering bursts, the edges of her vision already closing in. Sweat slicked her skin, cold despite the heat still clinging from the blast. The room felt too small, the air too thick.

The tears came fast—uncontrolled, uninvited. Her hands shook so badly she could barely keep them up to cover her ears, but she pressed them there anyway, desperate to block out the ringing in her skull.

Then the shadows began to move.

Valentino’s tall frame strolled lazily in the corner. Stolas’ piercing eyes locked on her like talons. Abaddon’s presence pressed in—too close, too heavy, like the room was bending toward it.

Caitlyn’s back turned on her.
Jinx stepping over the balcony’s edge.
And then the laughter.

Her chest glowed—bright, unsteady, almost searing through her shirt. “No—no—no—” Vi’s voice broke as she shook her head violently, her fists slamming into her temples. The hallucinations closed in tighter, their whispers digging deeper. Her whole body trembled, her breath tearing itself apart.

Then—hands.

“Hey, hey! It’s just me—”

The voice was urgent but gentle, pulling her upward from the spiral. Her vision blurred over the face in front of her. Black shirt. Worn jeans. Judas? For one dizzy, fragile second, she thought he’d come back.

But it wasn’t him.

Her eyes dimmed, the glow in her chest fading to a dull pulse. Angel’s face steadied into focus—the soft pink of his skin, the way his eyes pulled with concern. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing against the damp heat of her tears, then pulled her into his chest, holding her tight.

Vi clung to him weakly, every bit of strength she had spent just to breathe. “I know, I know, Vi… I’m so sorry,” Angel murmured, voice low and trembling. Her weight sagged against him until he shifted, lowering himself to his side so she wouldn’t collapse fully onto the floor. His arms never left her.

A broken whine escaped her throat, her fingers locking in the fabric of his shirt. “It’s okay,” he whispered again, softer this time, as if the words themselves might hold her together.

He pulled her into his lap, his back against the wall, one hand smoothing slow, steady circles along her arm, the other running through her hair. Her breathing—still sharp, still shaky—began to ease by degrees. Each stroke of his hand against her scalp was deliberate, grounding her.

“You’re so badly hurt, girly,” he said, the affection in his tone muted by worry. “You need to stay here for a while… just until you heal up.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, her voice hoarse and frayed. “I need to kill her as soon as possible. I need to know where she took Judas.”

Angel’s mouth tugged into the faintest smile—proud, but sad. “I’m proud of you, Vi. I really am.”

Judas sat slouched against the cold stone, the kind of stillness that came from too much waiting. His hair had grown longer, falling in unkempt strands across his face, and a rough beard now shadowed his jaw. The light in purgatory was strange—dim yet sharp, as though it came from nowhere, casting no real shadows.

Cain stood a short distance away, his outline hazy in the gray air. Slowly, he lifted his wrist, showing Judas the face of an old, battered watch. Its ticking was silent here, but Judas didn’t need to hear it.

“Clock’s ticking, Judas,” Cain said with a smirk that curled cruelly at the edges.

Somewhere behind him, in the heart of the purgatory’s vast emptiness, the archangel Michael stood motionless. His presence was an anchor in this timeless place, tall and rigid in the center of the barren expanse. He didn’t speak, but his eyes never left them.

Judas lowered his gaze to his hands. They were steady, but the memory in his mind was anything but. He saw Vi—her voice, her eyes, the way she fought. The ache of absence knotted in his chest. His brow furrowed.

Cain began to pace around him, boots scraping against the endless stone floor. “It’s been months, Judas,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “How long are you gonna keep waiting, eh?” The laugh that followed was ragged, wheezing through his teeth, and it trailed after him like smoke.

Judas’ jaw tightened. “As soon as you step a foot near Vi,” he spat, “she’ll ruin you—just like she did with Valentino.” His eyes narrowed into a dangerous grin. “Unlike you, she probably doesn’t have to hit someone with a rock five times just to make sure they’re dead.”

The smile that broke across Judas’ face was cocky, deliberate. It was the kind of smile meant to cut.

Cain’s own smirk faltered, his glare sharp and brief before curling back into something darker. “And between me and you,” he said quietly, “we’re both still murderers.”

Judas tilted his head, watching him without flinching.

Cain stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “You just didn’t have the balls to do it yourself.”

The words hung in the stale air for a long moment before Cain finally turned and walked away, his figure dissolving into the endless gray.

Judas’ eyes fell again, not on his hands this time but on the one thing that replayed in his mind like a broken reel—Vi, standing over Abaddon, ready to strike. The frozen moment was burned into him, and no amount of time here could thaw it.

He sighed, slow and heavy, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then, with deliberate movement, he brought his hands together.

Abaddon stood alone in the open field, the air dry and tense, the sky an endless stretch of muted gray. Stolas and Sorath flanked her at first, their silent presence more watchful than supportive. Without a word, they began to drift away, their steps measured, leaving the circle of space around her.

Her stance shifted—one foot braced firmly behind her, the other angled forward, grounding her in perfect balance. Both hands gripped the hilt of her sword with disciplined precision. It hung at her side in the poised readiness of a waki tori, every muscle in her body coiled like a spring.

Her eyes snapped open. A raw scream tore from her throat, cutting across the stillness. She twisted sharply, her heel grinding into the dirt before she slammed her front foot down and lunged forward. The blade flashed—a single, fierce thrust—and the air itself seemed to shatter. A soundwave burst outward from the point of impact, rippling violently through the field.

The moment passed. Her breathing came in ragged pulls, the exertion humming through her veins. With practiced fluidity, she slid the sword back into the case at her hip, the click of the guard locking in place sharp against the wind. She tossed her mane back over her shoulder, head lifting, gaze hardening.

Now came the signal.

Sorath rose from where he had been sitting and moved toward her, his boots crushing the brittle grass. “We’ll leave this to you,” he said, voice deep and deliberate. “The contract Asmodeus left to you will be dismissed—you belong to us.”

Abaddon’s head tilted, but she remained silent.

Stolas stood as well, following Sorath’s path. When they had almost reached the edge of the field, he stopped, turning back to fix her with a cold stare. “If you fail your mission, you will be exiled.” The words hung like a blade over her neck before he turned away again, walking in step with Sorath until both were swallowed by the distance.

Abaddon bowed, the movement subtle but filled with intent. “I won’t fail,” she said, her voice loud enough to chase after them.

The arena was quiet again. She stood still, the wind curling around her like a living thing. For a fleeting heartbeat, the calm almost felt pure—clean enough to mistake for peace. She lowered her gaze slightly, her lips moving in a low murmur only she could hear. “You do not breathe the same air as we do.”

It was not just a thought—it was a promise.

When the moment came, she lifted her chin and parted her lips. From deep within her chest, a fiery crow burst forth, its body wreathed in twisting flames. It beat its wings hard, scattering embers into the air before cutting across the horizon, flying fast—straight toward Vi.

Vi sat hunched on the balcony, elbows resting loosely on her knees, the horizon stretching out in a haze of orange and black. Her body tilted ever so slightly backward, as if she were inviting gravity to take her—just one more step toward the quiet embrace of an ending she had considered far too many times before.

The air was still. She let it fill her lungs, almost hoping it would be the last breath she’d have to take.

Then—impact.

A sudden, burning weight slammed into her chest, forcing her forward. Her back arched sharply, and she was thrown down onto the cold balcony floor. A sharp cry tore from her throat before her knees buckled, sending her sprawling forward.

The pain was fleeting, replaced almost instantly with anger.

A low, guttural grunt escaped her as she drove her fist into the floorboards, the wood groaning under the force. Her breath came hot and fast through clenched teeth. Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze narrowing toward the intruder.

It was a bird—no, something far more unsettling. The flames that cloaked its feathers swayed unnaturally, each ember curling upward like a whisper of heat in the night. It stood there, unblinking, eyes glinting like molten metal.

Then it moved. Its beak opened wide, far wider than natural, and an ear-splitting scream erupted from within. The sound wasn’t just loud—it cut into her skull like glass shattering in her ears.

“Wrath ring. The main Arena.”

The words were as clear as they were unnatural, carried on a voice that didn’t belong to any living thing.

Before she could respond, the creature leapt into the air with a violent beat of its wings, scattering glowing embers that fizzled out before hitting the balcony floor. It vanished into the sky, leaving behind only the faint smell of smoke and the ringing in her ears.

Vi stayed there for a moment, her fists pressed to the ground, her body trembling—not with fear, but with the kind of rage that came from recognition.

That color—those flames—they weren’t random. She knew them.

Her jaw tightened. Slowly, she straightened, lifting her gaze toward the horizon.

Her eyes began to glow, a piercing cyan burning through the dark.

The arena was silent, save for the low hum of the wind cutting through the open air. Sand shifted in small spirals around Abaddon’s boots as she stood at the center, her back turned. The tension was thick enough to suffocate.

A faint crackle broke it—tiny zaps of electricity snapping into the air like the build-up before a storm. Abaddon’s head tilted slightly at the sound. She turned, deliberate and slow, until her burning eyes found their source.

Vi.

She stood at the far end of the arena, her gauntlet buzzing with a low, threatening energy. Every step she took forward made the sand crunch beneath her boots, the hum from her weapon growing louder. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes burned like molten cyan.

Abaddon’s gaze sharpened, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips.
“Finally done hiding?” Her voice was smooth, mocking, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Vi’s jaw flexed as she rolled her shoulders back. With a sharp exhale, she tightened her grip on her gauntlet until the metal plates ground together, sending a pulse of blue sparks crawling along the surface. She slid into a low, brawling stance.
“Still trying to find your little traitor friend?” she shot back, her voice low but venomous.

Abaddon’s smirk widened. “Careful, Vi. Your mouth will get you killed before I do.”

She was gone in the blink of an eye—vanishing forward with a burst of speed. Vi’s reflexes kicked in; her gauntlet swung up, catching Abaddon’s blade mid-swing. The clash rang out like steel shattering glass, sending vibrations up Vi’s arm.

The force shoved her back a step, but Vi planted her feet and launched forward, driving her fist toward Abaddon’s side. The demoness twisted, the blow grazing her ribs, and countered with a sweeping kick aimed at Vi’s legs. Vi leapt back, dust curling around her boots.

They circled each other, both waiting for the other to make the next mistake.

Abaddon lunged again, her sword cutting arcs through the air with a precision that forced Vi to bob and weave, the tip grazing her shoulder once—hot blood blooming against her shirt. Vi didn’t flinch.

With a sudden burst, she slammed her gauntlet into the ground. The shockwave rippled outward, sand and stone bursting upward, forcing Abaddon to shield herself. Vi closed the gap instantly, swinging a brutal right hook aimed straight for Abaddon’s jaw.

This time, the punch connected.

Abaddon’s head snapped to the side, the sound of bone cracking echoing faintly in the air. But instead of falling, she straightened, wiping the blood from her lips with the back of her hand. The smirk never left her face.

“You hit weaker than Valentino,” she said, before driving her knee into Vi’s gut and sending her staggering backward.

Vi’s eyes snapped open—cyan light flooding them until it seemed to burn straight through her skull. There was no thought, no hesitation. She charged.

Her gauntlet came up in a brutal arc, smashing into Abaddon’s chin with an uppercut that cracked through the air. The blow rattled the arena, flinging Abaddon backward like she’d been hit by a wrecking ball.

She staggered, jaw hanging loose, but the moment she saw Vi closing in, something in her expression flickered—wariness, maybe even fear.

Vi slammed her gauntlet down, trying to crush her where she stood. Abaddon caught the blow with both hands, straining with every muscle, then rammed her knee into Vi’s pelvis. Pain exploded white-hot. Vi screamed—not in fear, but fury—and broke away, stumbling a few steps before springing back like a predator that had only been baited into greater rage.

Abaddon tore her sword free in one fluid motion, rushing forward. Steel hissed. Vi leapt over the slash, twisting mid-air, but as her boots hit the ground, Abaddon’s second swing caught her across the waist. The blade bit deep.

Vi’s cry was raw—more animal than human. Blood pooled hot down her side as she fell to her knees, gasping through clenched teeth.

“You need to pay,” she growled, the words trembling with rage, “for what you’ve done… to what was left of my family!”

Abaddon raised her sword, ready to finish it. Vi’s gauntlet snapped up, splitting into a shield in a burst of light. The blade struck and bounced back violently, smacking into Abaddon’s face with a crack. Her grip loosened and the weapon flew from her hands.

Vi didn’t give her the chance to recover. She drove her fist into Abaddon’s gut, folding her in half before another blow smashed her across the skull, sending her sprawling. Vi was on her instantly, pinning her head to the dirt with the gauntlet’s crushing weight.

“You’re far too goddamn late!” Abaddon spat, blood spraying across Vi’s cheek. Her voice broke into a jagged laugh. “That purgatory’s had him for a year. A day here…” she coughed, smiling through broken teeth, “…is a year up there. Your little friend’s probably given up—dead—before you could even fuckin’ save him.”

Something inside Vi went black. Her tears blurred into the glow of her eyes, her breathing uneven, almost a snarl.

The gauntlet’s grip tightened. Bone groaned. Abaddon’s laughter cut into a wet, gurgling choke before her skull gave way with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed upward, hot across Vi’s face and neck. The hex runes on her gauntlet burned brighter, feeding on the kill.

Thunder ripped through Hell’s night as the sky split open. Light poured in like fire spilling from Heaven’s gates.

“Welcome home, Judas,” the voice of God rumbled from above.

Vi froze, her chest heaving. Her head whipped upward. “Judas!”

She sprinted for the arena steps, her gauntlet sparking violently. She hurled a bolt of lightning into the rift above, arm outstretched.

“Judas!” she screamed again, louder, breaking into sobs as she fell to her knees. Her cry became a scream so raw it shook the ground—sending a shockwave ripping across all of Hell. It echoed and echoed until the silence pressed in like suffocation.

Her gauntlet slid from her arm, forgotten. She staggered back toward Abaddon’s corpse, collapsing beside it.

“No… no, I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Wake up. Tell me what just happened.”

Her trembling hands touched the crushed ruin of a skull, smearing blood and bone across her fingers. She stared at them for a long moment—then dragged her tongue across her palm, tasting copper and ash.

Her breathing quickened. She smeared the blood over her face, painting herself in it, shaking violently as a guttural, inhuman scream tore free from her throat.

In the shadows, Sorath stood watching, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I’m creating a monster,” he murmured, turning his back and walking away.

Chapter 31: Self-immolation, the gathering

Summary:

“Can you just stop?” Vi muttered bitterly.

Vi lay sprawled on the cold balcony floor, the stone biting into her skin, her gaze fixed on the endless black of the night. Every breath she took felt like it scraped her lungs, and every thought that surfaced circled back to the same truth—everything she had done, everything she had fought for, had dissolved into nothing. No purpose. No reason to keep moving forward.

With sluggish effort, she bent her knees and pushed herself forward, her body dragging across the rough stone until she reached the balcony’s edge. Her head tipped down, and the world inverted—buildings and streets tilting into an upside-down city glowing faintly beneath her.

The cold wind rose to meet her face, slipping icy fingers across her cheeks. She pushed her legs out a little further, her back arching as the ledge disappeared beneath her feet.

Another push.

The stone no longer held her. Her body tipped forward, weight pulling her into the open air.

The fall was silent except for the rush of wind in her ears. Her hair whipped upward, drifting in loose strands, the city’s lights smearing into blurs of gold and white below. She didn’t reach for the rail. She didn’t even try.

She just let gravity take her.

The clouds tore open above, spilling light through the dark, and from it descended an angel. She plunged down like a comet, spear first, the metal tip catching the back of Vi’s jacket a heartbeat before she hit the ground.

Vi’s eyes snapped shut, certain it was over—certain she had already died—but instead of the crushing final impact, she felt herself hanging in midair, weightless, her body swaying as she was hauled upward by her leg. In a dizzy blur, she was swung back toward the balcony and dropped unceremoniously onto the cold stone.

Groaning, she pushed herself upright, fury knotting her brows. “What the hell—” she started, glancing up.

An angel stood there.

She had just touched down, her bare feet strapped in worn brown leather sandals. A white robe wrapped around her chest and shoulders, another draped at her hips, the folds shifting faintly in the wind. Her hair was cropped short, her body carved with muscle. Her eyes—pure white—glowed softly against the night. Even as her bright frame dimmed, her wings folded neatly into her back.

Vi stared at her, then let out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head until it broke into tired, almost hysterical laughter. “I just can’t die, can I?” she muttered, voice rasping. She steadied herself, knees bent, hands braced on her thighs. “Who the hell are you? Why—why are you even—” Her breath hitched in a wheeze.

The angel didn’t answer. She only reached into her robe and produced a folded scrap of old brown paper, offering it to Vi without a word.

Vi took it with a crooked, half-detached smile, snatching it from her fingers. The angel stood motionless.

Unfolding the brittle sheet, Vi began to read aloud:

“Vi, I’m sorry I can no longer be there to protect you. Heaven has taken me back, and it’s because of you. I waited in purgatory for you to fulfill your promise—and you did. You taught me true friendship and trust. You stayed and fought until our enemy fell. But beware—while I waited, a terrible being set his sights on you. His name is Cain. I’ve sent a guardian angel to protect you—her name is Iselin. She vowed to keep you alive and safe at all times—”

Vi’s voice faltered, but she forced the last line through her teeth: “From Judas.”

She let the paper drop to her side, eyes meeting Iselin’s unblinking gaze. “Fuck off. I don’t need any of that anymore. I don’t want to live, and I don’t want your help. You can tell him that.”

Iselin didn’t move. Instead, she lowered her spear’s butt to the balcony floor with a hard thunk, still facing Vi.

“No,” Vi said sharply, shaking her head. “You aren’t staying here. Go—fly back up there or something. Don’t waste your time on me.”

But the angel didn’t so much as blink.

Rolling her eyes, Vi spun and sprinted for the balcony edge, throwing herself into open air—only for Iselin’s hand to clamp around her arm. With effortless strength, the angel yanked her back and hurled her onto the stone.

Vi skidded on her side, hair whipping across her face. She looked up at the angel, voice cracking with fury. “Oh, please! Just—just leave me alone! Go away!”

Vi lunged toward Iselin, shoving at her with all her weight in a desperate attempt to knock the angel off the balcony. Iselin staggered back, wings flaring instinctively, and tumbled over the edge. Vi let out a sharp exhale of relief, already turning toward the railing with grim determination. Her boots scraped against the stone as she prepared to throw herself into the drop below—

—but before she could fall, hands like iron clamped around her. The rush of air and the sound of great wings filled her ears as she was yanked upward. Iselin’s grip was unyielding, her white eyes unreadable in the moonlight. They landed back on the balcony with a hard thud, Vi’s feet touching stone as the angel released her, standing a measured distance away.

“Let me go! Why are you like this?” Vi’s voice cracked, raw with rage and exhaustion.

Iselin said nothing.

“Whatever,” Vi spat, brushing past her. “Go away. I don’t need you. I’m not staying alive just so I can keep suffering. If that Cain guy wants me dead, let him. I don’t give a fuck.”

She stormed toward the stairs, boots clanging on the metal steps, and slipped into the dim bathroom where she and Judas had once hidden their bombs. Her hand closed around one—cold, heavy, real. She glanced toward the doorway, making sure the angel wasn’t there, then dropped into a chair. Her thumb toyed with the fuse, a quiet click-click filling the silence.

That silence broke when Iselin appeared at her side. Without a word, the angel’s hands closed over Vi’s, prying the weapon from her grip.

“Can you just stop?” Vi muttered bitterly.

Iselin didn’t answer. She simply stepped back, holding the bomb out of reach.

“Give me that!” Vi lunged for it, but Iselin’s arm was already moving, placing the bomb out of sight. Vi’s chest rose and fell faster. She spun on her heel, bolting toward the bathroom again—only for Iselin to wrap an arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground as easily as a child.

“Let me go! Just—just let me die!” Vi kicked, her boots striking against Iselin’s shins, but the angel didn’t so much as flinch.

Desperation boiled over. Vi sank her teeth into Iselin’s arm. The taste of copper hit her tongue as skin broke, blood welling up against her lips. Still, Iselin didn’t loosen her hold, her expression flat and unchanging.

Vi pulled away with a whimper, panting, the fight draining from her limbs. She tried to summon her abilities, but her knees buckled before she could manage anything. Iselin caught her again, carrying her effortlessly away from the bathroom.

When her feet touched the ground, Vi collapsed at the angel’s legs, clutching at the hem of her robe. Her voice broke into a plea.

“Just tell him, please. Just—” She lifted her face, eyes glassy. “Please. I can’t live in this misery any longer.”

Her grip loosened, and she pushed herself up, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Fuck this.”

Vi stalked out of the building, her boots striking the pavement hard. Behind her, Iselin followed without a word, her shadow stretching alongside Vi’s in the dim light of the city streets.

“Why are you following me?!” Vi’s voice ripped through the air, sharp and furious.

Still, Iselin said nothing.

Vi groaned in frustration, shaking her head as she pressed forward, disappearing into the chaos of the city.

Vi pushed deeper into the city, the glow of red-lit windows and flickering neon painting her face in harsh color. Demons turned their heads as she passed, their eyes following her—some curious, others suspicious. She could feel their stares scraping against her skin like claws.

One male demon tilted his head at her, gaze lingering too long. Without hesitation, Vi swung a fist into his jaw, the crack of impact echoing down the street.

“Kill me!” she shouted, her voice ragged and fierce.

The demons hesitated for only a second before several lunged toward her, claws and teeth bared. Vi didn’t move to defend herself—she wanted them to finish it.

But before they could touch her, a flash of silver and white split through the crowd. Iselin’s spear swept in a deadly arc, slicing through the attackers as if they were nothing. Their bodies hit the ground before the sound of the strike had even faded. The angel planted the spear into the cobblestones with a deep, resonant crack. The ground splintered outward from the impact.

“Stay away!” Iselin’s roar rolled through the street like thunder, so loud it rattled the windows above. A powerful wind surged from her, whipping hair, cloaks, and dust into the air, forcing the remaining demons to stagger back.

Vi stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide, her breath caught at the sight of the angel’s wrath. She glanced at the retreating demons, then down at the cracked stone beneath Iselin’s feet. Her shoulders sagged, shame curling in her gut.

“I guess none of you could either,” she muttered, her tone hollow. “Trust me—I’m trying.”

Without another word, Vi turned away and kept walking, her boots carrying her toward the dim-lit bar at the end of the street.

The bar’s heavy doors creaked as Vi stepped inside, boots thudding against the warped floorboards. Conversation died almost instantly. Demons froze mid-drink, mid-laugh, mid-whisper—eyes tracking her every move. Their expressions shifted from curiosity to something closer to shock, then quickly flicked toward the figure just behind her. The moment they saw Iselin’s wings in the dim light, they averted their eyes and quietly moved away, making space like water parting around a stone.

Vi walked straight to the counter, her posture loose but her face drawn and pale. She leaned on the bar and met the gaze of the bartender—an imp with slick, mottled skin and a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Strongest one, please,” she said, her voice low, worn, and tired.

The imp didn’t speak. He simply began mixing—hands a blur as he worked with almost too much enthusiasm. From under the counter, a vial was produced, a thin line of poison tapped into the drink with careful precision. The liquid swirled, deep and dark. He slid the glass toward her with a practiced, almost reverent motion.

Vi reached for it.

The glass never touched her lips.

With a sharp motion, Iselin’s hand came down, knocking the drink from her grasp. It skittered across the counter, shattering on the floor, its contents hissing faintly as they seeped into the cracks. The bartender’s grin vanished, replaced by a slow glare aimed at the angel.

Vi’s gaze drifted from the shards to Iselin’s face, her tired eyes narrowing. “Why?” she asked flatly, resting her head in her palm as if the answer hardly mattered.

Turning back to the imp, she sighed. “Can you just—give me another one?”

The bartender hesitated only a moment before pouring her another drink, this time without the telltale poison. Iselin didn’t move to stop her.

Vi took the glass slowly, glancing at the angel out of the corner of her eye before looking back at the bartender. Realization clicked in her expression, subtle but there. She let out a humorless chuckle.

“If you wanna kill me,” she said, swirling the drink in her hand, “get me knocked out with those drinks. This thing—” she jerked her thumb toward Iselin without looking—“won’t let me die. As much as I want to, I don’t think anybody can really do anything about it.” Her tone was dry, the irony biting, almost bitter enough to taste.

She took a sip and winced at the burn, setting the glass down with a small thud.

Around them, the other patrons slowly resumed their chatter, their clinking glasses and quiet laughter filling the air again. But no one looked at the human anymore. Whether they chose to ignore her or simply didn’t want to be involved, Vi could no longer tell the difference.

The palace of Lucifer lay in shadow, its tall windows filtering in only slivers of dim light. A long dining table stretched the length of the great hall, gleaming under candlelight. Silver platters lined its surface, and maids moved swiftly between seats, setting down steaming dishes that filled the air with rich scents. Yet, despite the preparations, one presence was notably absent.

Beezlebub strode in first, Vortex at her side. Her eyes swept the length of the table, but Lucifer’s high-backed throne sat empty. She clicked her tongue.
“Don’t tell me Lucifer completely forgot about the gathering too. It’s starting to feel like he’s abandoned us entirely,” she grumbled, lowering herself into a chair that a maid hastily pulled out for her.

From across the table, Valentino’s lips curled into a sly grin.
“That chair must be happy, sin of gluttony,” he teased, his long tongue flicking playfully in her direction.

Beezlebub gave a small, nervous laugh, but Vortex’s low growl rumbled like a warning. Vox, seated beside the moth demon, rolled his eyes.
“Val, stop that,” he muttered, giving Valentino a sharp kick under the table.

Valentino hissed, rubbing his ankle.

The tall doors opened again. Asmodeus swept into the hall, the ever-energetic jester Fizzarolli bouncing at his side, his spring-like legs clicking with each cheerful step.
“Asmodeus! Early as always,” Valentino greeted.

“The house gets dull during these little ‘important’ events,” Asmodeus replied smoothly. “Better to make my fun here.” His golden eyes scanned the table. “Where is Lucifer?”

“He’s not showing up, I guess,” Beezlebub said with a shrug.

Asmodeus gasped in dramatic offense as he sank into the seat at the head of the table, gesturing for Fizzarolli to join him.
“But why? He set this gathering himself—why is the host missing from his own celebration?”

Beezlebub gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not even sure where our king is anymore. But! Let’s not let his disappearance ruin the mood.”

Vox’s attention drifted toward the far side of the hall, where a grand piano gleamed under candlelight. “Hey!” he called to the pianist.

The imp woman who rose was striking—blonde hair spilling over the shoulders of her crimson gown. She glided to the piano bench with practiced grace, sitting down to play a soft, elegant melody that warmed the otherwise tense air.

The next arrival was far less refined. The doors creaked again, and Mammon swaggered in mid-bite, crumbs scattering across his tailored coat.
“Hello, my friends!” he boomed, pulling out the nearest chair and dropping into it without ceremony.

“Mammon! Always a pleasure,” someone called down the table.

And so the rest came—Alastor with his unnerving grin, Velvette gliding in like she owned the place, the other Sins filing in one after another. Every seat is filled with power, wealth, and ego. Luxurious gowns shimmered under the candlelight, jewels sparkled at throats and wrists, and every head was styled to perfection.

Well—except Mammon’s, who was already tearing into a second bread roll.

Vi laughed, swaying slightly with the drunken rhythm of the music, her head bobbing as if it might detach at any moment. She staggered toward Iselin, holding out a drink with an unsteady hand, the glass sloshing dangerously. With a teasing grin, she lightly tapped the angel’s stomach.

“Come on, angel, just one sip,” Vi drawled, her words loose and sticky with alcohol.

Iselin took the offered cup—only to let it slip from her grasp, shattering on the floor without so much as a change in her expression. She stayed planted beside Vi like a marble statue, unblinking and immovable.

Vi gave her a playful shove. “Go on and go, Iselin. God, such an angelic ass name—” She snorted, then, without warning, hurled the contents of another drink straight at her. The angel didn’t even flinch; her spear cut through the air in a precise motion, batting the liquid away before it could touch her.

That caught the attention of the surrounding demons. Some laughed outright at the scene.

“Getting fucked up, Vi?” an imp jeered, stepping closer with no hint of fear.

Vi blinked at him, a sluggish frown pulling at her face—then her lips curled into a slow smile. “Yeah,” she shouted back, her voice carrying through the noise.

“Yeah?” the imp barked, bouncing on his heels, egging her on.

“Yeah!” Vi roared, stepping forward and slamming her chest into his. The crowd erupted in cheers, imps rushing forward to set up drinking challenges.

She was in the center before she even realized, a long drinking tube shoved into her mouth. She tilted her head back, swallowing hard as the liquid burned down her throat. When she slammed the empty jar onto the counter, the imps went wild.

From there, she was everywhere—locking arms with hulking hellhounds in arm wrestles and slamming their faces into the table when they lost, roaring in victory each time.

A female demon sauntered toward her, hips rolling, trailing a hand along Vi’s jaw. Vi’s response was to headbutt her without hesitation, the crowd howling with laughter.

It didn’t take long before the whole bar dissolved into chaos. Chairs splintered against walls, drinks spilled across the floor, and bodies collided in drunken brawls.

Through it all, Iselin barely moved, only lifting a glass to her lips for the smallest sip. But the instant she spotted Vi on the floor, half-trampled and vulnerable, she moved like lightning.

In a single motion, she scooped Vi up with one arm, wings snapping open, the force sending nearby demons stumbling back. She carried her out of the bar without slowing, the cold night air swallowing the din behind them.

When they landed, Iselin set Vi on her feet. The human just stood there, eyes glassy, as if she’d been left behind in her own head.

From down the street, Alexandre appeared, strolling lazily until his gaze caught on her. “Oh shit, you’re here?” He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Vi?” He waved a hand in front of her face, then poked her cheek gently.

Iselin’s spear struck the ground between them with a sharp crack, warning him back.

“You an angel?” Alexandre asked, glancing up at her with mild surprise. “The hell is even happening anymore?”

Vi blinked—once, twice, slow and unfocused—then turned without a word, wandering toward the bar again. Before she could take more than two steps, a piece of paper, caught on the wind, fluttered right into her face.

She peeled it off and stared down at it. “Overlord gathering,” she mumbled, flipping it over to read the address.

She found the nearest taxi, leaning against the window and knocking. The driver, eyes wide, dropped a small bag of cocaine onto the seat.

“Pride Ring, yeah?” Vi said, jerking her head toward Iselin. “Oh, fuck this. Come with me, I guess…” Her words slurred into a half-laugh.

Both climbed in, Iselin’s spear resting across her lap.

The driver pulled out, but the cocaine still in his system made his driving wild—swerving into cars, clipping corners.

Iselin shifted, wrapping her left wing around Vi protectively, her posture rigid and utterly unshaken by the chaos outside.

When the taxi veered toward a tree, Iselin didn’t wait. Her arm tightened around Vi, wings snapping wide, and in an instant they were airborne, leaving the vehicle behind.

They touched down softly. Vi crumpled to her knees, retching onto the ground. Iselin turned her head slightly, expression slightly cringing, and simply waited for her to finish.

In the distance, a palace rose against the hazy skyline. Pride Ring imps paused to glance at Vi, confusion flickering in their eyes—only to quickly avert their gaze when Iselin struck the ground with her spear, the sharp crack echoing through the street.

Vi spat to the side, her body swaying as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the other drunkenly pointing at the palace.
“I– I think—”
She didn’t finish before another wave of nausea hit, doubling her over as she vomited again.

When it finally passed, she straightened, her breath ragged. Without another word, she started forward, each unsteady step carrying her toward the looming palace in the distance.

Stolas and Sorath sat beside each other, the low hum of chatter filling the grand hall.

“Stolas, it’s great to see you again! Is Vi finally dealt with?” Asmodeus asked, swirling his drink with a smug tilt of his head.

Stolas narrowed his eyes, plucking the wine glass straight from Asmodeus’s hand and taking a slow sip. “You sent Abaddon to her, didn’t you? You should already know.” His tone dripped with sarcasm, gaze darkening.

“I’m sure she’s dead,” Asmodeus replied with a careless shrug. “Vi can’t possibly defeat an overlord.”

“Her scream echoed through the whole Wrath Ring—we already know how that might have gone,” Leviathan chimed in, smirking. “Where’s Abaddon now?”

“On a break, perhaps,” Sorath said flatly.

Mammon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “I’m surprised you still came here, Sorath, considering nobody relies on your useless ass anymore.” His bark of laughter shook the table. Sorath glared at him and smirked, eyes gazing towards Stolas to his right.

“You know what, guys? I’m glad Vi’s dead—not because I hate her!” Beelzebub lifted her hands innocently, though the grin never left her face. “The girl’s so mentally fucked, if I was born the way she is, I’d probably put myself down just to spare myself the mental fallout.” Her laugh was cruel, joined by the chorus of other overlords.

“Well, you can’t work well if the mind is rotten,” Alastor said with a sharp smile. “And hers was practically a landfill.”

“She was always more trouble than she was worth,” Leviathan added. “Every time her name came up, it was followed by chaos, bad decisions, and someone bleeding out.”

“Not to mention,” Mammon said, leaning back, “she struts around like she’s some unkillable badass—but in the end? Just another pathetic human with a death wish.”

The laughter around the table grew louder, the mockery echoing through the hall like a cruel celebration.

The giant doors groaned and squeezed open, the sound sharp and grating, like a chair being dragged across stone. Every head in the room turned, and the chatter died into a stunned silence. Vi stood there in the doorway, eyes glowing faintly, Iselin at her side like some ominous shadow. For a moment, she just stood, scanning the room as if deciding who she’d insult first.

Her gaze landed on Valentino. She walked straight toward him with an easy, slow gait that was somehow more threatening than a sprint. “Hey, fatty, scoot your chair a little,” she said casually, like she was asking for the salt.

Valentino’s glare could have burned holes through the floor, but he didn’t move.

Vi’s lips twitched in a smirk. Then—bang—she kicked the leg of his chair, shoving him a few inches aside before unfolding the seat and sliding into it like nothing happened.

The maids shifted, unsure whether to serve her, until Asmodeus lifted a languid hand. “Ah-ah. Don’t serve her. She was never invited here.”

Vi pulled a folded ticket from her pocket and flicked it at him, the paper bouncing off his chest. “I can get my own food, dude. I’m grown.” She pushed back from the table without waiting for a reply and strolled toward the kitchen, the sound of her boots echoing off the marble.

Valentino watched her go, curling his lip. “So, uh, what the fuck is she doing here? And what’s with the angel? Is she being protected now?”

Alastor tilted his head. “How… quaint. I didn’t know Heaven had started sending this as a bodyguard request.”

Vi came back with a plate piled high with rice, no utensils in sight. She stood next to Valentino, reaching right over him for some roasted meat, grabbing it with her bare, blood-stained hands. She sat down without looking at him.

“I’m an overlord now too, apparently,” she said between chews. “According to Judas. Man, I’d rather kill myself than become any of you fucks.”

Valentino leaned forward, voice sharp. “So then why don’t you?”

Without missing a beat, Vi snatched his knife and actually started pressing it to her own neck, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. Iselin’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist before it went further.

Leviathan slammed a palm on the table. “Why are you even still breathing? You’ve done enough damage—nearly flattened the entire Wrath Ring with your little stunts!”

Vi grinned around a mouthful of food. “Yeah, well, the skies took Judas, and he dropped this thing down here because apparently someone named Cain’s coming to kill me.”

Asmodeus froze, brows knitting. “Cain? Cain? I thought that bastard was long gone.” His grin widened like a cat seeing a mouse corner itself. “Guess he’s here to do us all a favor. Finally, someone to clean up this filthy human mess.”

Vi swallowed and glanced between him, Valentino, and Vox. “Filthy? Coming from you three? Woah.”

She tore into another hunk of meat. “It’s funny—when I first dropped into this hellhole, you all thought I was an angel. Some prissy little prince sold me to this guy to ‘punish’ me. And now…” She waved her chicken leg toward Vox, “…you have to rebuild your tower because I blew it the fuck up.”

Vox’s head snapped toward Valentino, fury in his voice. “She’s the one that destroyed your building?”

Valentino shot up from his chair. “Yes! And I only might have left something on, but—”

“—But nothing,” Vi cut in, talking over him. “You’re just pissed because you couldn’t keep me on a leash. You remember, don’t you? You had me on the floor, and you were so sure I’d stay there.”

Valentino smirked down at her, cruel. “If you hadn’t slipped away, you’d still be crying under me.”

Vi’s smile sharpened. “Funny. Last time we met, you were the one begging me to stop.”

Beezlebub’s eyes went wide. “You almost killed him?”

“That is not true!” Valentino snapped.

Vi ignored him, licking her fingers. “Speaking of—anyone here siding with this rapist?” She jerked a thumb toward Valentino.

Beezlebub gasped; Vox’s brows knitted. “Any proof of that? No? Thought so!” Vox barked.

“Proof?” Vi laughed. “You’re in Hell. What the fuck is proof supposed to mean here?”

Beezlebub turned on Valentino. “Is that true?”

“Oh, shut your gullible mouth, whore!” Valentino barked. “We’re believing the same lunatic who ate someone?”

Stolas sipped his drink like it was the most entertaining show he’d seen all week. “As much as I hate to admit it… Vi hasn’t lied once. Asmodeus—your soldier failed.” His gaze cut to Sorath. “Did you lie?”

Sorath shook his head.

Asmodeus slammed his glass down, standing. “Listen here, you bitchy little twig—my work is worth more than wasting time chasing down this pathetic waste of space!”

Beezlebub shoved her chair back. “Can we stop screaming insults for one second?”

Vortex tugged at her sleeve, murmuring, “Babe, let’s go cool down—”

She ripped her arm away and roared, “And don’t ever call me a whore again, you dick-sucking, bald, big-hat-ass freak!”

Alastor chuckled and strolled toward the exit, flipping them off over his shoulder. “You’re all idiots.”

Through it all, Vi just kept eating, occasionally stealing food from Mammon’s plate when no one was looking.

Then, without warning, she stood and bolted for the door. Iselin moved fast, scooping her up and launching into the air as the overlords screamed after them. Vi dangled in her arms, still tearing into the slab of meat she’d stolen.

Iselin swooped back into the Wrath Ring, the wind of her descent sharp enough to scatter dust. Without warning, she let go.

Vi slammed onto the cracked ground with a bone-jarring thump.
“Son of a—” she groaned, rolling to her side and staggering to her feet.

Before she could collect herself, a pack of hellhounds stalked into view, knuckles cracking, eyes locked on her like fresh meat. Vi took a step back, boots scuffing the dirt.

“Oh, we doing this?” she asked, trying to sound cocky through her hangover haze.

They lunged—only for Iselin to plant herself between Vi and the pack, spear flashing as she deflected their strikes.

Vi darted to her side, fists raised. “Hey, don’t hog all the fun!” she snapped, only to get shoved back.

“Stay back!” Iselin ordered without even looking at her, her voice sending shockwaves.

Vi stumbled, glaring. “Seriously? I’m drunk, not helpless!”

A sudden yank on her ankle ripped her off her feet. Vi hit the ground and spun, eyes widening.

The man holding her was tall, robed in black and gold. His long hair was tied back, shadowing a smile that didn’t reach his purple eyes.

“Well, this is cozy,” Cain said, voice smooth with malice.

Vi kicked at him, snarling. “Let go, freak!”

Cain laughed, a deep, humorless sound, and swung her into the wall like she was nothing. The impact rattled her teeth.

“Finish it!” she spat, daring him.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Cain said, stepping closer. “I made that promise to your traitor friend.”

Twin rock flails materialized in his hands, chains glinting in the hellish light. He swung one big rock flail toward her—

Iselin moved like a flash, wings snapping out as she barreled into Cain, knocking him back. Her spear cut a line across his chest, and he staggered with a grunt.

“An angel,” Cain said, panting, eyes scanning her up and down with a twisted familiarity. His smirk deepened. “Oh, Iselin. Here to send me back?”

She gripped her weapon tighter, but said nothing.

Cain leaned in just enough for his voice to drop to a whisper. “Your power over me is gone, pretty angel.”

His hand lifted toward her face—

Iselin surged forward, shoving him back and slicing at him again. Cain’s flail whipped low, aiming for her ankles, but she vaulted over it with practiced grace.

His gaze snapped past her—to Vi, still slumped against the wall.

Iselin saw it, bolting to Vi before Cain’s weapon could connect. She scooped Vi up with one arm and launched skyward.

Cain stood there, watching her wings carve through the sky, their pale span impossible to miss in the Wrath Ring’s haze. He swung his flails back, locking them into the mammoth tusks jutting from his back, the metal perfectly fitted into the grooves.

The first murderer smirked.
He knew exactly where she was going.

Chapter 32: Cat and mouse

Summary:

Cain grinned and dug his fingers into the earth, hauling up a boulder with ease.
“The first murderer,” he growled, “is back.”

Iselin set Vi gently on the balcony, but Vi shoved her away.

“Why? Why are you keeping me alive?”

Her voice was small, broken, her gaze locked on the angel’s face. Pain twisted through her body, and hot tears blurred her vision.

“I just want to be gone forever.”

Her voice cracked into a sob. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, then turned away. Iselin followed, but Vi spun around, her tone sharp.

“Just go away!” she yelled, before slamming the door shut.

She headed downstairs to Judas’s room, collapsing onto his bed. The night breeze drifted in through the shattered window, playing with strands of her hair. She sat up long enough to peel off her leather jacket and fling it aside. It knocked over the small table with a clatter.

With a weary sigh, she lay back and draped an arm over her forehead, staring at the ceiling in silence. A slow, deliberate knock interrupted her thoughts. She groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and buried her face in the pillow.

“Fuck off, Iselin! I don’t need you right now.”

“Vi?”

Her head lifted slightly. The voice wasn’t Iselin’s. Angel stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

“I snuck back into my apartment,” he said, crossing the room. “Grabbed my clothes. I want to live here with you—just somewhere far from the city.”

He sat beside her and dropped a bag on the bed.

“These are for you. You need to take a shower, girl.” His tone was teasing.

Vi peeked inside. Among the folded clothes was a pair of laced underwear tied with a ribbon, plenty of more underwear were also folded into the clothes. The pink one caught her eye. She held it up, her cheeks warming.

“Oh, Angel, I—”

He chuckled. “I used to own those. Don’t worry, they’re clean. I’ve got plenty more.”

Standing, he gave her a faint smile. “Tomorrow morning, shower. You can’t keep walking around smellin’ like this.” He shut the door behind him.

Vi set the bag aside with a quiet sigh.

“My hygiene’s the least of my problems right now,” she murmured.

Vi let out a soft sigh, eyes closing as she tried to rest.
Iselin stood on the balcony, scanning the streets below, before making her way down the stairs. She froze when she spotted Angel Dust.

Her spear snapped up instantly, point leveled at him.

“Whoa—hey!” Angel gasped, dropping the clothes he was carrying. “I’m not here to hurt anybody, I swear. You’re here to protect Vi, right?”

Iselin’s eyes narrowed. She slammed the butt of her spear into the floor but didn’t strike.

“Okay, okay. Geez—actual angels are so weird,” Angel muttered, bending to gather his clothes. “Still… I’m glad Vi’s got someone looking out for her.” He walked off without another glance.

Iselin’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer—until a sound from below caught her attention. Her head snapped toward the stairwell. Quietly, she followed it down, each step taking her further out of the building… and away from Vi.

Vi lay sprawled on her stomach upstairs. Groaning, she dragged herself up and reached for her jacket.
“Iselin?” she called, heading for the door.

She noticed a small crack in the floorboards—probably from Iselin’s earlier scuffle—and frowned. The building felt… empty.

“Iselin?” she called again, but the silence was heavy.

A cold feeling settled in her gut. Maybe Iselin really had left.

If so…
Then Vi could finally do what she’d always wanted.

Her hands curled into fists. She stepped onto the bridge, wind tugging at her hair, and walked to the middle. Her gaze dropped to the black water far below.

She climbed the railing.

And jumped.

A hand shot out and yanked her back.

“Oh no,” a man’s voice growled, “don’t take my fun away from killing you myself.”

Vi’s eyes widened—Cain.

“I won’t let someone like you have my life,” she spat, wrenching away. She turned and ran.

Cain’s laugh followed her, along with the sharp whistle of metal through the air. A flail slammed into her ankle, chains snapping tight.

She hit the ground hard.

Cain pulled, dragging her across the rough bridge. Vi screamed, kicking, nails clawing the stone until they tore and bled. She twisted, unhooked herself, and drove her elbow into his nose before punching him square in the jaw.

Cain staggered back, grinning through the blood.

Vi bolted for the woods.

Branches tore at her as she ducked behind a massive log. She risked a peek—then froze.

Cain was behind her.

His hand clamped around her throat, lifting her like she weighed nothing. Vi choked, kicking wildly, before he slammed her into a tree. Pain ripped through her ribs. She spat blood, vision hazy.

Cain grinned and dug his fingers into the earth, hauling up a boulder with ease.
“The first murderer,” he growled, “is back.”

He roared and brought it down—

The impact never came.

Iselin’s spear split the rock in two. The angel kicked Cain back, spinning her weapon in a gleaming arc.

Cain’s flail lashed out, tangling around her right wing. Iselin staggered, still silent, but struck at him again. Vi rolled to the side, gasping for air.

Cain stepped on Iselin’s wing.

His eyes found Vi. He stalked toward her, grinning.
“Your angel friend here,” he sneered, “needs a wing woman.”

His eyes burned red.

Vi ran, dodging the whirling flails, until she reached Iselin and crouched beside her. Cain’s strike came fast—

A burst of hextech energy exploded between them, sending the weapon spinning back.

The shield flickered and died.

Cain snarled, pulled a mammoth tusk from his back, and hurled it.

It tore through Vi’s stomach. Her scream ripped through the air.

Iselin lunged, yanking the tusk free, her arm wrapping around Vi’s waist. She beat her wings hard, lifting them into the sky—

But Cain’s rope dart snapped out, hooking into her leg. The pull sent her shrieking, and she dropped Vi onto a rooftop.

Vi staggered upright, blood pouring from her wound. She saw Iselin struggling against the rope—

And ran for her.

She leapt, seized the rope, and snapped it. Gravity claimed her instantly.

Iselin dove to catch her—

But Vi twisted midair, eyes blazing cyan as hextech runes swirled around her. She slammed into Cain with shattering force.

Cain roared, grabbing her ankles.
“You think I’m easy to crush? I’m just as tough as—”

His legs locked around her head. He flipped her over, slamming her down.

Vi hit the dirt hard.

Cain rushed in, driving his fist into her stomach. Vi gasped in pain.

Iselin dropped from above, her spear driving into Cain’s eye.

His scream split the air.

Iselin grabbed Vi and took to the sky again.

Below them, Cain’s cries turned to laughter. Blood ran down his face as he roared:
“I’ll get you, you fucking human!”

Cain’s breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling with a predator’s patience. With one rough tug, he tore a strip from his rope and wound it around his right eye, knotting it tight with a practiced motion. The corner of his mouth curved into a cold smirk before his boots began to crunch along the scorched ground. Each step carried him closer to the Pride Ring—closer to the sprawling shadow of Lucifer’s palace. When he finally crossed its threshold, the air inside was heavy with expensive smoke and stale liquor.

Valentino sat slouched on a plush chair, alone, swirling a drink lazily between his fingers, clearly not expecting company. Cain stopped a few paces away, chuckled low, and let the laugh build into something sharper.
“I refuse to believe,” Cain began, voice dripping with venom, “that they’ve started handing out titles to wimps like you.”

Valentino’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing at the stranger before him. “Wh–who are you?” he asked, rising cautiously from his seat, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.

Cain stepped closer, letting the dim light catch the edge of his smile. “The first murderer,” he declared, tone loud and cutting, “Cain.”

The name hit like a blade. Valentino’s pupils tightened, his confident façade cracking just enough for him to sink slowly back into his chair. Cain’s gaze swept the room as he circled him like a wolf, hands brushing the back of the chair, his boots tapping deliberately against the floor.

“I’m finally home again,” Cain said, his tone soft yet dangerous. “This… this is where my place has always been.” His eyes narrowed. “Has Lucifer been around?”

Valentino swallowed and answered without looking up, “The king has been absent.”

Cain tilted his head, unimpressed, and stepped into his space. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Valentino obeyed, though his stare wavered. Cain’s voice dipped lower, sharp as a blade sliding from its sheath. “You overlords… seem to have forgotten what you were made for. Your purposes, your duties.” He leaned in until his breath brushed Valentino’s ear. “Our little friend… Vi. She’s still breathing. Why is that, Val?”

“The human keeps running, Overlord Cain,” Valentino replied quickly, voice tight. “We couldn’t find her.”

Cain smirked—slow, deliberate—before drawing something from behind his coat. A jagged mammoth tusk, its ivory surface smeared with dried crimson. Vi’s blood.

“Can you smell that?” Cain murmured, dragging the tusk under Valentino’s nose so the copper tang invaded his senses. “That’s her. That’s Vi’s blood.”

He leaned so close that his lips almost grazed Valentino’s ear. “Wanna know how I got it?” The tone shifted—quiet, trembling with mock excitement—before it burst into a roar. “Because I looked for the bitch… and I found her.” The last words were spat, hot and furious, right into his ear.

Without warning, Cain shoved Valentino hard, sending him sprawling back in his chair. The pimp looked down, adjusting his coat out of instinct, but Cain’s attention had already shifted to the low table in front of them. Leftover food sat untouched, expensive dishes cooling in the stale air.

“Hm?” Cain said with exaggerated curiosity. “What’s this? Throwing yourself a little tea party? Who’s on the guest list, hmm?”

Valentino hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Me… the other overlords. The sins—Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Leviathan, and Belphegor.”

“Oh really?” Cain asked, head tilting in mock intrigue. “And where was Satan?”

“He’s dead,” Valentino said flatly. “Killed by Adam during the extermination—”

Before he could finish, Cain’s palm slammed down onto the table, rattling the plates. His laughter cut through the tense air. “So there’s no one ruling the Wrath Ring at this very moment?” He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “No wonder we have a sack of shit running around here still breathing.”

Cain took slow, deliberate steps toward Valentino again. The tusk rose, its point pressing against the base of his throat, hard enough to draw a bead of blood. Valentino froze.

“I’m back,” Cain said, voice deep and certain. “And you overlords will treat me as your king. You will have them work for me to hunt that human… and soon enough, everyone will know I am the one worthy to rule this ring.”

The tusk dug in further, enough to sting. Valentino winced, a tiny sound escaping his throat.

“You,” Cain said in a low growl, “will start it. Don’t get yourself killed in the process.”

He pulled the tusk away and in the blink of an eye, his figure dissolved into the shadows, gone without a trace.

Valentino sat motionless for a few seconds, heart pounding against his ribs. His breathing came quick, uneven. At last, he reached up, straightened his fur coat, and tugged it just high enough to hide the small but stinging wound at his neck.

Chapter 33: The fur coat is shaking

Summary:

“It didn’t have to go this way,” he muttered under his breath, his voice more tired than angry. Pausing at the door, he glanced back one last time at the vacant shell she had become before slipping out of the throne room. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

Valentino stood fixed in the palace of Lucifer, his red velvet coat loose, dragged onto the floor crumpled up. He sat down, hands together, on a red cushion in the throne room, embroidered with vines and what looked like roses tangling together.

Valentino removes his glasses, his gaze staring against the cold dark obsidian floor, his right hand shivering. His breathing paced, fingers squeezing the chair’s arm. His glasses dropped on the floor, closing his eyes— lowering his head down.

“Don’t get yourself killed.” Cain’s voice echoed throughout his mind, a delayed repeat that played his words over and over again.

He could only remember it painfully, the way Vi’s eyes glared down wrathfully toward him, the sound of that weapon— some sort of metallic boxing glove, the way he almost lost his life that moment.

Vox walked in with his hands behind his back held together, slow deliberate footsteps, he knew what was happening to Valentino. He gently places a hand on his shoulder, using his thumb to gently brush against his collarbone. Valentino’s breathing slowly steaded, eyes twitching nervously towards Vox.

The television laughed quietly at him, "It's been decades seeing you acting up like this ever since Cain came back, he’s a bitch to deal with. I think I’d actually prefer the human—” Vox paused, the situation between Valentino and Vi had slept his mind completely. Valentino’s eyes sided him, furrowing his brows. Vox faced down, noticing his pink heart-shaped shades. He bent down and took it with his hand, lifting himself back up, handing it to Valentino.

“I still can’t believe I let myself be destroyed by that damn girl,” he spoke, his voice shaking with frustration and anger, “do you see how much she has made me suffer?” Valentino yelled out, pointing at the bandages encompassed around his neck. Vox’s expression changed from worry to his face tightening, eyes looking away from a thought— and he decided to speak up.

“I mean, we did torture her,” Vox muttered, but his voice was loud enough for Valentino to hear, pink eyes snapping towards him, “Not that I’m trying to excuse her actions, obviously.” He spoke, his hands up in a surrender before slowly lowering them.

“It’s just– I refuse to believe that you, an overlord, got fucked by a human who can turn lights on.” Vox sighs, shoulders dropping down, trying to collect his words before spitting them out, “I’m just a little disappointed. We spent years in that studio, and everything was blown up, with this, by the way.”

He pulls out a broken angelic grenade, a monkey drawn over it. “Our new studio’s being built back up, we’re staying over until it’s been built.” Vox hands the bomb over to Valentino, turning his back to walk away, Valentino stammering in disbelief.

“In the meanwhile, survive Cain while we roleplay alpha and omega with him.” He said, looking at Valentino over his shoulder before walking away. Valentino, who was slightly raised from his seat, jaw open, relaxed his arms, buttocks falling back down onto the cushion with a muffled thud. He rubbed his face with a hand down with exasperation and groaned with mental exhaustion.

Vox held onto the doorknob and twisted it open, Velvette entering just in time, “Sorry to prod, Valentino invited me.” Velvette swiftly walked in, Vox walking past her, head turning to look at Valentino one last time— his head shaking at him slightly in refusal.

Valentino gazed over at Vox and looked away to face Velvette. He rose from his seat and made his way toward her, smiling wide.

“We need to discuss Cain’s authority, regarding his thing about ruling wrath.” He pulls a chair, gesturing his hand for Velvette to sit down, placing his slender hand on her shoulder. Velvette chuckled and sat down, folding both hands together, resting them on her knees.

“Cain, huh? I haven’t met the guy, but he’s the first murderer?” She spoke with softness, resting her forearms on the table, Valentino’s grin widened, ear-to-ear, his sharp teeth shining from the room’s light.

“That is correct, for billions of years before us, he was powerful among all other overlords,” Valentino lifted his coat slightly, digging his fingers through and pulling out a slip, a paper resting between his two fingers.

He slides the slip over to Velvette with a tiny push. “He was brought to the purgatory after he was deemed very dangerous, an overlord that could overpower the old sin–” He slowly strolled around Velvette, watching her unfold the slip, “Avarice,” The name left his mouth, like a forgotten memory but felt as if a slur had just been said.

Velvette raised a brow, her head snapping toward Valentino in surprise. “That’s another Greed?” she asked, voice rising in disbelief. Her eyes darted between the slip in her hands and Valentino. “There were two—Mammon and Ava ruled the Greed ring. Cain was just some overlord who conquered half of Hell.”

Valentino paced around her, his boots tapping against the obsidian floor with a low, echoing thud. Velvette’s gaze dropped back to the slip, reading slowly.

“You need to help me take Cain out,” Valentino said, voice low but urgent. “He’s not just after Vi—he’ll come for all of us. One by one, the overlords will fall unless we act fast.”

He stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, exhaling deeply before continuing, the words falling heavy from his mouth.

“I need you to get close to him. Make him fall for you. Get him to call it off.”

Velvette’s brows knit together, her eyes narrowing. She looked up at him, swallowing hard.

“Val… you’re asking me to seduce the first murderer. Even with my love potions—what if it doesn’t work?” Her voice trembled with panic as she shook her head. “I can’t. Val, please—”

She tried to push the slip back into his hands, but Valentino grabbed hers, pressing it firmly against her chest.

“Please, Vel,” he pleaded. “It’s the only shot we’ve got. If he takes the Wrath ring, it’s over. He’ll kill us or worse—turn us into his damned slaves. Is that what you want?”

His grip tightened on her shoulders. Velvette’s expression faltered, her gaze dropping.

“Val…” she whispered, shaking her head. “We’ve been friends for so long. But this? I—I can’t do this. Not with him.” She said firmly, her hold tightening around his wrists.

Valentino’s expression hardened, his disappointment curling through his frame like a venomous coil. Without hesitation, his hand whipped across Velvette’s face, the sharp crack echoing in the silence of the chamber. Her head snapped to the side, strands of her hair falling loose, but before she could recover he seized her throat, dragging her closer until their faces were inches apart. Velvette’s breath hitched, her wide eyes shimmering with fear as she met the cold, unyielding gaze of the moth.

“You will not defy me,” Valentino growled, his voice low and venomous, the words laced with finality. From between his lips, tendrils of smoke seeped outward, curling around her face like a living thing before forcing themselves into her mouth and nose. Velvette shuddered violently as the haze invaded her body, her thoughts muddling, sharp edges of resistance blunted into a dull, heavy fog. Her eyes fluttered shut as if she were falling into sleep, then opened again slowly—her pupils unnaturally wide, glassy, and dazed.

“I’ll do it,” she murmured flatly, her voice devoid of its usual fire, as though the words belonged not to her but to the smoke controlling her tongue.

Valentino loosened his hold, the grip on her throat softening as his hands slithered down to her waist, lingering there with a cruel possessiveness. “You will do what is to be done,” he whispered into her ear, each syllable deliberate, before releasing another wave of pink fog that wrapped around her face like silk. She inhaled without resistance, a faint gasp leaving her lips as her pupils bled into a bright, unnatural pink.

Satisfied, Valentino drew his hands away and turned from her, his coat shifting with his stride. Behind him, Velvette stood motionless, her body slack, jaw parted as a thin line of drool slipped down her chin. She was still, hollow, a marionette whose strings he had already tied.

“It didn’t have to go this way,” he muttered under his breath, his voice more tired than angry. Pausing at the door, he glanced back one last time at the vacant shell she had become before slipping out of the throne room. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

The long hallway stretched before him, lit faintly by the glow of sconces that flickered with restless flames. Valentino walked with heavy steps, his wings shifting faintly as guilt pressed at his chest, quiet but undeniable. His hand trembled as he reached for the decorative vase on a nearby shelf, breath shallow, uneven. His fingers clenched around the porcelain until it shattered in his palm, fragments spilling to the floor in sharp clatters. His chest heaved. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, as though the sound of breaking glass might drown out the war inside his head.

When he opened them again, the path ahead was clear. He strode toward the open doors, leaving the shards behind.

From the shadows, Cain emerged. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, predatory and sharp, following Valentino’s retreat with silent amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as his gaze shifted toward the throne room door, still ajar.

Cain stepped forward with a predator’s ease, boots clicking softly against the marble as he slipped into the chamber. His eyes immediately fell upon Velvette—slumped on her knees, her body still trembling faintly, mind wrapped in Valentino’s lingering fog.

“Aww,” Cain cooed mockingly, crouching before her and lifting her chin with a single finger. Her unfocused eyes tried to follow him, her lips parting without thought. “Did your friend do this to you?” His voice dripped with false sweetness, each syllable a dagger meant to twist.

He tilted his head, studying her like an exquisite artifact, fragile and beautiful. “What a beautiful thing you are,” he whispered, lowering himself further until his face hovered just before hers. A chuckle rolled low in his throat, amused and cruel. “He’s clever, yes. But generous? That’s another story. He just gifted me something far greater than he realizes…”

Cain’s hands came up, cradling Velvette’s face with a mockery of tenderness. His smirk widened as her breath hitched faintly, her body pliant in his grasp, her will stolen long before his touch.

“Don’t worry,” Cain murmured as he scooped Velvette into his arms, carrying her in a bridal hold. “You’ve got me now. That Valentino? He’s not your friend anymore.”

He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.

 

“You’re mine. You’ll follow me.”

A soft, chilling laugh escaped him. Velvette’s eyes welled with tears as she shook her head, weakly defiant. Cain’s smile faded, his brow tightening.

“No?” he echoed, voice suddenly sharp.

Without another word, he turned and strode from the throne room, down toward the dungeon below. The echo of his footsteps grew heavier with each step.

“That’s just too bad,” he muttered.

The air turned colder as they descended. Cain took in a deep breath, pausing at the bottom of the stairwell.

“This place is awfully clean,” he mused darkly. “Let’s fix that.”

With a harsh clang, he flung open the iron gate and threw Velvette inside. She hit the stone floor hard, unmoving—still paralyzed, the last threads of hypnosis clinging to her mind. Cain slammed the gate shut and locked it with a metallic snap.

Velvette lay there in silence, a single tear trailing down her cheek as she stared up at him.

Vi sat motionless in the tub as water slowly rose around her. Her body trembled with each jolt of electricity that surged through her nerves, until the shocks finally stopped. Gasping, she clutched the edge of the porcelain, fingers digging in, knuckles white with pain. The water churned violently, like a storm contained in a vessel.

Her head fell back. Arms limp, sinking into the warmth. The rising water cradled her as she slid lower, blank eyes fixed on a distant point, thoughts adrift in silence. She closed her eyes, letting herself slip further in, her body nearly submerged—ready to disappear.

But then—

Fingers gripped her hair, yanking her upward. Vi gasped, choking on air, and smacked the hand away.

“Get the fuck out!” she screamed, voice raw.

Iselin stood above her, unmoved. She said nothing—only stared, face unreadable, spear gripped tight in one hand. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She simply watched.

Vi collapsed back into the tub, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs took over. She curled into herself, lowered her head beneath the water, and let out a scream that no one would hear.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

Angel Dust stepped in, his expression tightening the moment he saw the scene. He glanced at Iselin, then back at Vi with a sigh.

“She’s goin’ through it,” he muttered.

He crouched beside the tub cautiously. When Vi lifted her head, hair plastered to her face, she met her own reflection in the water—vacant and unrecognizable.

Angel offered a faint smile. “Hey… I got a surprise for ya, toots. Don’t go dyin’ on me yet.”

A ripple of static pulsed through the water, zapping him slightly. He winced and held still, eyes on her.

Without another word, he reached for his shampoo bottle and handed it to her.

“Doll yourself up,” he said more gently this time. “Word is, some Overlords hope you’d take Cain down.”

He turned and grabbed Iselin by the wrists, guiding her out of the bathroom. As they left, Iselin glanced back one last time, eyes lingering on Vi.

Alone again, Vi exhaled shakily and stared down at the bottle in her hands.

She didn’t want it. But she took it.

Minutes passed.

The bathroom door creaked open as Vi stepped out, a towel clinging to her waist. Her skin was still damp, droplets trailing down her bruised torso. Her eyes were distant—hollow—as if her soul hadn’t followed her out. Each step was slow, as though she wasn’t walking through air, but through something heavier—grief, perhaps.

Angel Dust looked up from the couch, his expression shifting from casual to concerned. He didn’t say anything at first, just grabbed a roll of gauze and walked toward her quietly.

Vi didn’t look at him. She turned toward the mirror, lifting her arms slightly, revealing the damage beneath. Angry bruises bloomed across her ribs—deep reds and purples that spoke of pain she hadn't let anyone see.

Angel’s hands moved gently, starting to wrap the gauze around her chest.

“Tighter,” Vi said, voice flat.

Angel glanced up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. He hesitated, noticing how the bruises pulsed with each breath she took.

“Hun,” he said softly, “your ribs are damn near broken. I’ll get you a binder if that’s what you need.”

Vi didn’t respond. She stared at her reflection—at a stranger. Her shoulders were stiff, her breathing shallow.

“I said tighter,” she repeated, more forcefully this time, grabbing his wrist with a sudden grip that trembled.

Angel nodded, the pain in her voice louder than any scream. He tightened the gauze, wincing as it dug into her skin, and tied it off.

“I got your clothes fixed up,” he said gently, walking over to retrieve a large box. He carried it back and set it in front of her.

Vi blinked slowly, staring at it as if it didn’t belong.

“What is this?” she asked, slipping on her underwear with mechanical motion.

The box shimmered under the light. A symbol of a sword gleamed on the lid.

“See for yourself, toots.” Angel took a step back, standing next to Iselin, who watched quietly.

Vi knelt beside the box and slowly pulled it open. Inside, neatly folded, was her hoodie—clean, stitched, cared for. Her leather jacket had been patched and reinforced with subtle gold lining. Her pants had been cleaned, the tears mended. And beneath them all was something unexpected—a waist plate. Lightweight, yet clearly strong. Custom-made.

She reached in and held it up, confused.

“You need to wear that under everything,” Angel said. “It’ll protect you. I used the money I made to get you something… something that might keep you alive.”

Vi’s brows furrowed as she looked at him.

“Angel… I-I don’t need this. You do.”

He stepped forward and gently took it from her hands.

“Vi, I’m not the one in danger here.”

With quiet care, he wrapped the plate around her waist and secured it.

“This is for you, hun,” he said softly. “You never forgot about me. You came back—after everything—and gave Valentino a taste of human fists. You didn’t have to. But you did.”

He paused, voice catching just slightly.

“You saved me, Vi. You still care. And I care about you too. You’re my friend. That means something.”

Vi stood still, her mouth slightly parted, like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. Then Angel pulled her into a hug.

At first, she didn’t move. But slowly, her arms lifted, and she melted into him, resting her forehead on his shoulder. Her breath hitched, but no tears came. Not yet.

When she finally pulled back, her hands lingered on his arms before letting go. She turned back to the box and began dressing.

Each piece felt familiar, like muscle memory slipping back into place. The hoodie, the jacket, the pants. The boots. Her reflection slowly shifted. Not whole—but closer to herself.

There was still pain. But it was pain she understood. Pain she chose to carry in a world where she could feel like she belonged, rather than survive in one where she didn’t.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter 34: Loo Loo land

Summary:

“We are done,” Vox said, voice hollow. “Don’t you dare call yourself her friend again.”

Cain rose slowly from the bed, stretching his arms overhead with a sharp inhale, bones cracking in the stillness. The room was dim, lit only by the soft red glow of the chandeliers above. As if on cue, the radio crackled to life, filling the space with somber classical piano—elegant, annoying.

He began to pace, bare feet clicking softly against the cold marble floor. His eyes drifted to a large armoire tucked into the corner of the room. When he opened it, the scent of age and incense drifted out—inside hung a row of regal garments, once worn by Satan himself.

Cain’s lips curled into a small, reverent smirk.

As the piano melody swelled, he sang low under his breath, matching its rhythm with an eerie cadence.
“The new ruler of Wrath is me… yes…”

His fingers brushed along the fabrics until he chose a dark crimson suit, adorned with golden buttons and intricate linen embroidery—fitting for someone claiming a throne of fire and fury.

With quiet precision, he wrapped a red necktie around his throat, then tugged on sleek black leather pants and boots polished to a sinister gleam.

Approaching the tall mirror across the room, he admired his reflection for a moment before grabbing a black eyepatch from the dresser. He secured it over his head, the last piece of his little ritual.

The music reached a quiet crescendo as he stared into the mirror, adjusting his collar.

Then, with a grin too calm to be sane, he sang out—

“That human bitch will be done for.”

And with that, Cain turned from the mirror, ready to play god in a world already drenched in sin.

“It really has been a while, hasn’t it, Mox?” Millie’s voice was soft, carrying that familiar warmth even amidst the riot of colors and sounds of the carnival. She walked beside Moxxie, her hand occasionally brushing against his arm, a silent tether grounding them both. Moxxie’s eyes darted from ride to ride, taking in the spinning lights, the whirling carousels, and the dizzying height of roller coasters. It was as if the park itself were alive, humming with a chaotic energy that seemed to seep into his chest.

“I remember the last time we came here…” Millie continued, her voice dipping into a haze of nostalgia. “With Stolas and Blitz. Back then… even the bad moments felt different. Familiar, somehow. But now… I don’t know why it feels… empty. Like a shadow of itself.”

Moxxie’s steps faltered. He stopped completely, his gaze dropping to the ground. A deep, weary sigh escaped him, curling into the air like smoke. Millie’s eyes softened immediately. She reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself close.

“Hey,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves. To let go… if only for a little while. Forget the chaos waiting for us outside this place.”

Moxxie lifted his head, meeting her eyes. A hesitant smile cracked through the tension clouding his face. “You know, Mill… this place… it’s one of my happiest memories. Especially when I’m with you.”

Millie’s smile widened, her grip on him tightening just slightly. “Even if the world is crashing down,” she said softly, “we still have us. That’s enough for me.”

His blush deepened, his lips brushing hers in a fleeting, tender kiss. “Then… let’s start with your favorite ride,” he said, a spark of excitement igniting in his voice. He grabbed her hand, ready to pull her forward.

“That would be your red, juicy, long—” Millie began, voice dropping into flirtation, before a sudden, stomping interruption silenced her.

A mascot stomped into view, its oversized shoes clanging against the pavement. “Welcome to Loo Loo Land! If you have questions—do NOT approach me!” The creature hopped and skipped away, leaving Millie and Moxxie staring after it in stunned confusion. They shared a brief, awkward glance, shrugged, and moved on.

From a nearby stage, Cain stepped into view, his wide grin cutting across his face like a blade. He paused, one hand on his hip, taking in the scene as memories flickered across his eyes—visions of chaos, blood, and power. His grin twisted ever so slightly as he sighed, savoring the recollection. “Ah… Loo Loo Land,” he murmured, almost to himself, “what delicious memories you hold…”

Velvette flinched as Cain’s hand found her wrist, pulling her close with a possessive grip. “Let go of me,” she murmured, her voice tight with unease.

Cain’s brow furrowed, dark eyes gleaming with intent. “Darling,” he hissed softly, leaning close to her ear, “we are together now. Once you are mine by marriage, we shall reign as king and queen of the Wrath Ring. Is that not… what you desire?” His grip tightened. Velvette whimpered softly, trying to recoil.

“You are my soon-to-be wife,” Cain’s voice dropped, a dangerous edge slicing through the air. “Do not embarrass me. Tonight… after our little performance here… we shall make love. Do not steal that from me.” He released her suddenly, allowing the bodyguards to move her to the side, while he raised his hands to the cheering crowd. “Behold! My return to power in Hell!”

Velvette muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with exasperation, “God… hope his dick is at least big enough to make me forget he’s a cunt.” A nearby bodyguard stiffened, gulping audibly at her words.

The stage became alive with more figures, the air thick with tension and anticipation. Alastor stepped forward, tapping the microphone with a sharp, almost musical rhythm. His smile was wide, his eyes gleaming with that characteristic, unsettling charm.

“Why, hello, my dear little imps!”

Alastor’s voice rang out, dripping with enthusiasm and menace. “Today, here in this… depressingly cheap, almost forgotten theme park, we have… an announcement! For eons—nay, millions of years—our dear overlord Cain has been banished to the purgatory!” He paused, striding theatrically across the stage, his cane tapping in exaggerated rhythm. “But lo! He has returned! Yes, returned as a shining jewel among our illustrious overlord family! Welcome back, Cain!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Some imps, young and naive, clapped hesitantly, unsure of who Cain even was. Alastor’s grin widened, savoring their confusion.

Vox, standing near the edge of the crowd, froze. His eyes widened as they locked on Velvette, who now bore a ring glinting cruelly in the carnival lights. His heart dropped. He looked at her, then at Cain striding forward, and the crushing realization hit him.

“Hello, everyone,” Cain’s voice cut through, smooth yet dangerous. “For those unacquainted with me… you are new, no doubt. Millions of years ago, I was considered among the most powerful overlords… and clearly, some things never change.” His laugh was soft, almost playful, yet chilling.

“I am the first murderer, the one who wields both power and will to rule this ring. And while… my past may be checkered with… colorful decisions…” He gestured vaguely, a faint smirk crossing his face, “all of it was done with purpose. But a throne cannot remain unclaimed. And so, I ask… nay, demand… your support!”

Moxxie, still dizzy from the ride, swayed as he hopped off, mumbling, “Motion… motion sickness is… the worst…” Millie’s eyes narrowed, scanning the stage. “Mox? Who’s that?” she asked, pointing toward Cain.

Moxxie leaned forward, squinting through his nausea. “Oh… that’s the overlord who got freed from purgatory…” he said weakly, then lurched violently, vomiting into the gutter below.

Alastor, meanwhile, watched the chaos with a delighted glint in his eyes, twirling his cane with exaggerated flair. “Oh, the spectacle! The delicious tension in the air!” he crowed, voice rising to a theatrical crescendo. “Isn’t it simply divine, darlings, when history itself comes crashing back into your very faces? And to think… we’re merely at the opening act!”

Cain chuckled darkly at Alastor, the sound low and sharp—like a blade being unsheathed. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd caught between amusement and unease.

From the corner of the stage, a lanky technician in a faded staff vest slowly turned the knob on the old PA system, lowering the volume of the upbeat carnival music until it faded into an eerie hush. The laughter of animatronics died off, and even the rides seemed to creak slower, quieter—like the entire park had stopped to listen.

Cain turned his head slightly, eyeing the technician with a sly grin—just enough to make the poor demon gulp and look away.

With a single, fluid motion, Cain turned back to face the crowd. His posture was regal, composed, and terrifyingly certain.

“I’ve been listening,” he began, his voice carrying unnaturally well without needing a mic—rich, deep, commanding. “To the whispers… the screeching, really—about a certain human.”

The crowd shifted, some murmuring with intrigue. Cain’s smile widened.

“Yes… Vi.”

A few demons jeered. Others snickered. Some shouted her name with venom.

“I’ve heard the stories,” Cain continued, stepping forward, boots clicking ominously on the wood of the stage.

“This mortal pest, scurrying through Hell, leaving a trail of blood and defiance in her wake. She’s taken out overlords, stolen lives, turned this ring into her personal playground of chaos. And don’t even get me started on her prissy, sanctimonious angel companion—what a delightfully pathetic excuse for survival.”

He sneered. “It’s honestly adorable. But more than that... it’s offensive.”

Cain paused, letting the silence draw in. Then his voice rose—thunderous, vicious:

“But now that I’ve descended once again—risen from the depths of Purgatory—I will be the one to end this joke. To cleanse the Wrath Ring of its festering parasite. To erase this infection once and for all!”

A roar erupted from the crowd. Imps and demons alike began shouting crude insults, each louder than the last:

“Psychopath!”

“She killed my brother for no reason!”

“Cannibal mortal bitch!”

“When I asked her to suck my dick, instead of saying no– she ripped it off!”

The crowd went silent.

The noise swelled. Cain held up a single hand.

Silence fell instantly—like a leash yanked tight.

“I am Cain,” he said slowly, eyes glowing a searing red, “the first, the true, the undeniable wrath. And under my rule, this ring will be reforged. Perfected. Purged.”

He raised both arms high, basking in the fervor of the crowd. The red glow in his eyes intensified, casting a crimson wash over his face.

“I will mold this ring into what it was always meant to be—a monument to strength, to order, to dominion! To wrath!”

The crowd screamed again—adoration, rage, and raw chaos blending into a single frenzied mass of support. Banners flapped wildly above, some with Cain’s sigil painted in blood-red.

Cain stood center stage, soaking it all in—unstoppable, untouchable, and now… undeniable.

And somewhere, in the shadows just beyond the light, Vi’s name lingered like a curse waiting to be answered.

"Woah," Moxxie muttered, bitterness dripping from his voice as he stared at the stage. "Nice to know she’s not even dead yet."

Millie gave him a look. "Moxxie…"

He huffed, crossing his arms. “Sorry, but come on—Velvette with Cain? That’s just disgusting. I mean, what the hell is she thinking?”

Before Millie could respond, Moxxie suddenly pointed off into the distance. “Oh look, it’s that thing you want!” he exclaimed, trying to pivot the mood.

Millie gasped, her eyes lighting up. A plush demon shark toy dangled from the booth canopy, and without missing a beat, they hurried over. Around them, Loo Loo Land was alive with chaotic energy—kids ran screaming toward rides, hellhounds chased one another, demons drank and danced on wobbly tables, and the smell of fried grease and brimstone hung thick in the air.

Elsewhere in the park, Cain approached Velvette, slipping his arm around hers with forced casualness.

“Let’s make this a proper date, hmm?” he said with a grin. “Been years since I’ve had one of these. Might as well start with the queen-to-be.”

Velvette cringed at his touch, resisting the urge to yank her arm back.

“God, I forgot you’re literally billions of years older than me,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Cain laughed it off. “Ah, what’s age when you’re immortal, darling?” He tugged her closer, ignoring the icy tension in her posture.

From the crowd, Vox stood still, watching—his red eyes tracking Velvette like a lifeline slowly being pulled away. His hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened.

And then, without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and stormed off, his rage building with every step.

The gilded doors of Lucifer’s palace in the Pride Ring slammed open with a thunderous crash, startling the staff inside.

Valentino was lounging on a velvet couch, drink in hand, the flickering lights from the enormous television casting shadows over his tired eyes. He barely glanced up.

“Val!” Vox barked, marching in, shoulders tense and sparks practically flying off his body. “Do you have any goddamn idea what you’ve done?!”

Valentino slowly turned, brows furrowing, but he didn’t get up—yet.

“What are you on about now, Vox?” he said, feigning boredom.

“I’m talking about Velvette!” Vox snapped, his voice raw, furious. “You gave her away to that psychopath! You sold her off like she was some accessory!”

That made Valentino rise, standing tall, tension rolling off him like smoke.

“It was for our own good, Vox!” he shouted back. “You know what Cain would’ve done to us if we said no? You think this was my choice?”

Vox threw a crumpled paper at Valentino’s chest—something scribbled and torn, Velvette’s name circled in red ink. "Don’t give me that shit, Val! She was our friend! She trusted us!”

Valentino didn’t flinch. “You think I don’t know that?! You think I wanted this?!”

“Then WHY?” Vox screamed, his voice cracking. “Why her? Why not fight back? We’ve survived worse, we’ve—goddammit, Val, we could’ve found another way!”

“There wasn’t another way!” Valentino shouted, slamming his fist into the back of the couch. “Cain had already made up his mind. It was her, or all of us. I made the call.”

Vox’s shoulders sagged, his rage burning out into something cold and devastated. He looked at Valentino—really looked—and saw the fear under his fury. But it wasn’t enough.

“We are done,” Vox said, voice hollow. “Don’t you dare call yourself her friend again.”

He turned and walked away.

Valentino stood still for a moment, trembling with fury and guilt. Then he snarled, grabbing the nearest chair and hurling it across the room. It splintered against the wall, smashing one of Lucifer’s priceless hell-crystal displays.

He didn’t care. Lucifer wasn’t here to see it—and even if he was, fuck him too.

Valentino collapsed back onto the couch, rubbing his face with shaking hands.

Outside the window, the Pride skyline burned crimson under a never-ending twilight. And far in the distance, Loo Loo Land pulsed with color and screams—none of them Velvette’s.

Vi sat on the edge of the crumbling stone balcony, her legs dangling over the void below, the wind whipping her long hair around her face like a ghost’s caress. The Wrath Ring stretched endlessly before her—flames rising in the distance, smoke swirling across a blood-red sky. Fires burned where cities used to stand. The chaos below was almost mesmerizing.

Iselin stood beside her silently, her spear held like a sentinel. Unmoving. Watchful. Her glowing eyes never strayed far from Vi, though her expression betrayed nothing.

Vi narrowed her eyes at the skyline, then slowly stood, her fingers brushing the worn stone railing. The wind howled louder.

“You think Cain’s still out there… looking for me?” she asked without turning her head.

Iselin tilted her head slightly. A small, deliberate motion. Then her gaze shifted toward the smoldering horizon.

Vi followed her line of sight, then sighed. “Yeah. That’s a yes.”

She stood there for a moment, eyes scanning the wreckage of the Wrath Ring below.

“I never even got to see Judas,” she muttered under her breath, barely audible. Then she glanced at Iselin again, her voice rising slightly. “I can’t… I can’t understand you. You’ve seen what I’ve done. You know how fucked up I am. You saw the people I’ve killed. And still…”

Her fists clenched.

“Still, you won’t let me die. Why? Is that just… how you’re programmed, or whatever you are?”

Iselin didn’t answer, of course. She never did. But she turned to face Vi completely, like a statue acknowledging the weight of her words.

Vi exhaled sharply and walked away, descending the cracked concrete stairs of the abandoned building they’d taken as a hideout. Her boots thudded with each step, slow and heavy.

Then—halfway down—her body faltered.

She collapsed to her knees with a grunt, her breath suddenly hitching. A low pant escaped her lips, her hands gripping the floor as she doubled over. Sparks of electricity snapped across her back, licking at her arms and legs.

Iselin looked down from the balcony, eyes narrowing, but she did not move.

From inside, Angel Dust heard the noise. Heavy gasps. A faint, pained cry. He darted down the hall and skidded to a stop at the top of the stairwell.

“Vi?!”

He rushed to her, crouching beside her as she fell to her hands and knees, her back arching unnaturally. The air around her vibrated—humming like static—before exploding into a series of loud, electric pulses.

“Vi, what’s wrong?!” Angel shouted, trying to grab her shoulders. “Hey—HEY, look at me!”

Vi didn’t respond. Her body convulsed. Her jaw dropped open wide—too wide—and then the sound came.

A blood-curdling, otherworldly screech erupted from deep in her chest, vibrating the walls of the building. The sound was ancient, inhuman. Her eyes turned a burning, blinding red, casting wild flashes across the walls. Lights flickered violently. The floors began to shake. Cracks split across the ceiling above.

“Vi! Please—what the fuck is happening?!” Angel cried, shaking her, his voice laced with panic.

Iselin finally stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She raised two fingers in front of her chest, then pressed her hands together in a tight, urgent prayer. A golden shimmer flickered between her palms.

Vi’s scream cut off with a gasp. The lights stilled. The floor stopped trembling. Her eyes dimmed—fading from red to normal. She collapsed onto her side, gasping for breath.

Angel dropped to his knees beside her, heart racing, hands hovering over her trembling form. “Vi… Jesus—Vi, what the fuck was that?!”

Vi didn’t answer right away. Her face was pale, slick with sweat, strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. Slowly, she turned to Angel, then over at Iselin.

Angel blinked. “Did you just get… possessed or something? What the hell was that scream? You—your body—it was like it wasn’t even yours anymore.”

Tears began to stream down Vi’s cheeks. She winced sharply, pain arching through her spine as flickers of cyan energy sparked along her limbs. Her veins glowed beneath her skin like pulsing light trails, her eyes now a haunting bright cyan, unnatural and glassy.

When she finally spoke, her voice was layered—two octaves, one hers… and one not.

“They… they need me,” she whispered.

Angel stared at her, his voice caught in his throat. “…Who?”

Vi didn’t answer.

She looked up—beyond the walls, beyond the sky—like she was listening to something none of them could hear.

And Iselin?

She just stood in silence, watching. Knowing.

Chapter 35: The dead influences

Summary:

“Oh, dear Cain.”

The night air in the Wrath Ring hung thick with the scent of burnt sugar and sulfur, a strange contrast to the garish colors flashing across the dilapidated theme park. Neon signs flickered, some buzzing and sputtering like they were on their last breath, while rickety rides spun with unhinged laughter echoing through the dark.

Cain sat among the crowd of demons packed onto the creaking bleachers, his sharp eyes glued to the stage where a trio of clowns juggled severed limbs and flaming torches.

Laughter burst from him now and then—loud, forced, obnoxious—as if trying to convince himself he was enjoying it.

Beside him, Velvette sat slouched with her head in her hand, resting her elbow on her knee. Her seventh stick of cotton candy was now just a sad wad of pink fluff crushed between her fingers. She wasn’t even eating it anymore—just grinding it out of spite. Her eyes were glazed over, expression flat with boredom, jaw sore from fake smiling.

Cain let out a wheezing laugh as one of the clowns lit themselves on fire. He clapped Cain-style—aggressively—then slapped Velvette hard on the shoulder.

She winced and shot him a glare. “Okay, nope.” She stood abruptly. “I’m gonna go find something actually fun instead of watching these dollar store Jokers kill brain cells.”

Cain blinked and stood up too, dusting off his red and gold jacket. “Oh, let me join you then! A night of fun together—like a real couple!” he beamed.

Velvette turned to walk off, but Cain grabbed her by the wrist. The skin beneath his fingers was already dark and bruised.

“Stop pretending,” she snapped, yanking her arm back with effort. “You’re not my boyfriend. And yeah, sure, marry me if you need your ego inflated, but don’t delude yourself. I’ll never love you.”

Cain’s expression barely shifted, save for a flicker in his eyes—a dangerous glint.

“Such drama,” he muttered. Then his voice dropped lower, venomous. He stepped in, towering over her. “Don’t you dare embarrass me in front of everyone.”

He seized her wrist again, tighter this time. “You’ll act like my wife. You will be my wife.”

Velvette exhaled sharply, forcing herself not to react further. Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t look at him. She just turned away and kept walking, letting the heat in her chest simmer behind her eyes.

They wandered into the carnival game alley, the stands creaking under the weight of age and patchwork repairs. Paper lanterns swung overhead, lighting the path with sickly yellows and blood-reds.

“Step right up!” croaked a bony imp with sharp teeth and a stitched-on smile. “One soul per shot! Knock down all the targets, win a prize! Care to try, miss?”

Velvette dug into her purse, pulling out a thick pouch of glowing red wisps. She slammed it on the counter.

“Hundred souls,” she said flatly. “Just let me shoot.”

The imp nearly choked on his own excitement. “Y-Yes ma’am!”

He scrambled to set the targets, while Velvette grabbed the rusted but loaded demon rifle. With little effort, she aimed and knocked down every last target in one go—perfect posture, steady breathing, eyes cold and focused.

Cain’s mouth hung open slightly, stunned.

Velvette turned, not even smug—just done. The imp, sweating through his stitched vest, handed her the biggest stuffed toy he had: a massive plush hellhound with three heads and stitched flames for eyes.

Her eyes widened. “Ooh—finally something worth the effort,” she said with an excited squeal, hugging the toy tightly against her chest like a prize she actually wanted. For once, her smile wasn’t forced.

Cain blinked.

His pride stung.

He cleared his throat, stepping forward quickly. “Let me give it a go,” he said, glaring daggers at the imp. “Let’s see what your king can do.”

“Y-Yes sir!” the imp chirped nervously, resetting the targets.

Cain picked up the gun with a little too much enthusiasm, squared his stance, and fired—missing the first target. The second bullet barely scratched another. The third hit a target but didn’t knock it down.

Velvette hummed behind him. “Impressive.”

Cain’s eye twitched. “Screw this.”

He dropped the gun, summoned his spiked flail, and in one sweep obliterated the entire stand—targets, shelves, and all. The imp dove for cover with a shriek.

A beat passed. Then Cain casually bent down, picked up a smaller plush from the debris, and turned back to Velvette with an exaggerated grin.

“See? I can win stuff for my queen,” he said proudly.

But she was already gone—halfway down the next lane, excitedly walking toward another game booth.

Cain stood frozen for a moment.

Then he growled under his breath and stormed after her.

Vi looked over at Angel Dust, her hand gently cupping his cheek. His fur was warm beneath her palm, trembling slightly from the tension they both pretended wasn’t there. His violet eyes, usually wide with mischief, were narrowed now, full of fear.

“Angel,” she said quietly, but with conviction. “I need you to stay here.”

Angel blinked, his voice catching in his throat. “Vi…”

“I’m serious.” Her tone turned firm, unwavering. “Promise me that you’re not leaving this building. Not for anything. You stay here until I come back.”

“And what if you don’t?” Angel’s voice cracked.

Vi tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Then you’ll keep going. You’ll survive.”

He stared at her, searching her face like he was hoping she’d say she was joking. “If you die,” he said finally, “I’ll be mad at you. Forever. You know that, right? You’re better than dying.”

Vi’s hand slipped down, gripping his fingers tightly. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”

She leaned forward and hugged him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing like she could store his warmth in her chest. Angel clung back, burying his face into her shoulder for just a second, before she let go.

She turned to Iselin, who stood quietly behind her like a statue of divine judgment. Vi gave her a single nod. The angel nodded back.

Meanwhile, in the heart of the twisted theme park, Cain was losing interest in the spectacle.

The lights. The cheers. The rigged games. He rose from his throne-like seat among the onlookers, brushing off his sleeves as the guards approached.

“It’s time,” he murmured. His voice held a disturbing serenity. He turned to the guards holding Velvette by the arms. “Take her. Prepare her. The fun’s about to begin.”

He stepped out into the center of the field, surrounded by chaos barely restrained—demons laughing, imps running wild, and corrupted rides spinning with unnatural speed.

Far above it all, Vi stood on the roof of a cracked building, the scent of ozone surrounding her. Iselin stood to her left, tall and silent, her wings half-opened behind her like silver blades poised to strike.

A voice whispered in Vi’s head, soft and unfamiliar, but somehow ancient and maternal.

“You need to stop Cain,” it said. “He will destroy all of Hell.”

Vi’s eyes widened for a moment, a cyan glow beginning to pulse faintly from her chest. Her heart, once drowned in guilt and fire, now beat with energy she didn’t entirely understand. Her breath hitched. She closed her eyes and let it burn through her.

When she opened them again, they glowed with pure cyan light, electricity crackling faintly at the corners. She knew this might be her end. And if it was, so be it.

She looked at Iselin, the being who had saved her over and over again.

“Iselin…” she said, her voice quieter now. “I know you’re here to fight with me. But if I don’t make it—tell Judas I tried.”

Iselin’s eyes, for once, softened. Without speaking, she extended her arm and wrapped it protectively around Vi’s waist.

Then, in one swift motion, both of them shot downward like comets, crashing into the center of the theme park with a blast of radiant wind and crackling energy.

Demons scattered instantly. Imps dove off rides. The sky itself seemed to tremble.

Cain turned slowly, confused at first—then stunned when he saw her.

Vi stood there, glowing faintly, her boots digging into the cracked pavement. Iselin hovered beside her, halo igniting.

“Well, well,” Cain said, his smile stretching with amusement. “Would you look at that? A little misfit with her misfit friend. Didn’t know you were brave enough to show your face.”

Vi didn’t flinch. Her voice rang out with unnatural force, carried through the broken speaker system that screeched and cracked before going silent.

“Cain.”

The entire park went dark.

The carnival music cut out with a shriek. Rides froze mid-spin. Neon lights shattered in sparks and showers of glass. The only glow left was the cyan humming from Vi’s body.

The crowd held its breath.

“Everyone,” Vi shouted. “Leave. Now!”

No one moved.

“Something dangerous is going to happen,” she continued, electricity pulsing around her fists. “Cain isn’t here to help any of you—he’s here to use you. He’s been feeding off of this ring since he came back. Wrath doesn’t need him. Hell doesn’t need him!”

Cain laughed, almost sweetly.

“Oh, please,” he said, addressing the crowd now. “You’re going to listen to her? A human? A traitor to her kind. You think I’m the monster here?” He tilted his head, eyes flashing red. “Tell them, Vi. Tell them how many you’ve killed. How many souls you’ve bled out for your own survival.”

Vi grit her teeth. “I’ve made mistakes.”

Cain’s voice was sharp, a blade dipped in venom, each word cutting deeper than the last.

“Oh yeah?” He stepped closer, boots crunching against the gravel. His grin stretched wide, cruel. “Mistakes like not being able to save that little family of yours in the asylum?”

Vi froze. Her body locked up, the breath in her lungs turning ragged, chest tightening. His words dragged her back, the smell of smoke, the screams, the endless fire—her failures replaying like broken glass cutting into her mind. Her vision blurred, not from the present, but from memory.

“Dinathelai,” Cain said, savoring the name, rolling it on his tongue like poison. “That little girl. I thought she’d died during the extermination.” He chuckled, a low, mocking sound that made Vi’s stomach twist. “But then you—you tried to be the big sister you wished you’d been before. What was her name again?” He tapped his chin, pretending to think.

Vi’s fists tightened, trembling at her sides. Her face was blank, but tears stung her eyes, rage swelling under her ribs like a storm ready to break.

“Powder,” Cain sneered, snapping his fingers as if recalling a trivial detail. He laughed, loud and unrestrained.

Vi’s breath caught, her voice breaking as she forced the words out. “How do you know that?” Her chest heaved, words shaky, almost a plea.

Cain tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly red, his grin never faltering. “Purgatory’s a fascinating place. Lets me watch all the fun down here in Hell. And you, Vi? You’re quite the show. Every overlord, every sin—they knew you were alive. Lying, laughing, while every worthless imp thought you’d been snuffed out. But no.” His laughter rang hollow, sharp enough to make her flinch. “Your little friend Judas begged me not to kill you, begged me not to hunt you down. But me?” His smile widened as he drew his flails, metal links clinking as they unfurled. “I can’t resist. You thought you could be a better mother to those three kids. You thought wrong. You failed them too. Again.”

The smirk that followed was venom incarnate.

Iselin moved, stepping in beside Vi. Her wings flared as her spear hummed with angelic light. Her glare was cold, cutting straight into Cain.

Cain chuckled, flicking his gaze her way. “Oh, right. You’re still here. Your irrelevant ass doesn’t matter anymore. You can’t drag me back to purgatory, remember?”

Vi’s eyes darted toward the distance, the laughter of children echoing—Lai, Merc, Crafty—innocent voices twisting into shrieks. Powder’s face blurred with Lai’s, the sound cracking her mind like lightning across storm clouds. Vi screamed, energy surging beneath her feet, arcs of blue fire racing across the ground toward Cain.

She bolted forward.

Iselin’s wings snapped wide, feathers scattering light, her spear spinning as she poured radiant energy into Vi, lending her strength. Then she lunged, striking Cain with a spearhead burst of divine discharge.

Cain staggered back, eyes blazing red, his hands circling, pulling up a wall of force to deflect them both. The shield rippled, their combined power colliding with a deafening crack. Vi stumbled from the impact, the shockwave rattling her bones.

Iselin recovered first, spear flashing in an arc aimed for Cain’s chest. He snarled and surged forward, flails whipping, chain links singing as they lashed toward her wings. Iselin twisted back, pulling him in close, countering with a thrust.

Vi took the opening, sprinting, leaping high, gauntlet blazing cyan as she drove her fist into Cain’s spine. The blow cracked through the air; Cain bellowed in pain, twisting and lashing his flails in a wild circle.

Vi caught one mid-swing, both gauntlets clamping down on the chain. Sparks screamed from the contact, her veins glowing through her skin, cyan light pulsing through every line of her body. Her aura flared like a storm breaking free. She roared as the boulder at the end of the flail crumbled in her grip, stone shattering apart as she ripped the chain from Cain’s hands.

His eyes narrowed, golden and red flames igniting within them. He raised his arms, the earth splitting as two massive red boulders rose. With a heave, he hurled the largest at Iselin. She darted aside, but not fast enough—stone crushed into her wing, bone splintering, feathers scattering like broken glass. Her scream split the air.

Vi’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide with panic, but Cain was already upon her. His fist slammed into her jaw, sending her hurtling backward into a booth stuffed with carnival toys. Plush fabric exploded around her as metal screamed, rides halting, the crowd of imps scattering in chaos. Some froze in place, trapped on rides, staring wide-eyed.

From a distance, Valentino flicked his wrist, pink smoke curling slyly around the boulder pinning Iselin’s wing, trying to lift it.

Iselin dragged herself to her feet, spear trembling in her grip. She lunged to shield Vi, but Cain’s chains lashed out, wrapping her in bloody coils. Vi bolted forward, but Cain caught her head, smashing it into Iselin’s. The angel’s scream turned to a snarl as she spun her spear, breaking the chains with sheer force, though her flesh burned where they’d touched. She collapsed, skin seared, blood streaking her feathers.

Cain seized another boulder, crushing her remaining wing beneath it. Her cry tore through the park.

Vi surged, punching Cain in the neck, sending him staggering. Her fists erupted with hextech runes, blue fire orbiting her gauntlets as she screamed, hammering him back.

Cain snarled, arms flaring with demonic energy. He ripped up another boulder and drove it toward her, crushing down. Vi’s legs snapped beneath the weight, pain exploding white-hot as her scream tore her throat raw. She caught the mass with her gauntlet, straining, shoving it aside with every shred of her will. She crawled, dragging her broken body, forcing herself upright, energy fusing into her bones, knitting light through flesh.

She launched forward, a desperate kick slamming Cain to the ground. He rolled, rose, and uppercut her into the air. The blow broke something deep inside; she crashed down, ribs shattered, blood bubbling from her lips.

Cain raised the boulder again and again, slamming it down into her chest. Each strike drew another scream until her voice broke into hoarse gasps, crimson spattering the ground. He grabbed her legs, swinging her like a ragdoll, throwing her into the center of the ruined theme park.

“It’s time you finally die, Vi!” His voice split the chaos, full of fury and triumph. He seized Iselin’s dropped spear, lifting it high.

Iselin ripped herself forward, wings torn, bones jutting raw. Her scream was defiance, her light burning the air as she pushed the boulder aside, seized the spear, and lunged. She slammed into Cain, shoving the weapon away, wrenching his flail into his legs. The chains cracked, Cain falling to the ground.

Vi, bloodied and broken, stared through blurred vision. “Iselin…” Her voice rasped, wet with blood.

Iselin glanced at her, face pale, pain carved into her expression. She fell to her knees, blood soaking the ground beneath her. Cain laughed through the chaos, rising again, ready to finish what he started.

Vi saw Iselin’s hands come together, forming the gesture she knew too well. A flash of Lai Lai reaching, Powder’s tiny hands—memories burning like fire in her mind.

“No…” Vi’s whisper cracked into a scream. “No!”

Light detonated. The world went white.

Vi’s sobs broke through the silence, weak and muffled, her face sticky with blood. Her head turned, vision swimming. Judas lay sprawled nearby, groaning, trying to rise. The ringing in her ears drowned everything until—

A shadow descended from the sky.

Cain’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

Abel slammed down from the heavens, boot striking Cain square and sending him reeling. “Brother!” His voice thundered, echoing across the ruined park.

Cain staggered, spitting blood, glaring. “About fucking time, Abel!”

Abel’s gaze flicked from Iselin’s broken body to Cain, fury blazing in his eyes. “You’ve gone too far. You’ve hurt one of our angels. By Father’s order, I will punish you!” His voice shook the ground.

The angelic rope cracked into his hand, radiant threads glowing like the sun. He lashed it across Cain, the celestial cord burning through his flesh.

Cain shrieked, the sound half fury, half agony. “Brother, stop!”

But Abel pulled tighter, fire of heaven searing into Cain’s body. He caught Iselin up in his arms, watching him, “No, brother.”

Cain snarled through clenched teeth, every muscle straining against the burning ropes that bound him. His skin sizzled where the angelic bindings dug deeper, smoke curling up, the smell of scorched flesh thick in the air. With a guttural roar, he reached over his shoulder and yanked free a massive mammoth tusk, jagged and yellowed, its edge stained from battles long forgotten. He pressed it to the ropes, trying to saw through, his breath ragged, curses spilling from his mouth as the celestial fire licked higher with every movement.

From the chaos of the broken carnival, a sharp buzz of static filled the air. Vox materialized, screens flickering with his arrival, neon eyes narrowing as he looked down at Cain.

“No,” Vox’s voice distorted, static cracking between words. He stepped closer, his smile cold. “Cain, you’re sloppy. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. All this screaming, all this struggling—and for what? You can’t even get rid of one washed-up brawler chained on the floor. Pathetic.”

Cain’s head snapped toward him, spit flying as he barked, “Shut your mouth, walking television set! She’s mine!” He pulled harder on the ropes, tusk scraping, each movement carving deeper burns into his flesh. His veins bulged, eyes flashing molten red and gold, fury practically boiling out of his skin.

Heavy footsteps thundered in behind them. Asmodeus sauntered into the fray, towering, his jewel-crusted cane gleaming in the fractured light. Fizzarolli pranced at his side, his grin razor-sharp.

“You’re taking too damn long,” Asmodeus said, his rich voice booming as he gestured grandly at the broken, bloodied Vi lying nearby. His lips curled into a mocking smile. “Dragging this out like some cheap performance. I’ll finish the job myself. She deserves something elegant, not this clumsy display.” He brushed past Cain, the smell of expensive cologne almost mocking in its sweetness.

Cain’s arm shot out like a viper. His hand clamped around Asmodeus’ ankle and yanked, dragging the sin off balance. The ropes flared hotter around his body, smoke searing from his back as he bellowed in rage. “No, you fucking gaudy pimp! You strut around in your feathers and gems like you’re untouchable—but this one’s mine!” His voice broke into a roar, raw, animalistic. “I’ll be the one to kill her!”

Asmodeus staggered but didn’t fall, his glare venomous as he looked down at Cain. “You dare touch me, filth?” His cane lifted, jewels sparking with demonic light, his voice turning sharp as glass. “You wouldn’t last one night in my empire. I decide who gets a finale, and she will be mine to finish.”

Vox stepped between them, screens blaring static, trying to push them apart. “Enough. You’re both embarrassing yourselves. She’s broken already—look at her! Half-dead, bleeding out. And yet you’re clawing at each other like dogs fighting over scraps.” He sneered, his sharp grin glitching across his face. “This isn’t strategy. This is weakness.”

Cain lunged against the ropes, spit flying from his mouth as he snapped at Vox. “Stay out of this, glitch-face, before I smash every damn pixel out of your skull!”

Before Vox could retort, another voice cut through the air, sly and greedy.

“Why don’t I do it?”

Mammon strolled into the wreckage, gold chains rattling on his neck, rings glittering on every finger. His grin stretched wide, teeth flashing as he rubbed his hands together. “Think about it, huh? Who better to put her down than me? It’s good business. A spectacle. I’d make a fortune off her death alone—posters, reruns, headlines.” His laugh was oily, eyes darting to the broken rides where imps still watched in horror. “The crowds will eat it up.”

Asmodeus’ face twisted with fury. Without hesitation, he lashed out, his jeweled fist smashing across Mammon’s jaw. The crack echoed, Mammon stumbling back, blood spilling from his split lip.

“Back off, vermin!” Asmodeus bellowed. “You’ll cheapen everything with your tacky greed! This is art, a masterpiece, not a bargain sale in one of your filthy casinos!”

Mammon wiped the blood from his mouth, eyes gleaming with malice as his grin only widened. “Oh, you high-nosed glitter queen, you think you’re better than me? You think your bedazzled parlor tricks make you more worthy than the sin of greed himself? I built empires while you pranced around selling lust to lonely imps. I’ll take her life, and I’ll own it.”

Cain laughed, a ragged, guttural sound even as the ropes burned deeper. “Look at you all. Pathetic! Fighting over her like carrion birds. She belongs to me, damn it. Mine! None of you know what it means to break someone, to take everything from them and watch them crawl. I’ll savor every last scream out of her lungs before I rip her apart!”

Vox shoved his way forward, static blaring like an alarm. “She’s not yours. She’s not his. She’s not anyone’s. If you want her dead, do it with a shred of dignity. The world’s watching, and this circus of egos makes us all look weak!” His eyes flared, screens glitching violently.

The three sins turned on each other, voices rising, threats and insults echoing through the ruined park. Cain’s roars shook the air, Asmodeus’ elegant venom laced every word, Mammon’s greedy laughter cut sharp, and Vox’s glitching fury screamed static between them all.

Meanwhile, Vi lay broken, ribs crushed, blood pooling beneath her, her vision swimming. Every shout blurred, voices twisting into the sound of fire, children’s laughter, Powder’s faint cry. Her fingers twitched weakly, dragging against the dirt, reaching for something—anything—as the monsters above her tore into each other, too busy fighting over who would kill her to realize she was still breathing.

Abel’s wings beat once, heavy, shaking dust from the broken rides and rattling the shattered glass still clinging to the stalls. His presence filled the air, brighter than the moon, burning hotter than the carnival’s shattered lights. His voice cut through the screaming, through the static, through the laughter.

“Enough.”

The word wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. It rang with judgment, and every creature present felt it.

Cain froze mid-snarl, tusk pressed to the ropes. Asmodeus, cane raised to strike again, lowered it instinctively. Mammon’s grin faltered, the blood on his lip glistening as he sneered but stepped back half a pace. Vox’s screens flickered, static spiking before settling into a still, sharp glare.

Abel’s eyes moved from one to the other, his grip tightening around Iselin’s trembling body, his gaze burning with the weight of heaven. “Each of you clamors to end her, to spill blood that’s already soaking the ground. Yet none of you stop to ask why. Why do you fight for her death as though it will feed something in you?”

Cain spat, smoke curling from his burned mouth. “Because she’s mine! Because she deserves it! She—”

“Deserves it?” Abel cut in, his voice slicing like a blade. He stepped closer, towering, his rope still burning across Cain’s flesh. “You speak of deserving while bound in judgment yourself, Cain. You say she is yours, as though she is a possession. Yet all I hear is the echo of your own obsession, your rage. You do not want her gone. You want her suffering, so that you may feel whole. That is not justice. That is hunger.”

Cain roared, straining against the bindings, but Abel’s gaze had already moved past him. His eyes fell on Asmodeus. “And you. Dressed in finery, pretending your cruelty is art. You claim you would end her in beauty, as if death were a performance. But it is vanity, nothing more. You do not see her as a soul, but a stage upon which you can craft your illusions. To you she is not Vi. She is a canvas, a prop to make you guys look like you got bigger dicks. Tell me, Sin of Lust—what does it reveal about you, that you crave her death only because it would flatter your pride?”

Asmodeus stiffened, lips curling into a snarl, though his jeweled hand trembled faintly on his cane. He turned his head, but said nothing.

Abel’s eyes shifted, cold as a winter sea, to Mammon. “And you. Greed. You make no attempt to hide your truth—you want her death not for justice, not for vengeance, not even for pride. Only for profit. You see a broken body and hear the sound of coins falling into your purse. You speak of empires, of owning, of feeding the hunger in your gut. But tell me—what empire have you built that was not founded on someone else’s suffering? You claim you would own her death, but you cannot even own yourself.”

Mammon’s grin faltered, his golden teeth no shield against Abel’s stare. He shifted, licking the blood from his lip, muttering something under his breath, but offered no challenge.

Finally, Abel turned to Vox. The angel’s voice softened, but his judgment was no less sharp. “And you, why are you acting like you’re any better than these overlords and sins?”

Vox’s screens flickered violently, the static hissing like a snake, but even he lowered his gaze beneath Abel’s light.

Abel adjusted Iselin carefully in his arms, her broken form glowing faintly as he shielded her. His voice rose again, thunder layered with sorrow. “All of you speak of killing her, yet you can’t get the job done cause all you fucks really truly care about is pride. Being the one to kill her.”

They turned, despite themselves, to Vi. Her body was twisted, bloodied, her gauntlets cracked and dim. Her eyes flickered faintly open, glazed with tears, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. She looked less like a warrior, less like a threat, and more like them. Scarred. Desperate. Caught between survival and ruin.

“She is so different from you,” Abel said, his voice echoing. “She has clawed through fire, through ash, through betrayal. She carries rage, pride, hunger, vanity. She is low to the ground, broken, and wants to die. Tell me, then—why would you kill her, when she already lives as you do? Sins. She is a misfit in the flesh. And perhaps that is why you hate her so much.”

The silence that followed was thick, each Sin standing frozen, unwilling to meet his gaze, unwilling to admit what Abel had named aloud.

Cain bared his teeth, veins bulging, but his voice cracked, almost human in its desperation. “She’s a trouble maker, a dangerous thing to be kept alive!”

Abel’s rope burned brighter, each link searing Cain’s flesh until smoke curled from his shoulders. Cain writhed against it, roaring, but Abel’s voice thundered over him, steady, cutting.

“You are wrong, brother,” Abel said, tone like judgment itself. “She’s a misfit, nothing more. A broken girl trying to protect herself because she was born different. And you—” his grip tightened, rope flaring hotter, Cain snarling in pain—“you want her dead not because she deserves it, but because of Judas. You lash at her like a wounded animal, hoping it will fill the hole Judas left in you. Do you know how stupid that is?”

Cain’s eyes widened, brows furrowing, fury flashing in his molten stare. “What the fuck are you talking about? Do you have any idea the trouble she’s caused?” His voice shook the air, cracking like thunder. “She’s a plague! A curse in human skin! She doesn’t belong here!”

The ground trembled under his thrashing, but before Abel could answer, a dry voice cut in.

Beelzebub emerged from the smoke, lazily floating with a swarm of flies buzzing around her, Leviathan trailing at her side with arms crossed. She gave the scene a single look—the ropes, the snarling Cain, the glittering sins foaming at the mouth—and sighed.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, hands on her hips. “She’s still breathing. And you idiots are too busy arguing over who gets the honor of killing her to notice.” Her sharp gaze landed on Vi’s battered body, still on the ground, bloodied, broken ribs shifting with each weak breath. “Pathetic.”

Leviathan grunted in agreement, her tail flicking behind her. “She looks like a meat puppet. Yet you’re all losing your minds over her like she’s some crown jewel. Pathetic.”

Cain spat at them both, his voice hoarse. “Shut your mouths, both of you!”

But before another insult could fly, a sound ripped through the chaos—a low, ragged screech.

Heads whipped toward Vi.

She was moving.

Her hands pressed into the ground, trembling, smearing the dirt red with blood. She staggered, bones shifting beneath torn flesh, until she stood on her feet, wobbling, swaying like a corpse risen from its grave.

Cain blinked, his lips parting in disbelief. “Oh, another round, Vi? How the hell are you still alive?”

But Vi didn’t answer.

Her head tilted. Her body stilled. Blood seeped from her ribs, yet she stood tall, straight, like nothing had broken her. Her eyes snapped open—no longer dull with pain but glowing, burning an unnatural green.

And when she spoke, it wasn’t her voice.

“Oh, dear Cain.”

The tone was soft, mocking, feminine. Cain froze, recognition flooding him.

“Avarice,” he hissed, tusk dropping from his hand. “No. No, I killed you. I killed you! I tore you apart myself. You were gone!”

But Vi’s lips curved into a smile that wasn’t hers. She walked forward with a predatory grace that sent chills down every watching spine. “And yet here I am. Not gone, Cain—waiting. Waiting for the right vessel, the right moment to remind you.” Her head tilted, eyes glinting with green fire. “You didn’t kill me because I was weak. You killed me because I rejected you. You wanted Greed for yourself. When I said no, when I stood in your way, you snapped. And then you lied, spun your story, pinned everything on me while you played the victim. You killed me because you hated what I took from you.”

Cain’s lips pulled back in a snarl, but his eyes betrayed him—uncertain, panicked, as the other sins turned to look at him.

“And now,” Avarice whispered, Vi’s body gliding across the ground, “they will all know.”

Her eyes flared brighter—then snapped red.

The voice that followed shook the ground.

“It’s quite disappointing, Cain.”

Everyone froze.

It wasn’t Avarice anymore. It was deeper. Rougher. Authority wrapped in wrath.

Asmodeus stepped back, his jeweled hand tightening on his cane. “No. No, that voice…”

Satan.

Vi’s head tilted back, her body radiating crimson fire, her mouth curled into a grin that didn’t belong to her. “This human girl… I like her,” Satan said through her lips, his tone almost amused. “She’s wrathful. Barely clinging to sanity, drowning in her rage, and yet she fights on. She’s turning into a monster. I see all of it. And Cain—” his laugh rumbled like an earthquake—“you fear her, don’t you?”

Cain thrashed in his bonds. “Shut up!”

“You killed Avarice because she denied you,” Satan continued, ignoring him. “And when the rest of us turned our backs, you plotted against us too. One by one, you dreamed of taking us out, clawing your way to a throne that was never yours to claim.”

The air shimmered, a burning cloud swirling into shape before them all, revealing Cain’s secret designs—scribbled plans, names crossed out, bloodstained visions of a Hell ruled by his hands alone.

“You’re worse than Judas,” Satan sneered. “At least he betrayed for cause. You betray for nothing but hunger.”

Asmodeus’ eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing into rage as he turned toward Cain. Mammon’s greedy grin had evaporated, his rings clinking nervously against each other. Vox’s screens flickered with static disbelief. Beelzebub’s buzzing swarm grew restless, Leviathan growled low in his throat.

“He plotted to kill me?” Asmodeus roared, his voice rattling the ruins.

Leviathan snorted, tail lashing. “Not just you, glitter-boy. He wanted me too. Said I was getting useless. That I was in the way.”

Cain’s head whipped around, eyes burning. “You lying snake! Don’t act innocent, Leviathan! You were part of the plan! You wanted Asmodeus gone so you could play queen of Pride!”

Gasps and snarls erupted. Beelzebub recoiled from Leviathan, narrowing her eyes at her. Asmodeus turned sharply, cane raised toward the serpent, his face carved with fury. “Is that true?”

Leviathan’s jaw clenched, her silence louder than any answer.

And then it started again—sins screaming, accusing, pushing, fists flying, power flaring, the air choking with rage.

And above it all, Vi’s body laughed—Avarice’s scorn and Satan’s wrath bleeding together, their voices twisting through her lips as the sins of Hell tore each other apart.

Vi’s soul drifted in the endless dark. No light, no ground, just a void pressing in from every side. Her body was broken somewhere far away, but here, in the hollow of her own spirit, she stood—small, trembling, hollow-eyed.

And then the shadows stirred.

Satan emerged first, towering and broad, his form outlined in a storm of fire and ash. His eyes gleamed like suns—wrath incarnate. Beside him slithered Avarice, smooth, cruel, her beauty sharpened like a blade, her grin dripping with venom. Together, they closed in on Vi until she could feel their breath on her neck.

Avarice leaned in close, whispering silk and poison against her ear.
“We will leave this… to you.”

Vi’s breath caught, her chest clenching. “What—what do you mean?” Her voice cracked, brittle with fear.

Satan placed his heavy hand on her shoulder, his touch scorching her even in the spectral dark. His eyes bore into hers. “You will not survive without us. But once we enter you, there you’ll carry some of our strength. Our fury.” His mouth twisted into a grin. “Get rid of Cain, Vi.”

Before Vi could speak, he broke apart. His entire form erupted into cinders, into glowing ash and scarlet flame. The storm swirled, rushing into her chest like molten metal poured into her veins.

Vi screamed.

Her bones cracked inside her soul, her ribcage shattering and reforming under a pressure she could not contain. Her veins lit like firelines, glowing with molten red. Avarice followed, her body unraveling into emerald shards, sharp as glass, slicing into Vi’s spirit until her very essence bled green light. Both energies fused, colliding, burning, tearing her apart and stitching her back together in the same breath.

She fell to her knees, shrieking as her soul ignited.

And somewhere beyond the void, the world reacted.

The carnival’s flickering lights turned blood-red, bulbs bursting one by one as the midway drowned in scarlet glow. The ground shook with each of Vi’s screams, cracks splintering through the dirt. Shadows writhed along the tents like they were alive, and every sinner present felt it—that something impossible had taken root inside her.

Then, silence.

Vi opened her eyes.

They blazed like open wounds, red and green pulsing together, fire crawling across her skin like veins of lava. Her body, battered and ruined moments ago, now stood tall, unbroken, remade by the wrath and greed that consumed her.

She exhaled once, a sound more beast than human.

And then she saw him.

Cain.

He froze. His ropes burned around him, but suddenly they felt like nothing. His breath caught in his throat as Vi bent down, fingers curling around a jagged slab of stone. Her hands tightened until her knuckles split, blood dripping, and then—

She screamed.

Not words. Not human. Just pure, primal rage, so loud the sins themselves recoiled.

She charged.

Cain barely had time to turn before she brought the rock down. His skull cracked with the first blow, blood spraying across the dirt. The sins gasped, some stumbling back in shock, others watching with wide-eyed fascination.

But Vi didn’t stop.

She swung again. And again. And again. Each strike sent bone fragments flying, Cain’s body twitching beneath her as she pulverized his head into nothing but pulp. Her arms shook, coated in blood, but her strength only grew with every strike, as if the wrath demanded she keep going.

“Holy fu—” Vox muttered, static breaking across his screens as he stumbled backward.

Asmodeus clutched Fizzarolli close, both staring in horror. Mammon whispered a prayer under his breath, something he hadn’t done in centuries. Beelzebub covered her mouth, her flies scattering like frightened birds. Even Leviathan flinched, tail curled tight around her legs.

Abel, still bound by the burning rope, turned his head slowly, watching the carnage with grim finality. For a moment, he felt something he had not felt in lifetimes—pride. His eyes lifted to the heavens, softening as he looked at the broken girl he had cradled not long ago. Then he looked down at Iselin, still limp in his arms. With one last glance at Vi, he spread his wings and rose, light swallowing him as he ascended.

The sins and overlords took another collective step back. None dared to interfere.

And in the far distance, a lone figure stood apart from the chaos. Sorath. Silent, unmoving, his eyes locked on Vi as if she were both omen and prophecy.

Vi raised the rock one final time. Her breath hitched, her entire body trembling, veins glowing like molten rivers beneath her skin. Then, with a scream that shook the very sky, she brought it crashing down one last time.

Cain’s body stilled.

And Vi stood above the ruin of him, drenched in blood, chest heaving, eyes still burning with the power of sins who had given themselves to her.

The carnival was silent.

The power bled out of her slowly. At first it was like embers guttering, then a storm cloud breaking apart, until finally the light in her veins dimmed and died. Vi’s eyes flickered—red, then green, then nothing but the dull, human blue-gray they had always been.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, each breath scraping like gravel through her throat. She looked down at her hands. Blood caked them, thick and dark, clinging under her nails, painting her knuckles. Cain’s blood.

This time, no tears came.

Her eyes didn’t burn from grief, didn’t sting from rage. Instead, a hollow sickness curdled in her gut, turning her insides cold. Her lip trembled—not from weakness, but from disgust.

At herself.

The sins stood scattered in the blood-red glow of the broken carnival, frozen in place. They didn’t reach for her. They didn’t taunt her. Not even Asmodeus, who could never keep his mouth shut, had anything to say. Their silence pressed heavier than their violence ever had, a wall of wordless judgment.

For the first time, they didn’t even want to kill her.

Vi let the silence sit. Then her gauntlet slid from her arm and clattered to the ground with a dull, metallic thud. She didn’t bother to look at it.

She lowered herself onto the weapon, using it as a seat, elbows resting on her knees. Her hands hung loose for a moment before she lifted them to her face, swiping at the blood. It smeared, streaking across her cheek, sticky against the bandages wound around her knuckles. She cursed under her breath, dragging the gauze harder, as though she could scrub away what she had done.

But the red only spread wider.

Her breath came in short, uneven pants, chest rising and falling as if her ribs might splinter again at any moment. The world around her blurred—the sins, the ruined carnival, the broken body that had once been Cain. None of it mattered.

All she could feel was the stench of blood on her skin.

From her seat on the gauntlet, Vi barely noticed the way Asmodeus’ gaze lingered. She was too busy staring at her own hands, at the blood that would not wash away, even when she rubbed her palms against the bandages until her skin burned.

But Asmodeus noticed everything.

Chapter 36: Do it, boss!

Summary:

Sleep had not been kind since then. Nightmares clawed at him with relentless persistence, visions bleeding into his waking thoughts. He saw a world that was not their own—a sprawling city bathed in unfamiliar light, faces he did not recognize, streets that twisted in impossible ways. And always, there was Vi. Not the girl before him, not the one in the present… but a vision of her memories, fragments of moments she had lived that he had never witnessed firsthand.

“No—No! Please, spare me—”

The man’s scream cut short as a knife pressed to his throat silenced him. Blitzo wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead with the back of his hand, letting out a long, heavy sigh.

“Well… looks like we’ve got three more of these humans to take care of,” he muttered, smirking as he turned.

Moxxie, crouched nearby, was already dragging bodies into bags, muscles straining as he shoved them in. “Moxxie, hurry the fuck up with that!” Blitzo barked.

Millie swung one of the bags over her shoulder and cheered, her energy sharp despite the carnage. “Also, boss—don’t we only have two left?”

Moxxie raised a brow, lifting the last bag. “Our client had seven bullies. We’re holding five bodies so far.”

Blitzo paused, gripping his dagger, eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene. “There will always be an extra one,” he said, voice low, teeth grinding. “We just can’t… fucking… kill her yet.”

In the distance, a hallucination flickered—Vi, smirking at him, her cyan eyes glowing eerily in the dim light. Blitzo froze for a heartbeat, eyebrows furrowed, and the three of them stood there in tense silence. Millie glanced at Moxxie, who shrugged awkwardly.

“All right, Blitz. Let’s go,” Millie said, grabbing his arm and yanking him back to the mission.

Blitzo leaned back behind a tree, catching his breath. The university campus sprawled before them, vast and unyielding. “Holy shit… this place is huge,” he muttered.

“I’ll enter through the vents over there,” Millie whispered, pointing toward a side building.

Blitzo nodded, scattering quickly. “All right, Moxxie—you need to distract those guards over there. I’ll go in right after.”

Moxxie dashed past the patrolling guards, their surprised screams cut short as he twisted their necks with precise, silent efficiency. Blitzo moved immediately, vaulting toward the vent entrance.

“Okay,” he murmured to himself, teeth clenched. “Short hair, college student… hopefully Millie found her already.”

Moxxie checked his watch. “Sir, we need to be quick before the portal closes again.”

Blitzo groaned, smearing a pool of blood from his face. “Dammit, I wish we could just get that book back without all this—”

A sickening thud cut him off. A girl fell from the fourth floor, her head hitting the ground with a wet, brutal sound. Blood spattered across the tiles.

Millie leapt, grabbing the body and shoving it into one of the bags already full of corpses. “All right… we just need one more,” she said, panting, scanning the hallway.

Her gaze landed on a girl sprinting down the corridor. Millie’s eyes lit up. “There she is!” she shouted. Blitzo grinned and bolted after her.

The girl barreled into an empty classroom and dove beneath a table, hiding. Moxxie slipped inside after her, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The girl bolted as soon as he appeared, and Moxxie lunged, catching her by the arm. She twisted, breaking free—the male imp slammed straight into Millie, knocking both of them to the floor.

Blitzo jumped over Millie and Moxxie, closing the distance in a flash. The girl screamed running away and falling to her knees, her hands flying up to cover her face.

“Do it, boss!” Millie shouted from behind, helping Moxxie regain his balance.

Blitzo looked down, and for a horrifying moment, he saw the girl’s blue eyes, shifting—becoming Vi’s, staring up at him with those piercing cyan eyes. His heart skipped a beat. He gritted his teeth and swung the dagger in a brutal arc. It drove through the skull, clean and final.

Panting heavily, Blitzo stepped back, straightening. “We need to head back. Immediately.”

He opened a portal with a flick of his wrist, and the three of them sprinted inside just as the entrance collapsed behind them.

Back in the safety of their lair, Blitzo stretched, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. “Ooh… it’s good to be back, bitches.”

Millie jumped up and down, her energy finally free. “Moxxie, you did a great job!” She pulled him into a quick hug.

Moxxie chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You did too, sweetie.”

Blitzo furrowed his brows, groaning as he sank onto the couch. “Oh, fuck off, you two,” he muttered, letting himself collapse, the weight of the mission finally catching up with him.

Blitzo pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his crimson suit, smearing a streak of blood across the screen as he wiped it on his sleeve. He squinted at the cracked glass, then punched in the number. The call connected instantly, and before he could even catch his breath, a voice on the other end barked, “Job done!” The line went dead.

Blitzo’s eyes flicked toward the front door just in time to see the client waiting. With a grin, he bolted across the office, swinging the door open. Three hefty bags of souls landed at his feet with a thud, rattling against the floor as the door slammed shut behind them. “Woo! Baby!”

he shouted, tossing a few bills into the air and laughing as they fluttered down like confetti.

The scent of money—dry, crisp, and intoxicating—mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood on his hands.

From across the room, Millie and Moxxie approached, smiling quietly at the sight. Millie’s soft chuckle broke the tension. “I missed seeing him like this,” she said, watching Blitzo dive headfirst into the cash. Moxxie’s expression softened, though his voice carried a hint of melancholy. “Yeah, but… he still acts up when he thinks of her,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Millie sighed, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Well, at least some of him is still in there,” she said, gesturing to Blitzo, who was practically slobbering over the money. The two of them exchanged a look, equal parts amusement and concern.

Moxxie stepped closer, wrinkling his nose. “Okay… we need to get this in the safe,” he said, his voice tight with disgust.

“Oh, Loona is going to howl when she sees all this money just lying on the floor,” Blitzo called, slipping a few bills into his pocket as he hefted one of the soul bags over his shoulder. The jingling sound of coins inside the bags filled the hallway as he made his way toward the safe.

“We seriously need to get this place renovated soon,” Blitzo muttered over his shoulder, voice muffled slightly by the bag. Millie and Moxxie moved to pick up the other bags, their footsteps light but purposeful.

“And Moxxie,” Blitzo yelled from the hallway, his tone sharp and teasing, “if I catch you digging your ass-smelling fingers in those bags, I’ll throw you!”

Moxxie groaned, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched—half a smile, half resignation. The room filled with the sound of shuffled bags, fluttering bills, and the faint echo of Blitzo’s manic laughter.

Sorath moved silently through the palace halls, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the marble floor. The dim light of chandeliers glinted off the walls as he approached Stolas’ room. He paused at the doorway, leaning slightly to peer inside. “Annoying, isn’t it?” he murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. “It’s almost like they’re not even trying to kill her anymore.” A low, amused chuckle escaped him.

Inside, Stolas stood before the ornate mirror, meticulously adjusting his collar. His expression was cold, measured, and unreadable. “I have a plan against her,” he said without turning, his voice calm but sharp. “You’ve been… too useless for me.”

Sorath’s brows shot up, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of indignation crossed his features. “How could you say that, Stolas?” He stepped closer, letting the confidence in his stride seep into the room. Sliding a hand onto Stolas’ shoulder, he leaned in, his tone thick with ego. “We still have a chance against her. Tell me that little plan of yours, and I can help you refine it—make it better.”

Stolas’ hand shot out, brushing Sorath’s away with a swift, controlled motion. His eyes narrowed to sharp slits. “I’ll get the job done,” he said bluntly, his voice leaving no room for argument. Without another word, he turned, his coat sweeping the floor behind him as he made his way toward the throne room.

Sorath’s lips curved into a slow, calculating smirk. With a swift motion, he drew a small key from his pocket. He entered his bedroom, locking the door with a decisive click. The silence of the room was thick, almost suffocating, as he approached his bed. From beneath the covers, he pulled out a small, unassuming box and inserted the key, the mechanism clicking open with a quiet, almost reverent sound.

Inside, a tiny vial rested delicately, filled with ashes and blood. Sorath lifted it carefully, organizing the contents with precision before returning it to the box. He locked it once again, sliding the key back into his pocket.

He paused, crouching slightly as memories surged unbidden. The explosion—the chaos—the sound of Vi’s screams. Children running, figthing, panic painting the air like a living thing. He had watched from a distance, helpless yet calculating, as the world around her burned. He remembered the remains of that little girl, the debris of the ruined asylum, scattered like pieces of a shattered memory.

And then there was the blood. Sorath’s mind traced the edges of that research, the containers Scyllo had left behind, each sample of Vi meticulously cataloged. Every test, every observation, every note—it had all been collected. And Sorath had pieced it together.

Her blood was different. Not just in composition, but in origin. Molecules shimmered with tiny blue orbs, the same as those he had seen float in the air whenever Vi used her abilities. He had watched, calculated, connected the dots—her DNA was not of this world. Each sample was a puzzle piece, every blue orb a thread connecting her to a universe beyond comprehension.

Everything was finally beginning to make sense.

But there was something… odd. Something different, lingering ever since that day of the explosion. Sorath could still feel the echo of it—the chaos, the heat, the deafening roar—and how it had thrown him backward, leaving him on the edge of death. A deep, jagged wound had opened across his chest, burning like fire and ice at once. He had felt the world slip from him, his vision darkening… and then, inexplicably, runes had appeared, spinning in a silent orbit around him. They glowed with an unearthly light, wrapping him in a shield of power that had given him the strength to drag himself away, to survive when death had almost claimed him.

He lifted the edge of his top garment, staring at the wound that had once threatened to undo him. Flesh had been replaced by something alien—a metallic texture glinting gold in the faint light. The scar tissue that remained looked almost ornamental against the sheen of metal, a strange fusion of past injury and impossible magic. Most of it had healed, but the memory of the pain lingered like a shadow on his skin.

Sleep had not been kind since then. Nightmares clawed at him with relentless persistence, visions bleeding into his waking thoughts. He saw a world that was not their own—a sprawling city bathed in unfamiliar light, faces he did not recognize, streets that twisted in impossible ways. And always, there was Vi. Not the girl before him, not the one in the present… but a vision of her memories, fragments of moments she had lived that he had never witnessed firsthand.

He didn’t know how this connected to her abilities, or why her existence seemed to ripple across the boundaries of reality itself. But a single certainty burned in him: there was more to her than anyone had understood, more that he needed to uncover. Something about her called to him, tugging at the edges of his curiosity—and his obsession.

Glints of memory flashed in Vi’s mind—her teeth sinking into Cain, hungrily devouring the mashed remnants of his brain. Blood smeared across her face and fingers, a visceral taste of power and hunger. She remembered the sins who had watched her, the way they had lingered silently. Had they finally spared her? Were they no longer trying to kill her?

A dark pulse stirred within her—a craving, raw and almost sentient, an evil that whispered murder. She recalled Asmodeus, the last one to leave her that day in the abandoned theme park. He had watched her with his usual sinister amusement. She had stared back, feeling hunger rise, clawing at her insides. She could have pounced on him, torn him apart and devoured him, if he hadn’t walked away.

Now, in her hideout, the aftermath of her fury behind her, she scanned the room. Angel lay asleep on the couch, oblivious. Vi’s eyes glowed a bright cyan, piercing the darkness like twin flashlights. Angel stirred, groaning, and slowly sat up, shielding his eyes with an arm.

“Wh—what the hell is that?” he muttered, squinting.

When his gaze finally landed on her, he gasped, then scrambled to her side, pulling her into a tight embrace. He didn’t flinch at the blood covering her, didn’t care about the carnage. He just held her.

Vi returned the hug, squeezing him back, a soft, relieved smile tugging at her lips.

“You fuckin’ hardcore lesbian,” Angel said, voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you slipped away.”

Vi chuckled through her sobs, a sound both soft and dark. “Cain’s gone,” she murmured.

Angel tightened his hold, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and awe. “You ate him too, didn’t you?”

Vi laughed quietly, almost in disbelief at the question. “Yeah…”

“And Iselin?” he pressed.

“She went home,” Vi answered, her tone flat, distant.

Angel released her slightly, searching her eyes. “Well… what are you doing now? Are the overlords still after you?”

Vi’s hands trembled slightly as she pulled away, but her gaze remained steady. “I think they might have given up. But I’m not letting go of Valentino,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’m not letting go of this… not yet.”

Angel gently took her hands in his, his expression softening. “Why not just… start living?”

Vi looked down, her fingers relaxing in his grasp. “I still need to find a way back to where I came from,” she said. “I need to find Stolas. He’s still out there. I need a way to make a deal with him… despite everything that happened.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sis?” Angel asked cautiously, concern flickering across his face.

“You can help me get in contact with someone who might know a way to Earth. I’ll protect you from Valentino—he knows he can’t fuck with me anymore,” she said with a smirk.

Angel grinned, playful and mischievous. “Sure, but you’ll owe me.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “Angel, I’m jobless right now. No money—”

“Nope,” he interrupted, eyes glinting. “You’ll owe me my own time alone here. I got, like… twenty-five men to fuck for billions of souls.”

Vi’s eyes widened, and she swallowed hard. “Uh… I won’t be… sleeping around here much anyway,” she said, gulping, her smirk fading into a nervous laugh.

Chapter 37: The power noticed

Summary:

“You remember this one, sugar?”

Striker stood before the cracked mirror, shirtless, the dim light of the hideout casting sharp shadows across the web of scars carved into his skin. Each mark was a memory, a history of pain etched permanently into his flesh. His gaze lingered, cold and unblinking, before he finally turned away.

He strode to the closet, pulling out a dark brown western shirt, its fabric worn from years of wear. Sliding it over his shoulders, he fastened the buttons slowly, each click deliberate, before tugging on a pair of black leather jeans. His black coat hung waiting, heavy and familiar. He shrugged it on, its weight settling over him like armor. From the desk, he reached for his gun, slipping it into the hidden inside pocket of the coat with the ease of ritual.

On the shelf above, his hand hovered over the old cowboy hat—brown, weathered, a reminder of another life. His fingers twitched, almost taking it, before muscle memory gave way to choice. Instead, he reached for the black hat, the darker crown fitting snugly as he lowered it onto his head. He sighed, a long, weary exhale, and turned back to the cluttered desk.

Contracts lay scattered across it, thick stacks of paper lined with names, numbers, and secrets. His eyes locked onto a single sheet, Scyllo’s signature etched at the bottom. His brows furrowed, and his pupils trembled. The memory came unbidden.

The sound of Bombproof’s screams—his horse thrashing, terrified—as they put him down. Striker had beaten his fists bloody against the glass, voice breaking as he begged them to stop, begged them to let Bombproof live. The memory carved through him, shaking his hands as his teeth ground together. Rage and grief churned in his chest like fire barely contained.

Panting, Striker seized the contracts, clenching them in his fist as he reached under the desk. The bottle of gasoline, kept hidden for months, sloshed when he pulled it free. Without hesitation, he stormed out of the hideout and into the winding alleyways of the Greed Ring. His boots echoed against the empty stone, leading him further and further from the bustle of the city until he came upon an abandoned building, its hollow frame forgotten by time.

Inside, dust hung heavy in the air. He dropped the papers in the center of the room, the weight of them sounding louder than it should have. Unscrewing the cap, he poured the gasoline over them, the pungent fumes filling the space. With his lighter, he sparked a small flame, the flickering glow reflected in his yellow eyes. For a moment, he just stared at it, breathing hard, before letting the lighter slip from his fingers.

The fire roared to life, swallowing the papers hungrily, devouring every secret, every contract, every trace of the past he despised. Striker stood over the flames, fists clenched, forcing himself to watch every sheet curl and blacken. The guilt pressed heavy on his chest. The memory haunted him still—the sight of a human woman, broken and sobbing, clutching the body of someone she had loved.

And yet, as the fire danced higher, a smirk slowly crept across his lips. Shadows carved sharp lines across his scarred face. He reached into his pocket and drew a cigarette, pressing the tip into the flames until it caught. Taking a long drag, smoke curling past his teeth, he turned his back on the inferno.

As he stepped out into the night, his eyes glowed with a sharp, predatory yellow, burning as fiercely as the fire behind him.

Striker’s boots echoed hollowly as he made his way out of the alley, each step measured, the sound of leather scraping against stone cutting through the silence. His head hung slightly low, cigarette smoke drifting from his lips in languid streams, curling like ghosts in the cold air. The Greed Ring was quiet in this forgotten corner, abandoned storefronts looming over him with shattered glass eyes.

Then he saw it.

A figure. Tall. Still. Waiting at the mouth of the alley like a shadow stitched into the darkness. Striker slowed, his chest tightening instinctively. His hand twitched toward the inside of his coat where the steel weight of his gun waited.

He narrowed his eyes. “Now, best back off,” he said coolly, his drawl sharp with threat. “Before I take both your knees out, pal.”

The figure didn’t retreat. Instead, it began to move forward, each step deliberate, unhurried. The air grew heavier as it approached, and its frame seemed to stretch impossibly taller, broadening, filling the alley with its presence. Then, two eyes flared in the dark—blinding, radiant, golden as the sun itself.

Striker stiffened, his instincts screaming. Still, he forced his face to remain hard, his glare unwavering. “Who are you?” he demanded, voice steady despite the chill crawling down his spine.

The figure’s lips pulled into a smile—calm, knowing, unshakable. “Fearless, son. You never shy,” the voice purred, deep and resonant, carrying a refined elegance that seemed out of place in the grime of the alley. With a slow, almost ceremonial motion, the figure lowered his hood.

The glow of those sunlit eyes illuminated the proud, aristocratic features of Sorath.

Striker’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing closer to the grip of his weapon. “Sorath. The Sun Demon,” he said, voice low with suspicion. “What brings you to my shadows?”

Sorath’s smirk curved, his posture regal as though he stood in a grand ballroom rather than the filth of an alleyway. “I saw it,” he said smoothly, his words flowing like silk. “The precise moment you lost what remained of your family. Tell me, Striker…” His gaze burned into him. “When you saw her—when you saw that girl, Vi—did it not drag your mind back? Did it not tear open the old wound of your loss? Did it not ache like a wound still festering?”

The world rippled around Striker before he could respond. The alley dissolved. In its place stretched vast marble floors, obsidian pillars, and chandeliers that burned with flames that were not fire but sunlight condensed. Sorath’s palace.

Striker glanced around, forcing his breathing steady, though his pulse quickened.

Sorath circled him slowly, like a predator circling prey, his coat trailing behind him like a living shadow. His voice echoed in the chamber, grand and deliberate, every syllable enunciated with precision. “Did it sting, Striker, when the great Vox discarded you like refuse? When he ceased his visits and left you there to rot, your hope gnawing at you, waiting for chains to be undone that would never loosen?”

Striker’s teeth clenched. His anger rose like bile. Still, he held his ground, his spine rigid, his voice edged with venom. “What the hell do you want from me, your highness?” The words were spat with contempt.

Sorath’s smile widened, indulgent, as though amused by the rebellion of a child. “The human girl,” he said, voice dipping into gravitas. “She has slipped from the board entirely. No longer a piece in our grand game of sin and power.” He gestured gracefully, and papers appeared on a long ebony table nearby—research files, sketches of cellular structures, bloodwork etched with notes in Scyllo’s hand. “This being does not belong to our world. Her very blood is… foreign, alien. That makes her dangerous.”

Striker let out a low, humorless chuckle, folding his arms. “If you’re about to ask me to kill her, don’t waste your breath. I’d sooner blow my own brains out than start taking jobs for rich bastards like you.”

“Ah…” Sorath’s voice dropped to a velvet murmur, patient, almost fatherly. “You seem to have misunderstood me.” He stepped closer, laying a hand upon Striker’s shoulder. The touch burned with the faint warmth of sunlight. “I am not asking you to kill. I have seen enough carnage. Enough broken bodies. Enough rivers of blood. No… death is not what I seek.”

With a slow, fluid motion, Sorath slipped off his coat. Beneath, his torso gleamed in the golden light. His body was a tapestry of violence—scars etched deep, wounds old and terrible—but most of it had been replaced, reconstructed. Glimmering plates of radiant gold fused seamlessly with flesh, metallic but alive, a strange fusion of wound and miracle.

“I could have perished,” Sorath said quietly, reverently, his eyes distant as though recalling the moment. “The asylum’s explosion consumed everything. Her power should have ended me.” He raised a hand, examining the golden sheen. “But instead… It touched me. Reforged me. It did not kill. It transformed. Something within her is not destruction but rebirth. Healing. Renewal. Something that learns.”

Striker’s face remained stone, but his curiosity flickered deep inside, gnawing at him.

“Apologies partner, but,” Striker cut in, voice sharp and skeptical. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

Sorath’s smirk returned, more dangerous this time, his sunlit eyes flaring. “You will draw near to her. Closer than any of us could. Stolas weaves his plots against her, but I will not see his ambition smother her potential. Vi is… possibility incarnate. In her lies a force that could heal the broken, perhaps even elevate us to something greater than the wretched forms we cling to now.”

He slowly donned his garments once more, the fabric draping elegantly over his gilded form.

“You, Striker, will watch her. Every detail, every flicker of her power, every secret she does not yet understand herself—you will bring it to me. And I,” his voice deepened, rolling like thunder wrapped in velvet, “will bear the burden of studying it. Together, we may glimpse something even greater than dominion. A salvation hidden inside the very girl the others would rather see butchered.”

He leaned close, his smirk inches from Striker’s glare. “This is no request, my boy. It is an opportunity. For fortune. For power. For understanding.”

Striker dropped his eyes to the floor, jaw tight, inhaling deeply through his teeth. The fire of his defiance wrestled with the creeping curiosity that Sorath’s words had ignited.

The silence between them stretched, heavy as chains.

Vi stood in the ruins of the asylum, her boots crunching against broken glass and crumbled stone. The air still reeked faintly of smoke and char, as though the walls themselves remembered the fire. No one had bothered to clean this place, no one dared; it was as if the ground was cursed, forever scarred by what had happened here.

Her eyes trailed downward. With trembling hands, she brushed away chunks of concrete, fingers cutting against sharp edges. The dust stung her nose, but she dug frantically, desperate. Then she froze.

The bodies. Merc. Crafty. Gone.

Her breath hitched. She clawed at the floor, searching, dragging her palms over every crack and splinter. Nothing. Not a shred of cloth. Not a bone. Not a piece of them left behind.

Her teeth ground together, her chest heaving. “No… no, no, no!” she hissed, before collapsing onto her knees. The sobs broke through her throat raw and jagged, her fingers digging into the cracks of the foundation as if she could rip the answers out of the stone itself.

Her voice rose, desperate. “Where are they?!” she screamed, slamming her hands down. Electricity rippled violently from her body, crawling over the broken floor, lighting the ruins with erratic cyan sparks. She writhed, clutching herself, arms locking tightly around her torso as if a straitjacket still bound her, the phantom pressure squeezing her chest.

A sound—laughter.

Vi’s head snapped up, eyes wide, sweat dripping down her face. There, in the corner of her vision, Caitlyn stood. But not the Caitlyn she remembered. This one was sneering, laughing cruelly, head tilted as though mocking her grief. Her face morphing into Mage’s, laugh becoming demonic.

“Why did you do this?” Vi muttered, shaking her head violently. She turned, only to see more. Powder. Standing with Dinathelai. The same children whose cries had once torn through the flames. Powder’s hollow stare pierced into her, accusing, silent but deafening.

“Stop…” Vi rasped, chest tightening. Her vision blurred with tears.

A voice behind her. Calm. Smooth. Too calm.

“That’s the most human thing I’ve seen in years.”

Her body whipped around, fists clenched tight, lightning flickering around her arms. Judas stood before her, his presence looming, his expression unreadable.

Her eyes widened—then blinked. His frame warped, grew taller, broader. The shadows lengthened around him until the horns and wings appeared. Judas melted away, leaving behind something much worse.

Satan. Towering, vast, his presence blotting out the light. His burning gaze fell on her like a weight she couldn’t escape.

Vi stumbled back, shoving her hands over her ears. “No—no, Powder!” she screamed, but his silent stare pressed into her skull. The air thickened, choking.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed forward, her palms smacking the ground. Breath ragged, shallow.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it…” she begged, punching the floor until her knuckles split. Each strike cracked the ground, electricity searing outward. The voices fractured—then cut off. Silence.

Vi froze, her shoulders trembling. Slowly, she rose, dragging herself to her feet. Her chest heaved, her throat raw.

“Fine…” she croaked, her voice breaking apart. “I’m not good. I’m—” She slammed her fists against her skull, tears streaming down her blood-smeared cheeks. “I’m not a good sister! I’m not!”

She struck her head again, fists trembling, each blow harder than the last. “I know I’m not!” she wailed, her knees shaking beneath her. Her breaths came in sobs, violent and broken, like glass shattering with each inhale.

And still, in the edges of her vision, the figures lingered—Caitlyn smirking, Powder’s dead-eyed stare, Satan’s looming shape crouched just beyond the light. Watching. Waiting.

Her body shook violently, sparks dancing uncontrollably along her arms, blue orbs floating faintly into the ruined air. The hallucinations clung to her, feeding on her guilt, refusing to let her go.

Vi’s chest heaved, every breath scraping her throat raw. She shook, sparks stuttering along her skin, cyan light flickering like broken neon.

Then—another sound. A faint rattle. Glass against glass.

Her eyes darted around the ruins. From the shadows, a bottle rolled across the floor, stopping at her boot. She stared at it—familiar. Too familiar. Her stomach lurched.

A hiss followed. Gas. Sweet. Chemical. She gagged, the scent hitting her lungs, pulling her back—back to cold metal tables, restraints biting into her wrists. Needles glinting under harsh lights. Her muscles locked.

“No—no, I’m not there, I’m not there,” she muttered, gripping her head.

But the vision tightened its grip. A shadow leaned over her. White coats. Scyllo. Cold fingers pressing vials against her veins. Syringes sliding in. Liquid fire crawling through her bloodstream until her skin screamed with electricity. She arched off the table in the memory, screaming, eyes flooding cyan as the restraints burned into her.

And then the laughter.

Her blood went ice cold. That laugh—smooth, velvety, dripping with venom. Valentino.

He stepped out of the darkness, coat trailing, grin sharp and wide. The cigarette smoke curled like fingers around her throat. His eyes glimmered red through the haze.

“Poor little prize,” he crooned, his voice dragging bile into her throat. He flicked ash onto the floor, walking closer, each click of his heel echoing in her skull. “They broke you in that place, and still… you keep crawling back for more punishment.”

Vi stumbled back, shaking her head violently. “You’re not real,” she spat, sparks lighting the floor under her boots.

But Valentino’s shadow stretched, swallowing the walls. His hand raised—and in an instant she was back on the table, wrists bound. His hand on her chin, forcing her head up, the syringe glinting in his other hand. She thrashed but the straps dug deeper, biting her skin raw.

“You remember this one, sugar?” he sneered. The needle sank into her neck. Her vision burned cyan-white, agony ripping through her chest as if her skin were splitting open. She screamed, the sound cracking into sobs.

He leaned down, his voice curling into her ear. “You think those scars are yours? Nah, baby. They’re mine. All mine.”

Her breath shattered into panicked gasps, tears streaking her bloodstained cheeks. “Stop—stop, get out of my head, get out—” She smashed her fists against her skull, electricity ripping the ruins apart in arcs, but Valentino stayed. His smirk widened.

“You can’t kill me,” he barked out a laugh.

The asylum lights flickered around her, metal walls closing in, the smell of smoke and charred flesh choking her lungs. Vi collapsed forward onto her knees, her fingernails clawing the stone until they split, her blood smearing across the cracks.

And through the haze—Powder’s voice. Tiny. Broken. Whispering.

“You left me.”

Vi froze. Slowly, she lifted her head. Powder stood at the end of the ruined hall, hands clasped, her eyes hollow and burning.

“You let them hurt me too,” Powder whispered.

Her body shook violently, every nerve screaming. “No—no, I tried, I—”

But the child only stared, and behind her, the shadows of masked doctors, Valentino, and Satan loomed, watching. Waiting.

Vi’s sob tore through the ruins like an animal’s death cry. Cyan lightning burst outward in jagged storms, splitting the air, vaporizing stone into dust, shredding metal into powder. The asylum lay in ruin, transformed into a floating haze of debris and crystalline hextech fragments suspended in the storm like glowing embers.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged pulls. She stared down at her trembling hands, the cyan glow crawling across her knuckles like fire licking through cracks. A pull tugged at her gut, dragging her attention like a hook through her sternum—toward the Pride Ring.

She staggered forward, boots crunching across the rubble. By the time she reached Pride’s border, her pace was steady, almost mechanical. Demons glanced at her but most quickly averted their gaze, muttering under their breath. Others looked too long, whispers riding the air like gnats: that’s her—the human, the broken one, the weapon.

Vi clenched her jaw. “For some reason, everything happens here… but half these bastards aren’t even from Pride. Why’s everyone so damn involved?” Her voice was half-growl, half-mutter, bleeding exhaustion.

The sounds of construction rang through the streets. Vi stopped. She turned her head and froze. A new building, scaffolds climbing upward, beams rattling with hammer strikes. The skeletal shape was unmistakable. Valentino’s studio—being rebuilt.

Her breath hitched. Her feet moved before her mind could argue, every step heavier, dragging her closer.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Six herself.”

Vi stiffened. A voice, unfamiliar but cocky, slithered behind her. She pivoted slowly, her shoulders squared.

A tall figure leaned casually against the wall. Pale eyes, smirk curling his lips. A blunt smoldered between his fingers as he circled her, each step deliberate, predatory.

“So this is the human girl everyone’s crying about,” he drawled. “Tell me—where’s Judas, huh?”

Vi’s brows knitted, her voice sharp as flint. “Heaven took him back. What do you want from me?”

The demon’s grin widened, teeth glinting. “Ah—my apologies, Overlord. I’ve forgotten my manners. Name’s Thomas.” He bowed with mocking flourish, one foot stepping back in exaggerated courtesy.

Vi’s body moved before her thoughts caught up. Her knee snapped up, driving into his face with brutal force. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. Thomas stumbled back, snarling, clutching his nose.

“I am not an overlord!” Vi roared, her voice distorting into something demonic, eyes blazing cyan like wildfire in a storm.

Her own gasp betrayed her. Hands shot to her mouth. The sound hadn’t felt like hers at all—it had come from deeper, darker, something coiled inside Wrath itself, slipping out through her throat.

Thomas spat blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then—he laughed. A ragged, hoarse bark of amusement. “That temper… Hell really is getting to you. Makes you almost… sexy. Didn’t know humans grew fire-red hair like that.” His voice cracked with drunken venom, mocking but cautious now.

Vi’s hands trembled. She turned sharply, forcing her steps away from him. “Stay out of my way—unless you want more broken than your nose.”

Thomas leaned against the wall again, groaning as blood dripped through his fingers. He called after her, voice sharp with pain and twisted humor. “Son of a bitch!”

But Vi didn’t look back.

Her gaze locked on the rising studio. The closer she got, the tighter her chest felt, as though invisible hands wrapped around her ribs, pulling her forward.

The hammering stopped. Demons froze as Vi stormed in, her boots cracking the stone underfoot. She reached for the nearest imp and yanked him by the shoulder, her grip crushing. His wide eyes locked with hers.

For a fleeting moment, her fingers softened. She almost loosened her grip.

Then the pull surged again. Wrath. Or something darker.

Vi snarled, her muscles jerking against her will. With a single violent motion, she ripped the imp’s arm clean from its socket. Sparks erupted, blue lightning snapping between their bodies as his scream ripped the air. Blood spattered her arms, warm and metallic. She raised the severed limb, waving it high.

“Get the fuck off this site!” she roared, her voice splitting into human and demon in unison.

The workers scrambled, tools clattering to the ground. The sound of retreating claws and feet filled the street.

Vi staggered forward, teeth bared, pulling at steel bars as if they were paper. Her hands wrenched beams from their joints, smashing wood planks, ripping scaffolds apart. Sweat and blood mixed on her skin as she pulled bombs from her belt—angelic ordinance stolen, their faint glow dangerous in Hell’s air. She plucked the fuse and tossed one behind her.

The explosion tore the half-built studio apart.

Smoke and fire bloomed. Screams echoed. The ground rattled under the force.

And then—

“What the hell is going on?!”

Vox’s voice.

His car screeched to a stop. He stormed toward the chaos, fury plastered across his glowing screen-face.

Vi turned toward him. For an instant, she saw his sharp neon features, his hands flung wide in rage.

Then her vision cracked red. A presence surged through her veins, hollowing her chest, wrapping around her thoughts like a noose. Her eyes glowed brighter, veins crawling cyan under her skin, as her lips parted into a grin that wasn’t hers.

Her fingers closed around another bomb.

Vi’s gaze locked on Vox, he looked at her with anger, ready to attack until–

Her hand moved. The bomb sailed through the air, a streak of holy light against the red haze.

The last thing Vox saw was her glowing eyes—feral, divine, wrathful—before the world split in fire.

Chapter 38: Great violet?

Summary:

“How the hell does a human end up as an overlord?”

Vox slammed open the gilded doors of the palace, his voice thundering through the marble hall.

“That girl is getting out of hand!” he bellowed, his screen-face crackling with angry static.

Valentino jerked upright, startled out of his relaxed sprawl on a velvet settee. His antenna twitched as his expression twisted into irritation.

“What the hell are you talking about now?” he snapped, pushing himself to his feet.

Vox stalked back and forth like a caged animal, his screen flickering violently. A jagged crack ran across his faceplate from the recent blast, and he pressed a hand against it as though the gesture could hold his temper together.

“She blew up our studio again, Val!” His voice pitched into a harsh electronic snarl, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling.

Valentino froze for a beat, eyes narrowing before they flared a molten red. The pupils constricted into slits, his teeth grinding audibly as his composure shattered.

“She what?!” he roared, the words guttural and distorted. Flames licked up his sleeves, tracing over his form as his voice deepened into something far older and far more demonic.

Vox’s frame glitched harder, the neat silhouette of his suit shredding into grotesque distortions. His screen warped into a gaping, jagged mouth; black tendrils, slick and veined like living wires, sprouted from his back, each one blinking with glaring red eyes. The palace trembled as he let out an inhuman roar.

Valentino was changing too—his slender form elongating, twisting as moth-like wings burst from his back, patterned with furious, unblinking eyes that pulsed with a life of their own. His flames curled around him in spiraling vortexes as he towered over the shattered tiles.

Together they stood, monstrous and livid, filling Lucifer’s grand hall with a suffocating aura. Then, as if drawn by the same thought, they surged forward in unison—two forces of wrath descending into smoke and shadow, slipping from the palace to hunt their prey.

The echo of their overlapping roars lingered long after they vanished, rattling chandeliers and chilling the air, leaving the palace in eerie silence—save for the faint crackle of dying embers.

The bathroom was empty, its cracked tiles slick with condensation from faulty pipes. Vi gripped the rusted sink, shoulders trembling as she turned the tap. Water sputtered out in uneven spurts, rattling through the old pipes. She splashed her face, trying to wash away the gray powder clinging stubbornly to her skin—the residue of the explosion. The dust burned her throat from the inside, itching like splinters in her mouth. She coughed hard, scraping at her tongue with her nails, the taste of metal and holy residue sharp at the back of her throat.

She cupped her palms under the thin stream, gathering cloudy water. Her bandages bled rust-brown into it, streaks of dried crimson unraveling with each wash. Vi leaned down, drinking hungrily, desperate like a parched animal. The water dripped down her chin and soaked into the collar of her shirt. She rubbed her face with both hands until the skin stung, as if she could scrub herself back to before the dust, before the fire.

The creak of movement caught her attention.

Loona was leaning by the doorframe, arms crossed, her tail curled tightly between her legs. Her amber eyes narrowed, watching Vi like she was something dangerous—or already dying. When Vi didn’t lunge at her, when no lightning sparked from her fists, Loona’s shoulders loosened slightly.

Vi panted softly, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks. She turned her head just enough to look at the hellhound. Her voice was hoarse, but calm. “You’re… what they call a hellhound, huh?”

Loona cleared her throat, shifting uneasily under the weight of the question. “Uh, yeah.” Her tone was curt, but not unkind—cautious, like she didn’t want to provoke something unstable.

Vi’s gaze drifted back to the mirror. The reflection was unkind: bloodshot eyes, cyan veins faintly glowing beneath pale skin, scars peeking from under the bandages. She looked less human every day.

Loona noticed the way Vi stared at her own face, and tried to fill the silence. “You had a big impact on my dad.”

Vi’s brow ticked up. She said nothing, waiting.

Loona gave a small, dry chuckle, scratching behind her ear. “Before… everything happened, he wouldn’t shut up about you. Said he couldn’t get rid of this loud ringing in his head after he saw you. Kept ranting, crying about it. Drove me insane.” Her voice dropped lower. “That was back when you were with Stolas…” The last name left her lips like something sour, almost guilty for saying it aloud.

She straightened, trying to mask the slip with sharpness. “I just started fucking off after that. Couldn’t deal with him anymore.”

Vi finally turned to look at her fully. The cyan glow in her irises dimmed, her expression unreadable. “… Who’s your dad?”

Loona hesitated, then let it out in a flat tone. “Blitz. He runs an assassination business, I.M.P.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed slightly, a memory stirring. The image of a frantic imp, eyes darting with recognition, approaching her after the asylum’s aftermath. The sound of his voice, calling her something she didn’t want to be called.

“… Hm.” Her shoulders sagged. “K then.”

She pushed herself off the sink and moved past Loona, steps heavy, unhurried. Just before she crossed the threshold, she paused and glanced back. Her voice was quiet, but carried weight. “Tell your dad to stay away from me. Not out of hate. But…” Her gaze fell to the floor, her jaw tightening. “… he doesn’t want to be near me.”

Without waiting for a response, Vi walked out.

Loona sighed, her ears twitching back. Still, she followed a few paces behind, as if tethered by some unresolved curiosity. They emerged into the dim hallway together, footsteps echoing.

Vi stopped abruptly, turning with tired irritation. “What is it?” Her brow arched, her hands slipping into her hoodie pockets.

Loona blinked, caught off guard. “… Where are you heading?”

“Somewhere.” Vi’s answer was blunt, clipped. She started forward again.

Loona’s tail flicked once, uncertain. Her voice rose behind Vi. “I’ve just been wondering. What are you? Really?”

Vi exhaled, a long, exhausted sigh. “… I’m human.”

Loona scoffed faintly, almost amused, almost disbelieving. “How the hell does a human end up as an overlord?”

That stopped Vi cold. She turned, slow, deliberate, her face half-hidden beneath the hood she was pulling over her head. Her eyes snapped open, glowing cyan with sharp, dangerous intensity.

“Can you just leave me alone?”

The glow burned enough to make Loona’s chest tighten, her legs stiffening instinctively. No electricity sparked—no violence followed—yet the message was clear. Power thrummed in the silence.

Loona blinked, startled, her own tail lowering in a submissive flick. She turned her head away, muttering something under her breath, and started walking the opposite direction.

Vi watched her go for a beat longer, then sighed, heavy and tired. She raised her hood completely, shadows covering her face, shielding her from the stares of passing imps whose whispers buzzed in the corners of her hearing. Her hands sank deeper into her pockets as she walked on.

Just another ghost haunting Hell’s streets.

The alleys of Pride stank of cheap smoke and rusted metal, the air buzzing faintly with neon that barely lit the grime. Vi stalked through, her boots crunching glass. Ahead of her, she spotted a pack of teenage imps shoving a smaller boy against a wall. Their jagged voices rang with laughter, sharp as nails.

Vi’s shadow cut across them, and when she spoke, her tone carried the weight of smoke and exhaustion.
“This place isn’t any different from the Undercity.”

The teens froze mid-swing. Their grins faltered when her cyan eyes flicked over them, glowing faintly under the shadow of her hood. One by one, their claws loosened from the boy’s shirt. They scattered, whispering as if her presence alone had cursed the alley. Vi didn’t even glance back at them—her pace never faltered.

Finally, she stopped in front of a crooked wooden door sandwiched between rust-stained bricks. Her knuckles rapped against it once.

The hinges groaned open, and a male imp peered out, blinking up at her. His horns curled in perfect stripes of black and white, and a moustache—absurdly neat, like it had been waxed—rested on his upper lip. He froze, pupils shrinking as he looked up into her tired, scarred face.

“… Got a place for me to stay?” Vi asked flatly, voice low, strained.

The imp gulped audibly. Recognition flickered across his face before his lips stretched into a nervous grin.
“Sure thing!” He stepped aside with a theatrical sweep of his arm, his mustache twitching as if alive.

Vi ducked through the doorframe and found herself in a cramped room cluttered with half-broken furniture and papers stacked in teetering towers. A threadbare couch slumped against the wall, and Vi dropped onto it without ceremony, sinking into the fabric like it was a grave.

The imp scuttled in after her, bowing so low his moustache nearly brushed the floor.
“I must apologize, the great Violet! I had not the faintest notion of receiving such an illustrious visitor, which explains this dreadful mess!”

Vi turned her head toward him, expression twisting. Her lip curled, more in exhaustion than anger. “I don’t need all that. And… the great Violet? Who the hell came up with that?”

The imp straightened instantly, puffing his chest. “Oh! Forgive me, forgive me—would you prefer the powerful Vi?” His moustache twitched proudly, as if the words themselves were an honor to bestow.

Vi pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “Look. I’m not an overlord. I’m not someone to worship. I just… want to sleep.” Her voice cracked on the last word, tired to the bone.

The imp faltered, scratching the back of his head, his horns nearly scraping the wall. “Of course, of course. I’ll be here to… serve you, nonetheless.” His eyes gleamed with too much intensity, like a salesman who couldn’t turn off the pitch.

Vi’s gaze slid sideways to him, then away. She shifted on the couch, curling onto her side, her cheek pressing against the thin cushion. The fabric smelled faintly of ash and cologne. She closed her eyes, muttering, “Hey, weirdo. Turn away, would you?”

The imp jolted like she’d slapped him, and spun on his heels so fast his tail smacked the doorframe. “At once, my lady!”

Finally, there was silence—though Vi could still feel his nervous energy buzzing behind her like static. She exhaled, her body slowly sinking into uneasy rest, haunted by the weight of eyes that wouldn’t stop seeing her as something she never wanted to be.

Chapter 39: A conniving deceit

Summary:

“Me and you… we’d be great together. Tearin’ down overlords. Bringin’ ‘em low. Rebels with teeth.”

Electricity spasmed through her legs, a violent spark that jolted Vi awake with a sharp gasp. Her chest heaved, breath shallow and ragged, as if she had sprinted through a storm. Sweat clung to her skin in a cold sheen. She lay there for a moment, paralyzed by the phantom charge still crawling along her nerves.

It was the seventh time she had woken like this in just three hours. Her body ached, not from combat, but from exhaustion, as though her own powers were feeding on her.

Sitting up, she stared down at her thighs, hands trembling slightly. The faint glow of cyan flickered beneath her skin, pulsing like veins full of lightning. She dragged her palms over her face, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to be human again.

“How do I control them?” she rasped to the empty room, voice hoarse, nearly breaking. The silence offered no answer.

Then—three knocks.

Her head snapped up. The sound came from the door. Slow, deliberate.

Vi rose, muscles tight, her ribs aching faintly from the night’s strain. She pressed her temple against the wooden frame, listening, before cautiously lowering her eye to the peephole.

Nobody.

Brows knitting, she pulled back. “What the—”

A sudden presence loomed behind her.

Before she could react, a tall figure surged out of the shadows and slammed into her with brute force, the door exploding into splinters as she was hurled through it.

The impact with the lamp post cracked through her chest, the shattering agony of bone snapping deep inside her ribcage. She crumpled to the ground, breath tearing from her lungs in broken gasps.

Still, she pushed herself up, trembling, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Pain was a familiar companion. It would not stop her.

Two shapes descended from the night sky. Wings of smoke and circuitry stretched wide as Valentino and Vox emerged in their full demonic forms. The city’s neon seemed to dim under their presence, twisting into an oppressive glow.

Vi’s eyes widened, heart hammering in her throat.

Valentino dove first, his moth-like wings sharpened into glistening blades that cut through the air with a hiss. Vi dropped low, rolling aside just as Vox’s tendril whipped out, coiling tight around her ankle.

Her body slammed against the brick wall with brutal force, dust scattering on impact.

“You won’t fuck with us again!” Valentino’s voice thundered, deepened by the guttural edge of his demonic form. Smoke bled from his frame, shifting like a living nightmare.

The blades of his wings slashed forward.

Vi’s body moved before thought. Her eyes flared with that unnatural cyan, and she lunged forward, her fist colliding with Valentino’s side in a crack of energy. He staggered back as she twisted, barely ducking Vox’s attempt to pin her throat against the wall.

Her boot drove into his knee with savage force. The joint buckled backwards with a sickening crunch, and Vox staggered. His tendrils whipped violently, grabbing her midair, slamming her once again into the stone.

Vi rolled, dust scraping her palms raw. On one knee now, she screamed—a sound torn from deep inside. The night itself seemed to answer. Every lamp post, every neon sign across the street flickered cyan, bathing the alley in unnatural light.

She bolted forward, her fists alive with violent arcs of Hextech energy, sparks searing the air. She drove an uppercut into Valentino’s jaw, sending him airborne. Before he could recover, she stomped down on one wing, pinning him, and launched herself at Vox.

Her gauntleted fist cracked against his screen-face, shattering pixels in a burst of static. She rammed her forehead into him with raw defiance, then twisted into a crouch atop his shoulders. Her hands gripped the exposed tendrils protruding from his frame, pulling with everything she had.

Vox shrieked, a piercing static-laced cry, as his tendrils thrashed wildly. Vi’s teeth clenched. She ripped the cables free in a violent tear, and dropped to the ground, breath burning her lungs.

Valentino was already recovering, his smoke-form twitching violently, wings curling back. Vi braced—

Then something lashed across the alley.

A rope, glowing faintly, looped around Valentino’s throat and yanked him back with unnatural force. His body jerked, wings snapping open in reflex. The scent of burnt ozone filled the air.

Vi’s head whipped toward the source.

Striker stepped from the shadows, the rope clutched tight in his calloused hands. The cord itself shimmered faintly—blessed, its power undeniable. With a savage pull, he dragged Valentino down, boot slamming into the demon’s wings.

Valentino let out a guttural roar, his form unraveling, smoke peeling away until he dissolved into a shrieking ghostly essence. Vox followed, his broken tendrils snapping back as he too dissipated into nothing, both overlords fleeing into the night as specters.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Vi dropped to her knees, chest heaving, ribs screaming with every breath. Sweat dripped down her face as she turned her wide eyes on the newcomer.

Striker calmly rewound the rope, tucking it back into his coat pocket like it was nothing more than a tool. His expression was unreadable, save for the sharp glint in his eye.

Vi sat there, trembling, staring at him in disbelief—caught between gratitude, confusion, and the shock of survival.

“You don’t get along very well with them, don’t ya?” Striker drawled, his voice carrying that mocking southern twang. He approached slowly, boots tapping against broken stone, holding out his hand as though he hadn’t just intervened in the chaos. “Overlords are rich bastards. Power-hungry, self-servin’, no good for leadin’—only for keepin’ themselves on the throne.”

The demon assassin smirked down at her, sharp eyes glittering.

Vi just stared at him, chest heaving. Her body trembled with exhaustion, ribs aching, sparks still twitching across her fingertips. For a moment she didn’t move—until a memory came crashing in.

The echo of gunfire. Screams that wouldn’t stop. Lai’s terrified cry. The flash of a muzzle aimed directly at her.

Her eyes widened. Rage slammed into her chest like another electric surge.

“You—” Her voice cracked into a snarl.

Vi lunged. Her fist connected with Striker’s jaw in a brutal crack that sent his head snapping to the side.

“You fucking cunt!” she screamed, punching him again. Her body surged with fury as she slammed him into the ground, her hand closing around his throat. The weight of her gauntlet pinned him easily. She shook above him, breath tearing from her lungs.

“You had the nerve—the fucking nerve—to show your snake ass after what you did?!”

Her voice shook, not with weakness, but with rage carved raw by memory.

“I saw you there! I remember everything!” she roared, drawing her fist back for another strike. “So if you think you can lie to my face, it won’t work!”

But before her fist fell, something cold and coiled shot around her neck.

Striker’s tail.

The pressure wrenched her backward, choking the scream out of her. Vi clawed at it, gagging, thrashing violently. She lashed out with her boot, trying to stomp his face in. Striker grunted, catching her ankle, twisting his body with practiced ease. The two rolled, grit and broken wood scattering across the ground as he slipped away, quicker than her fury could pin.

In one smooth motion, Striker whipped out the rope. Blessed rope.

The moment it touched her, Vi screamed. Not from pain, but from memory.

The fibers seared against her skin like fire, her chest constricting. Her body convulsed, electricity arcing across her arms in desperate surges. Bolts flickered like wildfire up her veins, fighting to break free—only to sputter uselessly against the holy restraint.

She collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her eyes flicked up at him, cyan glow dimming with exhaustion.

“Go on…” she rasped, voice hoarse. “Just… end it.”

Striker crouched slightly, chuckling low in his throat. His smirk widened.

“Oh, I ain’t here to end you,” he said smoothly. “For a human, you got some balls. Talkin’ smart to demons, overlords—throwin’ fists at me like you’re untouchable. You ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

He circled her like a predator, rope taut in his hand. “Got strength, got fury—but tell me somethin’… does anyone even look at you and see ‘human’ anymore?”

Vi’s lip curled, but she stayed silent, chest rising and falling like thunder.

“I know what you want,” she muttered finally, her voice low, trembling with equal parts fury and fatigue. “You’re here ‘cause you want someone dead. I’m not your weapon. I won’t do shit for you.”

“Ohoho!” Striker barked, grinning, “Finally—someone who gets me.”

He leaned closer, voice dripping with theatrical pride. “Before they dragged me to that asylum, I was the best assassin this side of Hell. I’ve killed more imps and demons than I can count. And you know what? Nobody ever found a piece of me. No snake skin, no trail. Clean. Perfect.”

A faint hiss escaped as his tail slithered under her chin, lifting her face.

“Trust me,” he whispered, smug. “I know what it’s like bein’ used as a weapon. I know that weight.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed. Then, despite her restraints, she smirked faintly and shut her eyes.

“I don’t buy bullshit,” she spat, “from a snake who tried to kill a kid. For what, huh? You thought Jane was gonna help you out? Help you escape that asylum?”

Her eyes snapped open, blazing. “The second I’m out of these ropes, Striker… I’ll come for you. And I’ll eat you alive.”

Striker tilted his head, amused, stepping closer.

“That’s funny,” he muttered, leaning down until his breath brushed her face. “You could eat anyone in this pit. But a human can’t stomach poison. And me?” His smirk split wider. “I’m venom. Deadly from the first bite.”

Vi grit her teeth, eyes burning with fury. “You’re just meat,” she growled. “Snake meat.”

His tail slid gently against her cheek, mocking in its caress.

“Fine,” he said almost lazily. “I tried to kill the brat. But that’s the job. Assassins don’t get sentimental. We don’t ask questions. We get the job done.”

He straightened, circling her once more, the rope creaking faintly with each movement.

“I know you hate them. You want revenge for what they did to you. Especially feathers—you know exactly who I mean, don’t you, Vi?” His voice dropped, a hiss curling into her ear.

“I’m askin’ for a partnership.”

The words lingered in the silence, heavy and slick as oil.

Striker leaned closer still, his voice barely a whisper.

“Me and you… we’d be great together. Tearin’ down overlords. Bringin’ ‘em low. Rebels with teeth.”

As he spoke, his hands loosened the rope, coils falling slack around her arms.

Vi’s chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths. She stared at him, eyes ringed with exhaustion, the glow in her irises fading to something human again.

“I can do this on my own,” she said flatly, voice ragged but firm. “I don’t need you to get the job finished.”

Striker tilted his head, studying her as though waiting for her to falter, to take it back.

But Vi stood taller, pushing him back with a shove of her palm against his chest. “Just stay out of my sight,” she spat. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

She turned her back on him without hesitation, digging her hands into the pockets of her torn hoodie. Each step away was heavy, her body trembling with pain, but her resolve didn’t waver.

Striker watched her silhouette fade into the darkened street, a glare narrowing his reptilian eyes. Then, slowly, his lips curled. A smirk slithered across his face, his serpent-like pupils glinting in the glow of neon.

“Feisty,” he muttered, voice dripping with amusement.

Turning sharply on his heel, Striker walked into the night.

The casino wasn’t far—its garish glow bled into the skyline like a wound, reds and golds flickering against the smog. The closer he drew, the stronger the scent of smoke, whiskey, and sin clung to the air.

Striker pushed through the swinging doors, boots clicking on the glossy floor. The place was alive with sound: chips clinking, laughter too loud, the buzzing of demonic slot machines.

And then it wasn’t.

The moment he stepped inside, the noise faltered. Eyes turned. Conversations dipped into silence. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room like a stormcloud.

All except for one table near the back. Three hellhounds sat around it, cards fanned in their claws, a pile of chips stacked in front of them. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.

Striker’s gaze locked on them immediately.

He strolled forward, weaving through the frozen patrons, his spurs rattling faintly with each step. When he reached the table, he stopped just short—and without a word, leveled his revolver at the back of one player’s head.

The demon hound froze, his fur bristling. A sharp gasp escaped him as the cold steel pressed against his skull.

The other two hellhounds slowly turned, stiff in their chairs. Their cards lowered, eyes darting between the gun and the snake-eyed man holding it.

The one under the barrel swallowed hard and forced a laugh, his voice cracking. “O-oh, hey there… Striker. Yeah. Long time, huh?”

Striker’s smirk widened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only they could hear.

“You got a debt, Cal.” The words were slow, deliberate, venom curling through each syllable. “And it’s time you three paid up.”

Cal’s throat bobbed.

“Been a year and a few months, huh?” Striker continued, eyes gleaming. “Funny thing—seein’ you dogs sittin’ pretty at a casino after the sob story you pulled. How your lives were ruined. How you were beggin’ me for mercy.”

The revolver clicked as Striker cocked the hammer.

“Don’t think I forgot. Not even when I was rottin’ in a glass box for a year.” His grin stretched wide, sharp teeth flashing.

The table was silent, the hellhounds frozen like prey caught in the sights of a predator.

“If the three of you ain’t payin’,” Striker said, voice dropping low, lethal, “then you’re payin’ with your souls.”

He leaned down, his smirk now inches from Cal’s terrified face.

“See, I got myself a girl who needs takin’ down. And you three?” He gestured with the gun, waving it across their trembling faces. “You’re gonna work the magic for me.”

The revolver gleamed in the dim casino lights.

And there was no mistaking it—they didn’t have a choice.

Vi’s boots scraped against the cracked pavement as she trudged down the empty streets of Hell. Neon light spilled across the ground in broken colors, casting everything in a sickly glow. The night was alive around her—muffled music thumping from bars, laughter spilling out of casino doors, the constant hum of neon signs and distant traffic. But in her head, it all felt muted, far away.

Her gaze drifted lazily from one building to the next until it settled on a small bar tucked between two shops. It looked quiet. Empty.

Perfect.

She pushed the door open, the creak echoing into the hollow space inside. The place smelled of smoke and cheap liquor. Only one bartender stood behind the counter, frozen the moment he saw her. His eyes widened slightly, and his throat bobbed in a nervous gulp before he scrambled to set up bottles and shakers like an over-rehearsed act.

“Welcome to Buzzle Land, human! We’re ready to—”

He stopped as Vi slumped onto a stool, resting her face against her arm.

“Just give me something hard,” she muttered, voice muffled, hoarse from the night’s chaos. She slid a few stolen soul coins across the counter, the glimmer of them catching his eye.

He nodded quickly, hands working fast. Bottles clinked, liquid poured, something fizzed and flared until finally he placed a glowing pink concoction in front of her. “This is our special! It’s called the—”

Vi stood, grabbing the drink before he could finish. She snatched a straw off the counter without looking at him. “Thanks, Chuck.”

The bartender blinked. “…Actually, it’s Dave,” he muttered, deflating into his seat with a sigh as she walked out the door.

Outside, Vi shoved the straw into the glowing glass and took a sip. The taste hit sharp and chemical, burning her throat on the way down. She winced but swallowed it anyway.

Leaning against a wall, she slid down until she was sitting on the cold ground. The neon lights reflected off the glass in her hand, the pink glow painting her tired face. She exhaled, long and slow, closing her eyes for just a moment as she took another sip.

Then something snapped tight around her arms and chest.

Vi’s eyes shot open as ropes coiled around her body, yanking her off the ground. The drink slipped from her hands, shattering against the pavement, glowing liquid spreading across the street like spilled starlight.

“Let go!” she screamed, thrashing violently. Her frustration boiled louder than her fear, though sparks flickered across her skin as instinct fought to flare free.

She tilted her head up, teeth bared, and froze.

Three shadows loomed over her. Hellhounds. Big ones. Their snarls echoed low in their throats, yellow eyes glowing faintly in the dark. One gripped the rope tighter as another hefted a mace into his hand.

“Let go of me!” Vi roared, muscles straining, electricity sputtering along her arms but failing to burn through the blessed bindings.

The mace came down in a brutal arc.

Pain exploded across her skull. Her body jerked, the air torn from her lungs in a single broken gasp.

The world tilted sideways.

The neon lights blurred, the pink glow of her spilled drink smearing into a hazy smear of color before everything went black.

Vi hit the ground, fainting into silence.

A dull ache pulsed in Vi’s skull as consciousness dragged her back. She shifted weakly, her face brushing against rough fabric.

A bag. Over her head.

She exhaled a tired groan, the sound muffled inside the cloth. “Mmm… memories.” Her voice was rasped and bitter, carrying the weight of someone who had been here before.

Pain flared sharper when she tilted her head, a sore throb where the mace had struck. Her arms strained instinctively, but the blessed ropes hissed against her skin, the burn making her whimper. Sparks sputtered out along her veins and died instantly, swallowed by the sanctified bindings.

Vi sagged against the wall, chest rising and falling heavily. “Perfect,” she muttered.

“Awake already, bolty?”

Striker’s voice slithered into her ears from right beside her.

Vi let out a long, exaggerated groan and threw her head back against the wall with a heavy thud. She didn’t bother hiding the venom in her tone. “Of course it’s you.”

“I knew you’d do something like this,” she mumbled, shaking her head beneath the bag.

“Now, now, Red,” Striker drawled, amusement lacing his voice. “If you quit assuming, you’d notice somethin’ real funny. I ain’t exactly free myself.”

A strained grunt followed, rope fibers creaking as he shifted. “Cheaper kind, sure, but I’m hogtied right alongside you.”

Vi froze a moment before turning her head in his direction. “What the hell do you mean restrained—”

Her words cut off when rough hands tore the bags from their heads.

Vi blinked against the sudden light, eyes narrowing before they adjusted. And then she saw them.

Three figures. Hellhounds—massive, sharp-eyed, looming like executioners.

The one in the middle smirked wide, leaning casually on his mace. “Two jackpots in one night,” he drawled, teeth flashing. His eyes fixed on Vi, then slid to Striker. “Been wantin’ to hunt you down, Red. You’re a slippery little thing.”

Vi’s shoulders stiffened. Her pulse kicked up.

“Your little friend up top just won’t stop cryin’ about you,” the hound continued, circling slowly. “Beggin’ for proof you’re alive. But there ain’t much he can do stuck in the clouds.”

Vi’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. “…Judas?”

The hound’s grin sharpened. “Yeah. Him and your guardian angel. The one who broke protocol for you. They’re bein’ punished as we speak—brutal, slow, poetic. Heaven doesn’t take kindly to angels sneakin’ into Hell without permission.”

He tapped his chin, pretending to think, humming mockingly. “Last I heard? Spears. Lots of ‘em.”

A growl caught in Vi’s throat. She strained against her restraints until the blessed ropes burned. “You need to get me to him. Please.”

Her voice cracked on the word.

The hellhounds laughed—deep, cruel, delighted by her desperation.

“Sorry to say, Violet,” one chuckled, “we got better things to deal with than your sad little reunion.”

They turned their attention to Striker.

One yanked him upright, rope biting into his arms. Striker kicked and twisted, trying to throw his weight back. “You damn mutts! Put me down this instant!” His voice rose sharp with fury, but his boots barely scraped the ground as they dragged him forward.

The hellhounds ignored his thrashing. Their laughter rumbled as they hauled him out, his curses echoing down the corridor.

Vi sat still, watching him disappear. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, her back pressed against the cold wall. The room suddenly felt emptier—heavier.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, her jaw tightening.

Alone. Again.

An hour dragged by in silence. Vi’s head lolled against the wall, exhaustion dragging her into uneasy sleep despite the burn of the ropes. The darkness around her was thick, punctuated only by her shallow breaths.

Then—

BANG.

The sound tore through the air like a thunderclap. Vi jolted awake, eyes snapping open just as the door burst wide.

Striker strode in, revolver in hand, his smirk cutting sharp through the chaos. Gunfire cracked again—one hellhound crumpled instantly, a hole blown straight through his skull. Another spun, shouting, “This wasn’t part of our p—” before his words died in a spray of blood as Striker’s second shot landed.

The third didn’t wait. He bolted for the shadows, claws scraping the stone, gone before Striker could swing his sights on him.

“Damn coward,” Striker muttered, spinning his revolver into its holster with a flick.

Vi blinked rapidly, heart hammering in her chest. Before she could speak, Striker was at her side, crouching low as his hands worked fast on the ropes.

“They got more of those brutes lurking around,” he hissed, tugging the blessed fibers loose. The bindings fell away, leaving faint burns along Vi’s arms. “We need to move before they sniff us out.”

She winced, rubbing her wrists, but didn’t hesitate—pushing herself to her feet, adrenaline snapping her awake. She followed him into the corridor, their boots pounding in sync as they darted toward the exit.

Outside, the cool air hit her lungs hard. Vi grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the alley. “I don’t think they’ll track us this soon. Should we just go now?”

Striker raised a brow, his trademark smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, there’s a we now?” he drawled, his yellow eyes gleaming under the neon light. “And here I thought Miss ‘Stay out of my sight’ never wanted to see me again.”

Vi narrowed her eyes, jaw tight. “‘I’m not working with you.” She released him and darted forward, forcing him to keep pace. Together they slid behind a building, ducking into shadow.

Her breaths came quick, uneven, her fingers twitching like she was seconds away from sparking up with hextech lightning. She leaned closer, whispering harshly, almost frantic. “Look—I’m not playing any damn games here. You need to tell me who that guy is. The one pulling this.”

Striker leaned his back against the wall, calm as ever. “Forgot his name,” he admitted, tilting his head. “But I know his reputation. The bastard’s got devices—angelic devices. Things that could poke straight through Heaven’s walls if he felt like it.”

Vi’s pulse quickened. “What?”

Striker pushed off the wall, stepping into her space with that lazy confidence that always set her teeth on edge. “If you and I maybe… just maybe worked together,” he said, voice low, “I could help you get those toys. Use ‘em to save your angel buddies.”

Vi’s stomach twisted at the thought of Judas—at the image of her guardian angel, spears piercing their wings. Her fists clenched at her sides.

“You got the fists, the glow, the fury,” Striker went on. “But me? I got the ways. I can’t hand over my guns to you, sugar. But together? We could gut the bastard clean.”

Vi looked down at the ground, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her breath shuddered out as she muttered, “How do I know I can trust you?”

Striker’s grin widened, sharp and smug.

“Just see for yourself,” he said, turning away. With one smooth tug, he adjusted his dark brown coat, the leather gleaming faintly under the neon. His spurs clicked as he strode into the night.

Vi stood there a moment longer, frustration burning her chest. Then, with a tired sigh, she pushed off the wall and followed.

Chapter 40: Striker and Vi

Summary:

He pressed the button. From the walkie came Striker's own voice, loud and mocking: “Yes, Striker! I forgot to press the talking button!”

Striker lounged on the edge of the balcony, one boot hooked over the railing, a battered telescope balanced in his hand. Through the glass he tracked Vi below, crouched by the side of a gaudy restaurant painted in bright red, her hands busy slipping crude explosives into place. The faint glow of neon signs lit her hair in flickers of crimson and violet, casting her shadow long against the walls.

Her voice crackled faintly from the walkie strapped to his vest. “Yeah, think I’m done.”

Striker’s brow furrowed. He pulled the device free, glancing down at her figure moving in the glow of streetlamps. “Vi, you still need to plant the ones near the overlords.” His voice was low, controlled, though the edge of irritation bled through.

Vi’s shoulders slumped. She pulled two more charges from her jacket, weighing them in her hands as though they burned. With a reluctant exhale, she crossed the courtyard and shoved them beneath the trimmed hedge where Valentino and Vox had just settled into their usual haunt. The sight of the two overlords laughing over their drinks twisted her stomach, but the crowd of lower-class demons that surrounded them made her grip the detonator tighter, unsure.

“Okay. Now make your move,” Striker’s voice urged from above, his words almost casual, like a man prompting a dance step.

Vi hissed into the walkie, her tone sharp but hushed. “Hell no! If I trigger these bombs, not only will those bastards maybe get a scratch, but half the damn crowd’s gonna die with them.” She cast a glance upward, her eyes locking on the balcony where Striker’s silhouette loomed. “We’re not here to slaughter imps who’ve got no part in this—we’re here to punish the power-hungry goons!”

Striker groaned, tipping his hat back and letting his chin rest lazily in his palm. From her angle, she could slightly see the annoyance and agitation across his face, the picture of a tired man who hates being told off. Vi swung her hips a little bit to the side, placing her hands on them, waiting for an answer.

“Fine,” he drawled, the sound of a predator tolerating its prey. “Go ahead. Make your little scene. Let’s see how long it takes before you regret it.”

Valentino and Vox sat across from each other at a small, ornate table, their movements deliberate, almost like a twisted dance. Scars marred their faces—a cruel gallery of Vi’s handiwork. Vox’s screen flickered with cracks, Valentino’s bruised chin masked under a thick layer of makeup, but the tension in their postures spoke louder than any disguise.

“You’re looking too obvious right now,” Valentino murmured, sipping his tea with forced calm.

Vox’s eye twitched violently. “If you’d aimed better back then, she wouldn’t be alive. You’re living off my luck because Vi hasn’t found my damn factory!” He slammed the table.

“Your moth ass was still busy having your sex slaves massage you like a king!” He hits the table with his fist, the drinks falling off, hitting the floor with a loud crash. “Do you know how embarrassing it was for us to lose a human girl especially to Stolas?”

Valentino rose, slamming his palms down. “Hey! Don’t talk to me like that, you—”

Vox cut him off, voice sharp and glitching. “And the worst thing you’ve ever done so far is betray Velvette! I’ve seen all of the things you’ve done, and I’ve never once felt bad or felt the need to tell you off but what you did to Velvette is just–” Vox paused, trying to contain himself.

Valentino froze, chest tightening. Slowly, he sank back into his chair, avoiding Vox’s gaze. “I… I’m sorry, okay?”

“Say that louder?” Vox’s eyes burned into him.

Valentino turned away, arms crossed.

“Are you fucking serious? Are you actually ashamed to apologize?!” Vox’s voice shook, and Valentino’s face tightened as tears threatened to spill. “I’m sorry!” he finally yelled, choking on the words.

Vox exhaled, shaking his head. “Maybe deep down, I want to understand… Maybe you had your reasons, Val. I don’t know.”

A sudden flicker of cyan light washed over the restaurant. Imps and hellhounds froze, eyes wide.

“What the hell—?” Vox muttered, turning as a faint thud echoed from the floor.

“The human!” someone shouted. Panic erupted. The crowd bolted, doors slamming shut, leaving Valentino and Vox alone in the eerie cyan glow.

Vi stepped into the restaurant, her boots tapping in rhythm with her heartbeat. She moved with predatory silence, eyes sharp, senses flaring. Valentino and Vox rose, their forms twisting, demonic muscles coiling.

“What—?” Valentino’s voice faltered.

Vi whispered, then vanished.

Her voice boomed through the speakers. “Don’t bother. That’s not gonna help you.”

Vox spun at the faintest thud again.

Valentino stepped forward. “What’s a ball gonna do, ass-fister?”

“That’s… not a ball,” Vi corrected. The sphere pulsed, and suddenly, pink dust erupted, filling the room.

Vi bolted for the window, leaping into the night. Her breath came ragged. She snatched her walkie-talkie. “Striker! Do it!” No answer. The bombs hadn’t detonated.

Her frustration ignited a storm inside her. Hextech energy surged along her veins, sparks dancing over her skin. Her teeth clenched, her vision flickering pink and red as she ripped the fuse from the last bomb with her teeth. She sprinted, planting chaos in her wake, the chain reaction igniting the others. Explosions shook the courtyard, throwing debris and dust into the cyan night.

Vi hit the ground, rolling, but immediately surged upward. Her hextech energy coiled like living fire, thrashing against the earth, knocking over tables, sending demons flying. Panic erupted. Imps and demons alike froze in terror, some unconscious, some scrambling to escape her wrath. Her fists glowed, hair whipped by the energy crackling around her, every scream and shout feeding her fury.

The surge died, leaving only silence and debris. Vi fell to her knees, trembling, chest heaving, eyes wild. Only Valentino’s hat remained among the ruin.

“Damn, should’ve listened to me,” Striker said from beside her, casual, almost mocking, lighting a cigarette.

Vi spun, teeth gritted, fists crackling with leftover energy. “Oh, oh, you goddamn—”

Red-eyed enforcers burst from the shadows, converging on them.

“Shit! The enforcers are here—” Striker shouted.

Vi’s eyes widened. Anger and adrenaline merged, hextech energy snapping violently across her arms. She bit the fuse of a bomb, tossed it into their midst. Pink and red smoke exploded like firework hell, scattering the enforcers in all directions.

She grabbed Striker, sprinting with him through the streets. Every step sent sparks from her energy surging along the pavement, leaving streaks of raw hextech power in her wake.

“Where do we go?” she demanded, breathing heavy, muscles trembling with tension.

“Follow me,” Striker said with a smirk, dodging debris like a shadow.

They raced up to the highway, leaping onto a bus just as it passed under the bridge. Vi ducked low, still buzzing with residual energy, eyes burning cyan. Striker stood at the front, tipping his hat, the picture of calm confidence. The city stretched below, alive and glowing, shadows of chaos trailing behind them.

Vi’s fists unclenched slowly, but the fire within her still hummed, a promise that the night had only just begun.

Two and a half hours had passed. Vi lay sprawled atop the bus, the hum of the engine rocking her into an uneasy sleep. Striker’s hand shot out, gripping her arm, and before she could react, he yanked her off the roof. Vi rolled across the pavement, grunting with every impact as her stitched-up wounds tore open again, crimson bleeding through her hoodie.

She finally came to her feet, rolling her shoulders with a hiss of pain. “Wake me up next time!” she barked, smacking Striker’s shoulder. He staggered back, letting out a low laugh.

“You gotta hurry, maybe don’t sleep on the job, miss,” the snake demon said, brushing himself off as they moved toward the volcano looming in the distance.

“You wanna talk about your mistake earlier? About what you didn’t do? About how you didn’t trigger the bombs?!” Vi screamed, her fists trembling, eyes glowing with barely contained rage.

Striker shook his head, raising a hand to calm her. “Your walkie didn’t come through, Vi. That’s why I came!” He reached into her pocket and pulled out the device. “Did you perhaps forget to do this before yelling at me?”

He pressed the button. From the walkie came Striker's own voice, loud and mocking: “Yes, Striker! I forgot to press the talking button!”

Vi’s anger flared further as she stared him down. “Mock me again,” she said, snatching the walkie from him. “You know what? Fuck you and this partnership thing! What you did back there proves I can’t rely on you for shit!”

Striker’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What I did?! You were the one who forgot to press the damn button! I would have known to trigger the bombs if you remembered how to use that thing, Vi!” His voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “God, how can a human not even handle a simple device? Are you really human or what? How do you not know what a walkie talkie is? Lived under a rock, didn’t you?”

Vi shook her head, stepping closer, her expression softening just slightly, but her anger still simmering. “Yeah, fine. I forgot to press the button. But you wanna know something?” She grinned at him, sharp and defiant. “I had a partner once. We didn’t need walkie-talkies. Timing was everything. Listening to better plans—that was our thing.”

Striker chuckled, shaking his head. “What? Judas? That bastard who was gonna betray you, use you to regain his overlord title? You’re hilarious.”

Vi’s brow furrowed. “I’ll find that man myself. You’re useless to me.”

Striker froze, looking down, weighing whether to follow Sorath’s orders or let her go. Vi turned away, walking away slowly, deliberately, each step a silent challenge.

A soft strum of a guitar echoed from somewhere in the darkness. Vi paused, glancing around in confusion.

Striker stepped behind her, beginning to sing, voice low and earnest. “Don’t leave, partner. Me and you could make a good team—”

Before he could finish, Vi’s gauntlet slammed down, knocking him unconscious. She looked up, catching sight of a small imp holding a guitar. She raised an eyebrow, then looked back down at Striker.

With a sigh, she turned to the imp. “Where does he live?”

The imp grinned, strumming a chord. “I’ll show you the way, human! Follow me!” He began walking into a dark cave, the faint light glinting off the train tracks embedded in the ground.

Vi hoisted Striker over her shoulder, following the imp as his soft singing filled the tunnel. The melody was eerie yet oddly cheerful, telling stories of Striker’s hideout—its darkness, its danger.

“Stop singing,” Vi commanded, grabbing the imp’s shoulder. The little demon froze, body stiffening under her firm grip. Vi’s breath hitched, and she looked down, a flicker of pity in her eyes. “You sold your soul to sing or something?” She asked, tone almost judging him.

The imp shook his head. “I just like to sing.”

Vi paused but chuckled softly, a brief, warm sound that echoed against the tunnel walls. “You can continue singing.”

A soft smile spread across the imp’s face as he resumed strumming, free styling a song about Vi—her strength, her fury, and the legend she was becoming. The tunnel seemed to hum with her energy and his music, guiding them through the shadows toward Striker’s hideout.

Vi carefully placed Striker on the ground, the weight of his unconscious body reminding her of how easily she’d knocked him out. She turned, only to freeze in shock. Towering before her was a massive statue—of Striker. And… it wasn’t subtle. A grotesquely exaggerated feature jutted out from the sculpture, Striker’s bulge, catching her off guard. She cringed and stepped closer, noting jagged cracks along the marble where someone—or something—had tried to destroy it.

Her gaze drifted behind her. A small cabin sat quietly in the shadows, light spilling from a single window. Curiosity nudged her forward. Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of old wood and something sweet—horses, perhaps. Pictures lined the walls: Striker smiling beside a demonic horse. All the pictures were of the same horse. Vi’s chest tightened as a memory stirred—a vision of Scyllo’s lab, horse parts strewn across the floor, eerily matching the images on the wall.

She sank onto the bed, exhaustion weighing down her limbs. Her eyes fell on Striker, still unconscious on the floor outside the cabin. With a sigh, she dropped her gauntlet to the floor, letting her fingers shake after hours of holding the heavy weapon.

Eventually, she rose and stepped back toward the statue, staring at it silently, letting the bizarre sight sink in.

Minutes later, Striker stirred, groaning as he came to. His head ached, the memory of Vi’s gauntlet striking him flashing vividly. As he sat up, he took in his surroundings—his hideout—and rubbed at his temple.

The imp beside him strummed a gentle tune. “Two lovers in a cave—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Striker barked, exasperated. “Dammit, I let her off!” He rubbed his eyes, muttering under his breath.

Vi’s voice cut in softly from beside him, perched atop her gauntlet. “Don’t yell at him like that.”

Striker paused when he heard Vi’s voice, turning his head to her, chuckling, brushing the spot on his head where her gauntlet had connected. “You hit hard for a human,” he said, nodding toward her weapon. “Especially with that damn glove.”

Vi stood, leaning slightly on the gauntlet. “Wanna explain your statue?” she asked, tilting her head.

Striker’s eyes flicked to the gem embedded in her gauntlet, curiosity sparking in his gaze. He remembered her words just in time, snapping his head toward her. “Ah, yeah. They call me the great big Striker. Had to get it fixed up… two little bitch imps tried to kill me and broke it.” He smirked, arms crossed.

Vi’s eyes lingered on one… prominent feature. “Why is it so sharp?” she asked judgmentally.

“It just is, darlin’,” he said casually.

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “Is that what demon dicks actually look like? I doubt it’s that big.”

Striker’s smirk widened. “Hey, flat chest, don’t start shaming if you haven’t seen proof.”

“I… don’t think I want to, but you are radiating small dick,” Vi shot back, striding past him to slide her gauntlet back on.

“Oh yeah? What even brings you here anymore? Thought you were really gonna leave,” he asked.

“Was it my song for you?” Striker added, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Vi exhaled, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t wanna fight alone. We’re both fighting for the same thing, aren’t we, partner?” she said, mocking his southern accent, voice hoarse, quiet.

Striker laughed, a deep, warm sound. “Surprising, coming from the great Vi. I’ve seen you before… what you’ve been through. I… I could almost feel it too.” He paused, eyes heavy. “I can’t change what I tried to do, Vi. But I do feel pity for you. No matter how the world tries to break you, you want to protect those you care about. I see that.”

He stepped closer, standing tall over her, eyes locked onto hers. Vi froze, her heart stalling. And there was Vander, smiling beside Striker, surged unbidden.

She looked up at him, voice soft but firm. “You can stop with that now.”

A small, almost reluctant chuckle escaped her lips as Striker laughed in response, tipping his hat with playful charm.

But then his expression shifted. Amusement faded into focus, the weight of his real purpose reclaiming his gaze. Whatever jest or warmth lingered had been pushed aside, replaced by the sharp, calculating resolve of the man who could not forget his true intentions.

Chapter 41: Pourquoi ton prénom me blesse

Summary:

Vi looked between them, brows furrowed. “…What the hell are you two even talking about?”

Striker was sleeping in the stillness of the night, sprawled across the narrow bed in the tiny cabin, when a strange crackle jerked him awake. His eyes snapped open, heart thudding, as a faint, electric hum pierced the quiet. Slowly, he lifted his head and his gaze fell on Vi, sprawled unnaturally across the cold metal racks of the train. Her body twitched violently in her sleep, tiny arcs of electricity crawling over her skin, crackling and sparking like a storm trapped within her.

A furrow crossed Striker’s brow. Confusion and a flicker of fear twisted in his chest. He grabbed his phone, snapping photos to record what he was seeing—but then his eyes caught something more: the gem inside the gauntlet lying beside her. It pulsed with a cold, hypnotic blue light, flickering like it was alive, straining to reach her but never quite touching.

Drawn by some instinct, Striker rose, each step cautious, silent. He knelt by her side, fingers trembling as they hovered over the gem. It pulsed violently now, screaming in silent, electric agony, forcing Striker back, but he couldn’t look away. Suddenly, the gem yanked at his finger with an invisible force, and a rush of images slammed into his mind.

White-hot visions: a world in ruins, buildings shattered like glass, figures twisted into grotesque, almost human forms, their features mangled and alien. Striker gasped, jerking his hand free, his chest heaving, eyes wide with terror. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to process what he’d just witnessed. Something catastrophic—something beyond comprehension—was happening, or had happened.

In his panic, he stumbled backward, his hand knocking sharply against Vi’s thigh. Her eyes snapped open, blazing with a raw, startled fury. “What the hell are you doing?!” Her voice was hoarse, edged with anger.

“Vi… what is that thing?” Striker blurted out, voice shaking as he pointed at the glowing gem in her gauntlet.

Vi sat up, tilting her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s a damn hex gem. It powers this gauntlet so I can use it. Why the hell are you touching it?” Her tone carried both frustration and disbelief.

“I… I was just curious,” Striker admitted, backing away and lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, trying to shake off the lingering terror of what he had seen.

Vi rose, pacing with restless energy. “Striker… I don’t know if I can trust you. You act… weird. You talk to me like I’m some animal. That’s not the personality of a person who wants to partner up with you now, is it?”

Striker stood, moving toward her with quiet, measured steps. “Listen, Vi,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so. Assassins get the job done, no questions asked.” He leaned close, whispering into the back of her neck, letting the weight of his words settle.

Vi stiffened but didn’t back down. Her hands gripped his arm. “Then what really is our job here? We could be going our separate ways, killing or attacking overlords on our own accord– Unless you just want me to help you out with your little assassin work cause you no longer have your horse.”

Striker yanked his arm free. His fingers closed around his blessed gun, trembling slightly as he leveled it at her. Vi didn’t flinch, though pity flickered in her gaze as she read the storm inside him.

“You don’t ever talk shit on my baby,” Striker growled, voice hoarse, raw with restrained fury. “And yes, I do need your help in taking people down. You’re a powerful being, Vi, but I ain’t lettin’ you talk down on me like those overlords, so best stop acting like ‘em.”

Vi raised her arm, brushing aside the gun, her touch gentle but unyielding. “You can get all the help you need, Striker, but I can’t be letting myself get fucked over again, if you wanna shoot me then go on ahead and do it, but I know the shit you’ve gone through and I know that feeling as much as you do..” Her fingers lingered lightly on his arm.

Striker felt the gentleness against his skin, a spark in the storm of his mind. His brows furrowed, and a faint, defiant smirk tugged at his lips. “You won’t crush me that easily, Vi. I’m not the kind of man who gets distracted.”

Striker leaned closer, his eyes locked on Vi’s with an unwavering intensity. “You’re not takin’ control of me,” he said, voice low and sharp, a hint of amusement beneath the threat. He grabbed her wrists and held them —not enough to hurt her, but enough to make it clear who held the advantage. Striker just needs to make sure Vi doesn’t get to him.

Vi struggled, tilting her head, eyes flashing with defiance. “You really think you can just—”

“I don’t think,” Striker interrupted smoothly, a self-assured smirk tugging at his lips. “I know.” He gripped a little tighter, holding firm but deliberate. “You get a lot of ideas in your head, Vi. Let me give you one: not today.”

Vi’s brows knitted in frustration, but Striker didn’t flinch under her glare. He leaned in slightly, close enough that the heat of his presence brushed against hers.

He finally released her wrists, standing over her with a casual, dominant posture, one hand resting on his hip. The gem on the gauntlet pulsed faintly nearby, but Striker’s focus never wavered. He was in command, and he knew it.

His swagger, that defiance in his posture, almost reminded Vi of her sister. The way Striker puffed himself up the second he felt cornered — ego as armor, pride as his weapon. He was always trying to look bigger, louder, untouchable. But Vi saw through it. She knew the truth — that both of them were cut from the same scarred cloth. Two broken souls, carved up by people who wanted only to use them, exploit them, discard them once the fire was gone. Both of them just clawing for scraps of happiness in lives that had been twisted into cages.

Vi’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long — then the ground beneath them shook violently. A sharp crack split the earth. The cabin rattled, dust falling from the ceiling.

“Shit!” Striker barked, snapping into motion. He bolted inside the little cabin, yanking open a chest and grabbing his weapons. Hat went on, brim tilted, gun strapped at his side. He spun on his heel and charged back out, spurs clinking. “We need to get out, red!” he hollered over the groaning earth. “Move your ass and follow me!”

Vi dashed to her gauntlet, sliding her arm through the harness as the hextech gears locked tight with a mechanical growl. She sprinted after Striker, the two of them diving into the jagged cave mouth.

Inside, the air was hot and heavy, crystals glowing faintly from the walls. They ducked low, weaving under stalactites that threatened to cave in at any moment. Vi’s eyes blazed with cyan light, throwing their shadows ahead, guiding the way. The tremors grew sharper, stones tumbling from above.

Then — a deafening crack. A boulder slammed down between them, splitting the path.

“Striker!” Vi’s voice echoed against the stone, raw and desperate.

“Dammit!” Striker roared, slamming the barrel of his gun against the rock, trying to break through. He swung again and again, sparks flying, his breath growing ragged but his fury unrelenting. “Hold on, Red! We need to—”

The rest was swallowed by a thunderous boom. The boulder shattered in an eruption of smoke and flying shards, Vi standing tall on the other side, her gauntlet steaming, hextech orbs drifting lazily through the air after the impact. She smirked at him, her chest rising and falling from the effort.

Striker stared, then tilted his hat back, lips curling into a grin. “Well, ain’t you just a damn earthquake with legs.”

No more time to laugh. They tore down the tunnel together, lungs burning, boots hammering stone. The cave spat them out into open night just as the volcano erupted. Lava screamed into the sky, painting the darkness in orange fire.

Vi tumbled to the ground, rolling through the dirt, but Striker landed with perfect precision, dropping to one knee before standing, cool as ever. He dusted off his coat and muttered, “Well… shit. There goes everythin’ I had.”

Before Vi could respond, shadows streaked across the night. Hooded figures swooped down from above, their cloaks whipping in the molten wind. Enforcers.

Vi’s eyes widened, her fists tightening around her gauntlet. She stepped instinctively in front of Striker, raising her arm as a shield. “Why are you here?” she growled.

But Striker pushed her gauntlet aside with the back of his hand, stepping forward. “I don’t need babysittin’, cupcake. These bastards came for me, not you.” He squared his shoulders, brim shadowing his eyes.

The enforcers descended, blades and whips crackling with unnatural energy. Their boots slammed against the rock, surrounding the two in a semicircle. One lunged straight for Striker.

Vi reacted instantly, slamming her gauntlet to the ground. Cyan light flared, bursting into a shield around them both, a glowing dome of raw hextech power. Wind howled against it, sparks dancing as blades clashed against the barrier.

Striker turned his head, glaring at her with sharp irritation even as the shield held. “Cute light show. But don’t think for a second I’m lettin’ you steal the fight.”

The shield pulsed once more before exploding outward in a shockwave, throwing the enforcers back in a storm of dust and broken stone. Vi didn’t hesitate—she rushed forward with a war cry, gauntlet glowing bright, and slammed her fist into the first enforcer’s chest. The impact cracked like thunder, launching him into the air.

Striker’s guns were already out, spinning on his fingers before barking shots into the night. Each pull of the trigger was precise, calculated—two shots dropped another enforcer before they even hit the ground. He tipped his hat with his free hand, smirk cutting sharp across his face.

“Guess the party came to us, huh, Red?”

Vi swung wide, smashing another enforcer into the dirt, while Striker holstered one revolver and drew his blade, catching the strike of a hooded figure that came at him from the side. Steel screeched against steel as he shoved them back with a snarl.

“You boys shoulda brought more coffins,” he spat, spinning and firing again.

Side by side, Vi and Striker tore into the wave of enforcers, her gauntlet blazing cyan arcs while his bullets and blades carved through the shadows. They fought differently—her with brute force, him with showmanship and deadly precision—but together it was chaos sculpted into a dance, violent and beautiful.

And through it all, Striker never stopped talking, his voice cutting through the clash of battle, cocky and unshaken. “Better keep up, Vi, or I’ll leave you buried in the rubble!”

Vi’s eyes locked on Striker through the haze of dust and smoke. Without a word, she sprinted toward him, crouching low and bracing her arms. Striker didn’t hesitate—he knew exactly what she meant. His boots slammed into her gauntlet-supported forearms, and with a grunt, she launched him upward like a spring.

“Yee-haw!” Striker barked, twisting mid-air with impossible balance. His blessed rope cracked through the night, glowing faintly as he whipped it down hard, the coils wrapping around two enforcers and yanking them off their feet. They slammed into the volcanic stone with a sickening crunch, smoke hissing from their broken forms.

Vi spun on her heel, grabbing another enforcer by the hood. With a snarl, she ripped the cloak back, revealing not a man at all but a twisted demon with jagged fangs and skin mottled black and crimson. The creature screeched, clawing at her, but Vi’s gauntlet clamped around the back of its neck like a vice.

“What do you want from us, huh?!” she roared, spittle flying as she slammed its head into the cavern wall, the rock cracking under the impact. Her gauntlet whined with pressure as she squeezed tighter, choking the demon.

The thing writhed, eyes bulging. “Y-you… our queen!” it squealed– smiling at her with insanity, its voice breaking under the suffocation.

That word—queen—cut through her like fire, igniting something deep and terrible inside. Vi screamed, raw and feral, and with one crushing motion, she snapped its neck. The demon’s body went limp, and she hurled it to the ground with a thunderous crash, chest heaving, eyes blazing cyan.

Striker landed back on his feet with feline grace, panting, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His revolver smoked in his hand, the brim of his hat casting a sharp shadow across his face. He watched her, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” he drawled, lifting the gun and blowing the smoke off the barrel like it was all just another show. But the swagger faltered for the briefest second when he staggered forward. His knees buckled, and he hit the dirt with a grunt.

“Hhss—dammit,” he hissed, finally noticing the thin slice carved across his waist, blood darkening his shirt. Somewhere in the chaos, a blade had found him.

“Hey!” Vi was already there, her gauntlet retracting with a hiss of gears as she crouched down beside him. She hooked his arm over her shoulder and hauled him up with surprising gentleness despite the battlefield around them.

“Yeah,” she muttered, her voice rough but steady. “Let’s get you somewhere before you bleed out on me.”

Striker chuckled through gritted teeth, leaning just enough on her for support but keeping his chin high, smirk still intact despite the pain. “Bleed out? Pfft. Gonna take a lot more than this scratch to put me down. Just don’t get too comfy holdin’ me like this.”

Vi rolled her eyes but tightened her grip on him. “You’re corny,” She said, half dragging, half carrying him away from the blood-stained ground as the last echoes of the fight faded into the crackling lava glow behind them.

Vi glanced to her left, scanning the crooked alleyways, and then made for the shadowed passage that led to her hideout. She didn’t bother with subtlety—her boots pounded the cracked stone, Striker’s weight dragging her pace. His arm hung over her shoulders like a sack of coal, heavier with every step.

“C’mon, cowboy, hold it together,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

“Darlin’, I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Striker rasped, voice rough but still carrying that trademark swagger. “Though if ya keep draggin’ me like this, might lose a few ribs before I bleed out.” He gave a weak laugh that dissolved into a cough, blood speckling the corner of his mouth.

“Stop talking, you’re gonna give out.” Vi snapped, pushing through the reinforced door of her hideout with her shoulder. Inside, she hauled him toward the bedroom, then all but tossed him onto the bed. He landed with a grunt, hat slipping sideways, head leaning back against the wall.

“You… you gotta…” Striker tried to speak, but his chest hitched. He coughed again, head tilting limply until he forced himself upright. “You gotta leave me.. Vi..”

Vi ignored him, her gauntlet falling to the floor as she sprinted to the drawers, yanking them open, rifling through them with frantic movements. Gauze, bandages—anything. She found a roll, grabbed it, and rushed back, her breath coming fast. But her eyes caught the spreading stain on his shirt, and panic flashed briefly across her face. She pressed the gauze into his hand and turned away.

“Angel!” she shouted.

From the floor above, the pink spider descended, practically bouncing down the stairs. He perked up at Vi’s voice, tail end of a grin curling across his face. “Hey, welcome back—what’s the fuss?”

“I’ve got a demon in my room, and he’s losing too much blood. Patch him up for me. I need to find something—fast.” Vi shoved the gauze into Angel’s hands before darting off down the hall.

Angel cocked a brow at the bloody roll in his hand, then ambled toward the bedroom. “A demon, huh? Let’s see what kind of mess you dragged home, toots…” He pushed open the door—and his eyes lit up. “Well, well, well. We got ourselves a sexy cowboy.”

Striker chuckled, low and ragged, eyes half-lidded. He tilted his head just enough to glare at Angel through the haze of pain. “Heh… ain’t you a sight. Where’s the human girl? She’s supposed to do this… not you… You’re just some… gay ass…” He coughed, spitting blood onto the floorboards.

Angel blinked, then smirked. “Sweetheart, she’s a lesbian. You don’t stand a chance, handsome.” He crouched low, already tugging at the buttons of Striker’s shirt.

Striker bared his teeth weakly, voice slurring with the effort. “Not like that, you damn—damn spider. Don’t get your eight hands where they don’t belong.”

“Relax, cowboy. I ain’t interested.” Angel tugged the shirt off, exposing the deep slice across Striker’s waist. Blood poured freely, dripping down his side. Angel hissed, “Shit, you’re a mess.”

Striker smirked even through the pain. “Mess? Naw. This is just… rustic charm.” He groaned, slumping further against the headboard. “Seen worse. Hell, I’ve walked away from worse. Ain’t gonna let some hooded enforcer be the one to send me packin’.”

Angel rolled his eyes, leaving the room for a moment. When he returned, he carried a needle and thread. Sitting down beside Striker, he threaded the needle with practiced precision.

Vi reappeared in the doorway, eyes darting to the bed, then back at the hall. Her hands were empty. “Can you handle him for a bit, Angel?”

“Yeah, I can. What are you looking for?” Angel asked, holding the needle steady.

Vi pushed a hand through her hair, frustration clear. “That crystal Judas gave me—the one that heals fast. I can’t find it. Striker’s already lost too much blood…” She darted into the bathroom, drawers slamming. “Shit!” she growled, her voice cracking with panic.

Back in the room, Angel pressed the needle into Striker’s flesh. Blood welled around the thread. His fingers slipped, crimson staining his hands.

Striker clenched his jaw, growling low. “Damn it, Red—you pick the worst babysitters.” He sucked air through his teeth, eyes rolling back for a second before snapping open. “C’mon, cowboy, stay awake,” he muttered to himself.

Vi charged back in, her patience gone. She grabbed a surgical stapler from the kit, snapping it open. Crawling onto the bed, she braced herself over Striker. “Sorry, so sorry for this.”

Angel winced, looking away and covering his eyes. The first staple sank into Striker’s flesh with a sharp click. He groaned, muscles locking, chest jerking upward. “Nnnnh—damn it, Red! Got any sympathy in that thick noggin of yours?!”

Vi ignored him, pinning him against the wall with her free hand, her hand pressing his shoulder hard. Another click—then another. Each staple sent a shiver of pain through him. His tail flicked against the sheets in agitation, rattling like a warning.

“Quit squirming,” Vi barked, sweat dripping from her brow. “You want to bleed out, or you want to keep running that mouth?”

Striker gritted his teeth, his smirk returning even through the pain. “You damn nut, I’ll run my mouth ‘til the day I’m six feet under. You’ll get used to it.”

The final staple snapped into place. Vi tore a strip of gauze and wrapped it tight around his waist, pulling hard. Striker hissed, biting back a yell, his knuckles whitening against the sheets.

When she tied it off, he slumped back, panting, his hat tipped low. “Damn. Never thought I’d get stitched up by a pretty human with fists. Feels almost… romantic.”

Vi slaps Striker to bring him back to his senses.

Angel dropped his hand from his eyes, glaring daggers. “Lesbian, by the way.”

Vi looked between them, brows furrowed. “…What the hell are you two even talking about?”

Striker coughed out a laugh, shaking his head, smirk sharp even through exhaustion. “Don’t mind the spider, Red. He’s just jealous he ain’t the one gettin’ my company.”

Striker shifted against the bedframe, adjusting his hat over his brow like nothing was wrong. The gauze around his waist was already spotted through with fresh blood, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked at Vi’s back.

“Well,” he drawled, voice dry and hoarse, “you patch me up, you slam me ‘round, and now you’re givin’ me the cold shoulder?” He gave a short laugh that turned into a cough. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red.

Vi didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. She just kicked her gauntlet aside, away from her. Her jaw clenched, eyes distant.

Striker tilted his head, watching her in that lazy, narrow-eyed way. “What’re ya bein’ silent for?” He shifted his boots on the bedframe, letting the spurs scrape loud against the wood. “We need to find those to cock sucking overlords soon, they might have gone off to the pride ring again.”

Vi finally moved, standing to her full height. No words. Just picked up a towel from the chair and slung it over her shoulders.

“I’m heading off to shower, just rest for now.”

Vi’s steps were heavy on the floorboards as she left the room. She didn’t look back once.

Striker exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a smirk, muttering to himself. “Women. Always stormin’ off dramatic.”

Striker leaned back against the wall, letting his hat shadow his eyes, and closed them for a moment. The steady thrum of his pulse didn’t bother him; it was the quiet he liked. He slipped his phone from his pocket, thumbs scrolling over old notes, rereading the thread of messages between him and Sorath. A faint smirk tugged at his lips at some of the familiar jabs and coded instructions, but he didn’t linger. The device clicked off—too soon to act, too soon to care. Timing was everything, and he knew patience was part of winning.

Meanwhile, Vi’s mind was elsewhere. She dropped the damp towel she had been wringing, stepping back with a subtle shiver. The hideout felt impossibly small and crowded now, heavy with thoughts she didn’t want to voice. She looked down at her hands, and faint sparks of electricity danced along her skin, little reminders of the power she wielded but didn’t fully control.

Her gaze drifted to the balcony, and she walked toward it slowly, mind caught in the echo of that demon’s words. Queen of wrath… The memory scraped across her skull, sharp and unwelcome. She peered over the edge of the railing, her body rocking slightly forward as if pulled by the weight of her doubts. That title—it couldn’t belong to her. Impossible. Or had it been some cruel hallucination, twisted by everything she’d endured?

A firm grip on her shoulder yanked her back. Vi gasped, snapping out of her reverie. Angel’s four remaining arms carried a bucket of dirty clothes, his expression patient but firm. “Vi, you can’t keep zonin’ out like that,” he said, voice calm, steady.

Vi swallowed hard, clearing her throat. “Sorry… I wasn’t going to… I wasn’t going to do anything. It’s just… my brain’s fried from all the shit that’s been going on.”

Angel smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Then maybe you just need to loosen up a little. You’re safe here. I’m safe here. Hell, we’ll both be fine.” His hand waved idly, playful yet grounding. “I’m heading to a party Verosika’s hosting. You’re cool with her, right?”

Vi hesitated, hands tightening slightly at her sides. “I don’t know… gotta keep an eye on Striker. I’m not sure I trust him yet. He just… appeared out of nowhere, even after everything he’s done.” Her voice carried a dangerous edge, low and heavy with suspicion and unspent vengeance.

Angel’s smile softened, and he wrapped two of his arms around her in a gentle, grounding hug. “Hey, toots, listen to me. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. You just need a little time to breathe.”

She glanced up at him, eyes flickering with caution. “Time… right.”

Angel smirked, holding up the bucket as he leaned back slightly. “Oh, by the way, I borrowed some clothes from this demon dancer girl. She said she wants to meet you.” His grin widened mischievously. “Consider it a little… pre-party date.”

Vi shook her head, lips pressed tight. “Fine. But only if it means I can keep an eye on you. Just in case that moth shows up again.” Her voice held a firm, determined edge that belied the nervous tension still coiling in her chest.

Angel chuckled, tilting his head toward the door. “Then come on. Let’s not keep the party waiting, Vi.”

Vi followed silently, matching his pace, her mind still caught in flashes of electricity and the demon’s words. Yet for now, she moved forward, letting the night and the mission pull her along, even as the unease lingered like a shadow at the edges of her vision.

Vi sat in front of the mirror, the damp towel pressed to her skin as she wiped away blood, sweat, and dirt from the night’s fight. Her fingers carefully scrubbed under her nails, the tremor in her hands betraying her exhaustion.

She stood and eyed the clothes Angel had handed her: a dark red button-up shirt, a black jacket with gleaming golden buttons, striped black and brown pants, and sturdy black boots. The style was remarkably similar to her usual attire—practical yet striking.

“She’s a rich girl,” Vi muttered under her breath, sighing as she dressed, the fabric conforming to her frame almost unnervingly well.

Later, Vi and Angel entered the Pride Ring at the convention center. The room pulsed with music and light. Vi lowered her head, bracing for stares from imps and demons, but the crowd was too absorbed in the dancing to notice her.

Verosika spotted her immediately and grabbed the mic. “Everybody, welcome Vi in!” she called, gesturing toward her. The dancers paused briefly, and Vi swallowed nervously.

“I’m not… killing anybody, don’t worry,” she muttered.

Verosika laughed and dropped the mic, stepping closer. “Ooh, I see. You’re wearing Kaehlynn’s clothes!” she said warmly. “You look beautiful in that, girl.”

Vi smiled faintly, shrugging. “Thanks… it fits perfectly.” She raised her arms slightly, allowing the outfit to settle naturally.

The crowd parted slightly as Kaehlynn herself appeared, moving gracefully in a dark blue dress, her black hair straight and gleaming, red skin catching the light. “Wow, I didn’t expect you to fit so well in that,” Kaehlynn said, smiling as she approached.

“You wanted to meet me?” Vi asked.

“I want to see if a human can dance,” Kaehlynn replied, reaching for Vi’s hand.

The music swelled, and Vi hesitated for a brief second before letting her body sway to the beat.

“You wanna see?” Vi asked nervously. Kaehlynn laughed softly, raising a brow. “You’re supposed to do a proper dance,” she teased.

Vi’s confidence flared. “Then let me show you how I do it.” She began moving with deliberate precision, letting her body lead the rhythm. Kaehlynn mirrored her movements, graceful and careful, until the motion became a flowing duet.

Then, suddenly, in the swirl of lights and music, Kaehlynn’s familiar form seemed to shift. Vi blinked—her heart beating faster. Dark blue hair whipped around in the strobe lights, eyes blue, presence loving. Caitlyn stood before her, almost as if conjured by the music itself.

Caitlyn smiled, a light, teasing curve of her lips, and reached for Vi’s hand. Without thinking, Vi took it, letting the new rhythm guide them. Caitlyn spun, her dark blue hair trailing like ribbons in the air, and Vi matched her movements instinctively. Soon, they were pressed together, dancing with a mix of passion and fluidity that sent the crowd into motion around them.

For the first time that day, Vi felt at peace, her smile genuine. The music pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and the world outside—blood, chaos, demons—faded away entirely.

Chapter 42: Secrecy, your golden skin

Summary:

“Funny. Snakes bite.”

Striker leaned back against the bedframe, hat tipped low over his eyes, the faint drip of blood and soft hiss of his breath the only sounds. One hand pressed against his wound, still bleeding through the fabric, but his exhaustion pulled him toward unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open. The room felt heavier somehow, charged. He glanced at his shirt, grimaced at the damp, bloodstained fabric, and tried to move, forcing himself onto his knees with a grunt that rattled his chest.

Then his gaze fell on Vi’s gauntlet on the floor. The gem pulsed again—first electric blue, then shifting to gold, streaked with a strange white light. Patterns formed and twisted across its surface, reminding him—somehow—of Sorath’s healed wound. Desperation tightened in his chest.

He crawled toward the gauntlet, slipping off the bed as blood trailed across the floor. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the gem. Hesitation flared, but he pressed down anyway.

The room erupted. Wind surged around him, scattering debris, rattling the windows. Hex runes circled his body, glowing faintly. Gold streaks ran across his arms, moving toward the wound, warm and electric all at once. His eyes rolled upward, streaks of gold cutting across the whites as an image slammed into his mind.

A herald appeared. Long brown hair flowed like liquid, a blue robe draping a body half-covered in dark purple metallic skin. Silent, impossibly vast, its presence pressed against the edges of his perception. Striker’s stomach clenched, chest tight, as if the room itself had shifted into another dimension.

His hands shook. The vision expanded, blurred edges, colors and forms colliding in ways that made no sense. Every instinct screamed both fear and awe, and Striker’s mind grasped at nothing familiar. The wind quieted, the runes stilled and disappeared.

He opened his eyes slowly. The gem’s glow had softened, settling into a faint pulse. Lifting his shirt, he stared. The wound was gone, replaced with intricate patterns of gold and white, almost alive under his skin. He traced them with a trembling finger, disbelief heavy in every movement.

His reflection in the mirror confirmed it. The scars on his face were replaced with white streaks, subtle and luminous. The man looking back at him was the same—and yet not. Something had shifted, and the world felt different, as if he had been thrust into a place that was almost, but not entirely, this universe.

Striker sank to his knees, head hanging, chest heaving. He couldn’t name what he was feeling—shock, awe, confusion, fear—but the questions pressed in relentlessly. Where was he? Who or what had just touched him? And why did it feel like the rules of reality itself had bent around that gem?

He stayed still, letting the silence settle, letting the gold and white hum faintly under his skin, the world outside the mirror feeling distant, fragile, and unfamiliar.

Striker slipped the gem from Vi’s gauntlet, letting its weight settle in his palm. The pulse inside it felt alive, thrumming in sync with the strange gold-and-white patterns now embedded under his skin. His hat was pulled low over his face, shadowing his eyes as he stepped into the night.

He walked down the nearly empty streets, a subtle charge running through his body with every step. The city seemed unusually quiet, save for the occasional drunk staggering out of a bar, muttering curses to the asphalt.

A taxi rolled to the curb. Striker opened the door, slid inside, and drew his Glock, pointing it directly at the driver.

“Move, or you’re done,” he said, voice low and unshaken.

The driver swallowed hard, fumbling for the ignition. “Why am I always held at gunpoint?” he muttered under his breath, then drove off. “Pride Ring?”

Striker raised a brow. “Yeah… I… totally forgot to tell you, but how did you know that’s my destination?”

“You and those crazy overlords,” the driver said, keeping one eye on the road. “All dragging me to the same place with a gun in my face. Only that goetian pink bird hasn’t done it. You all end up in the ring where almost everyone got fried by that spark plug.”

Striker leaned back, eyes cold. “You’re chill.” He tossed a handful of souls to the driver, lowering his gun without another word. The driver nodded, a thin smile forming, and kept the car moving toward the Pride Ring.

Striker’s mind wandered as the streets passed beneath him. Everything was eerily quiet, the city almost abandoned, except for the occasional intoxicated figure swaying along the sidewalk. Then, without warning, the ground beneath him gave way.

He fell. The cityscape disappeared.

He landed hard in Sorath’s palace, tail lashing with irritation as he regained his stance. He hissed softly, eyes narrowing at the figure above him. Sorath, calm and looming, regarded him.

“I felt your presence. Any updates? Things you’ve discovered?” Sorath asked, voice steady, expectant.

Striker growled low, stripping off his layered clothing to reveal the prosthetic overlaying his healed wounds—a fleshy, beige surface streaked with metal. His fingers traced the strange hybrid of organic and mechanical matter, noting the faint blue glow that pulsed beneath when he pressed.

“I almost died,” he muttered internally, the memory of the gem and the surge of energy still fresh. “And then… this. Something appeared. As if a god… or not a god at all, but a force that heals. I don’t know if it belongs anywhere in heaven.”

Sorath’s gaze sharpened. “You feel it too?” he asked, stepping closer. “The energy inside that wants to fill, but never does. Can you feel it?”

Striker retrieved the blue hex gem and held it out. Its light shimmered against his palm. He placed it into Sorath’s hands without hesitation. “That energy seems contained in this stone. When the human comes back and finds it missing… she’ll suspect me soon enough.”

Sorath’s expression remained unreadable. “Oh no,” he said finally. “Your job is done. You… have nothing more to do for me, imp.” He turned away, leaving Striker alone with the pulse of power still humming faintly beneath his skin. “You could plan it out, put it on the assassin that made you fail multiple times.”

He dressed silently, layering his clothes back on as his phone began to vibrate. Angel’s name flashed across the screen. Striker paused, considering, then smirked, ignoring it. The phone fell to the floor. He stepped over it, the screen cracking beneath his boots.

The palace doors opened, and he walked out into the night. The same driver waited. Striker slid inside the taxi. “Back to Wrath,” he said simply.

The car roared off, returning him to the Pride Ring, to the city, to Vi’s hideout—and whatever came next.

Striker’s boots scuffed against the cracked pavement as he cut through the narrow alleys of the Wrath ring. He wasn’t aiming for anywhere in particular, just letting the buzz of the gem still tucked against his ribs guide him forward.

That was when he passed the old clubhouse. Music leaked out through the open door—bass heavy, muffled by layers of smoke and laughter. He would’ve kept walking, but a flicker of familiar color caught his eye.

Red hair.

Striker froze, tilting his hat lower as he leaned against the wall. His tail twitched and curled, slithering against the brickwork like it had a mind of its own. He peeked around the corner.

Inside, Vi was dancing. Her laughter—light, almost genuine—rose above the music. A demoness with sleek black hair and crimson skin swayed with her, fingers hooked onto Vi’s hips. Striker narrowed his eyes, watching as if he’d stumbled on a scene he shouldn’t have. He shrank back into shadow, every movement calculated, silent.

“What’s your name again, cupcake?” Vi asked, breathless from the rhythm.

“It’s Kaehlynn, human,” the demoness answered smoothly, her lips quirking.

“Caitlyn?” Vi asked, almost reflexively.

“No, hun. Kaehlynn.” The demoness enunciated, slower this time.

Vi blinked at her, a faint laugh bubbling out. “Tomato, tomata.”

Kaehlynn chuckled, tugging Vi toward the tables. She placed a drink in front of her—pink, glowing faintly, smoke curling from the rim. Vi downed it in one swallow, wincing as the burn rolled down her throat. She groaned softly, shoulders loosening as she sank onto a metal stool.

Kaehlynn dragged a chair close, not caring about the eyes on them. She studied Vi like a puzzle as the human set her glass down, gaze unfocused on the sticky table. With an easy motion, Kaehlynn reached forward and combed her fingers gently through Vi’s red hair.

“So, where did you really come from? You’re not like the mortals I’ve seen before. Hair like this doesn’t just show up,” Kaehlynn said, her voice dipping low.

Vi smirked faintly. “Great genes. Guess I owe my mom for that one.” She laughed once under her breath, though her eyes remained hollow, drifting elsewhere.

Kaehlynn noticed the shift. She placed a hand on Vi’s shoulder, squeezing softly, grounding her. “You haven’t moved on from someone, have you?” she asked, eyes narrowing with intuition. “Tell me… what was she like?”

The question cracked something in Vi.

Her pulse quickened, her throat tightening as that faint voice echoed in her ear—Caitlyn’s voice, Vi begging her to come back. Her mind twisted to Mage’s trickery, the way she had stolen Caitlyn’s image to lure her, to use her grief. Images bled together: Caitlyn’s eyes wide in desperation, her lips moving with words Vi couldn’t save.

Vi’s jaw clenched. She rose abruptly, the stool screeching against the floor. She looked down at Kaehlynn with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not like you.” Her words hit blunt and heavy before she turned on her heel, leaving Kaehlynn frozen, a flicker of shock crossing her face before soft understanding settled in.

From the shadows outside, Striker’s smirk twitched. He tilted his hat lower, tail curling tight to his boot, and slipped further into the dark, unseen.

Inside, Vi approached Angel, who was twirling in the middle of the dance floor with a circle of imps, hips swaying to the beat.

“Hey, toots! How was the talk?” Angel asked, grinning wide.

Vi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I… want to leave. I need to check on Striker, if the bastard’s even still alive. Just—have fun, stay safe. Bring someone back with you if you have to.” She gave his shoulder a firm pat.

“Hold up, girl! Sneak this.” Angel reached behind him, snatching a whole bottle of liquor off the bar. He pressed it into Vi’s hands with a wink. “Bring it home, will ya? And leave some for me if you’re drinkin’.”

Vi actually laughed at that, shaking her head as she tucked the bottle under her arm. “Fine, fine. Don’t die, Angel.”

She slipped out into the night. The streets were quiet, empty save for the flicker of neon signs and the hum of distant noise. She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long swig, wincing at the taste before letting the burn settle into her chest.

The walk back was long, her boots crunching against the broken pavement, shadows stretching tall across the abandoned blocks.

By the time she reached the apartment complex, the lights inside were already flickering. She froze at the entrance, bottle dangling from her hand.

For a moment, she told herself it was just her abilities affecting electricity again.

The third floor groaned under Vi’s boots as she climbed, the bottle in her hand nearly slipping from her grip. She rapped her knuckles against the chipped doorframe.

“Striker. Still breathing?”

Silence.

Her stomach sank. She shoved the door open, wood splintering against the wall.

The room was a mess—bed sheets soaked through with blood, a trail smeared across the floor like something had been dragged. It led straight to her gauntlet. Vi’s breath caught as she crouched down, fingertips brushing the cold metal.

The gem socket was empty. No glow. No hum. Just dead silence.

Her jaw clenched. Someone had taken it. Someone had been in here while she was gone. But who? Why?

Before her thoughts could spiral further, the door banged open behind her. Striker stumbled in, hat low, leaning against the frame like nothing had happened.

“Huh. Fancy seein’ you back,” he drawled, voice rough. “Couple’a damn imps came stormin’ through, raisin’ hell. Wanted answers. I gave ‘em lead instead.”

Vi spun toward him, fury and confusion tightening her features. “Are you alright? What the hell happened? Are you—” She stopped short as Striker lifted his shirt.

Her breath hitched.

The torn flesh across his waist was gone—replaced by smooth, synthetic skin threaded with glowing blue veins that pulsed faintly beneath. A patchwork of polished organic-metal fused seamlessly to his body.

Her blood ran cold.

“That Blitzo bastard took your gem after it healed me,” Striker said simply. His voice had no shame, no hesitation.

Footsteps echoed from the hall. Angel stumbled in, still glitter-dusted from the party. “What the hell happened? You weren’t answerin’ my calls.”

Striker’s glare cut straight to him. “The I.M.P stole the gem. So I went after ‘em.” He let his words hang, then turned his gaze back to Vi.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the patch across his body—every breath slower, shallower. Her irises thinned to slits.

Angel’s face tensed. “Uh… Vi?”

A faint cyan glow flickered in her eyes. She trembled, pupils contracting as flashes tore through her head—Piltover in ruins, streets split and burning, hextech conduits spilling wild arcs across a dead city. A future painted in dust and ash. She heard Caitlyn’s voice again—begging, breaking—and then silence.

Vi staggered, one hand pressed to her temple. Her chest heaved.

“Vi, it’s okay—we can get the gem back,” Angel said carefully, his hand reaching for her shoulder. “Top side—”

The words barely left his lips before Vi whispered, “Top side?”

Her voice was hollow, distant. The cyan burned brighter in her eyes. Her knees hit the floor, tears streaking down her face. The sounds of the hideout blurred, muffled.

She lifted her gaze toward Striker, golden light bleeding into her eyes. When she spoke, it wasn’t her voice.

“I need it back.”

The words rumbled out of her chest like an angry human’s growl.

Then she moved—faster than thought, faster than Striker’s reflexes. One blink she was on her knees, the next she was gone, bolting down the stairwell and out into the night.

Striker cursed under his breath, snapping upright. “Vi! Where the hell you runnin’ off to?!” His voice echoed after her, but she didn’t look back. She was already halfway to the Pride Ring, the gold still burning in her eyes.

He stopped, grinding his teeth, and turned back. No way he was charging after her unarmed. He stormed into the hideout, weapons clattering as he strapped them to his belt.

Angel was already sprawled across the couch, the bottle of liquor tipped to his lips. “I’m fried the fuck out,” he muttered, voice muffled by glass, “and she doesn’t even need to use her damn abilities.”

Striker marched past, tossing a bag at him. Angel caught it and peered inside. Blessed bombs.

“Ain’t leavin’ you sittin’ here useless,” Striker spat, looping ropes across his waist and checking the chamber of his revolver.

Angel narrowed his eyes, standing up slow, the bottle swinging loosely in one hand. “Useless’ll be the last thing you’ll ever call me, bitch.”

The spider demon slung the bag over his shoulder and brushed past Striker, striding toward the door. Striker smirked faintly, following close behind, both heading into the night.

Vi stood in front of the I.M.P building, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight the edges of her gauntlet scraped her palms. The neon sign above flickered against her face, painting her expression in violent color. The gem was inside. She could feel it.

Her boot crashed into the door, shattering it inward.

The room froze. Blitzo jerked his head up from behind his desk, papers scattering. His eyes narrowed, teeth flashing.

“Well, well. Took you long enough. What brings you here, you insane, psychopathic dyke?” His words dripped venom, hand already sliding toward his pistol.

Vi’s gaze didn’t leave him. Her voice was low, shaking with fury. “You will give it back to me.”

Loona stepped up beside Blitzo, hackles raised, claws lengthening as her form shifted to full hellhound.

Vi’s eyes flicked to her. “This the father you told me about? The one you’re tired of?”

Loona flinched, ears flattening against her skull. Blitzo’s sneer twitched. He didn’t like that.

Before another word left his mouth, Vi lunged forward. Her hand clamped around Loona’s muzzle mid-shift, wrenching her sideways and slamming her into the wall hard enough to leave a crack.

Blitzo’s gun cleared leather. “The fuck are you—?!” He fired.

Vi twisted just as the bullet sliced past her ear. She dove low, her fist punching through the desk and splintering wood as Blitzo vaulted onto another table in a wild acrobat’s flip, landing in a crouch with his gun pointed square at her forehead.

Click.

The shot never came. His weapon twisted out of his hand with a snap.

Striker stood in the doorway, spinning the stolen revolver once before leveling it back at Blitzo. His eyes gleamed, tail lashing like a whip.

“Hope you don’t mind me cuttin’ in.”

Loona roared and lunged, jaws snapping for Striker’s throat. He fired on reflex—bullet grazing her leg, blood splattering across the floor. She howled, crashing into him anyway, sending both tumbling into a filing cabinet. Drawers burst open, papers snowing through the air as Striker shoved her back with a snarl, blade flashing in his hand.

Across the room, Vi had Blitzo by the collar, slamming him into the wall. “Where is it, you red cunt?!” she screamed, spit flying as her eyes burned gold.

Blitzo thrashed, driving his knee up. Vi grunted as her hips buckled back, giving him just enough leverage to smash his forehead into hers. The crack of skull against skull echoed. Vi staggered back, crashing onto a desk, sending files and weapons scattering to the floor.

Blitzo leapt after her, knives flashing in both hands. He slashed—Vi caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting until the blade clattered away. With her free hand she punched, missing as Blitzo bent backward at an unnatural angle, laughing, before snapping upright and driving a kick into her ribs.

Her breath exploded from her lungs. Pain flared white.

Her scream ripped through the building, primal, hex runes spiraling into existence around her. Gold light flared, shaking the room like a storm trying to break free.

Blitzo’s grin faltered.

Then a blessed bomb clattered across the floor, rolling between them.

Angel’s voice shrieked from the entrance: “RUN!”

The blast ignited the office in white flame.

Vi didn’t hesitate. She charged through the smoke, smashing her shoulder through the window. Glass exploded outward as she leapt, the explosion behind them throwing all of them back.

Striker ripped himself free from Loona’s claws and dove after her, firing back at the snarling hellhound mid-air. He landed hard on the hood of a car, denting metal, while Vi hit the pavement with a crack. She screamed—her rib snapping beneath the force—but staggered upright, eyes burning cyan.

Loona burst through the window behind them, leaping with jaws wide.

Vi didn’t wait. Her boots dug into the asphalt, and she launched forward with the speed of a bullet, closing the distance in a blink. Her fist collided with Loona’s mid-air, the shockwave rattling every car on the street.

The car roof caved under Striker’s boots as he steadied his rifle, sight locked on Loona mid-air. But before he could fire, a shadow dropped from above.

Blitzo crashed down from the second floor window like a vulture, both feet slamming into Striker’s chest. The impact hurled him off the car and into the street, his hat tumbling into the gutter.

Striker coughed, rolling just as Blitzo came down with a knife. The blade scraped sparks against the asphalt, missing Striker’s throat by inches.

“Yer a slippery rat,” Striker spat, pulling his revolver up.

Blitzo grinned wide, twisting like a contortionist as the shot rang out. The bullet tore through his coat, close enough to burn, but the imp landed on his hands, legs scissoring to kick Striker’s weapon away.

Steel clattered across the street.

Blitzo pounced, knives flashing, every strike meant for a tendon or artery. Striker back-pedaled, blocking with his forearm guard, tail whipping the air to keep distance. He caught one blade between his boots, yanked hard, and slammed his forehead into Blitzo’s.

Blood spurted. The imp staggered back with a laugh that sounded half-mad.

“You hit like my ex! And she was better in bed!”

Striker lunged, shoulder-checking Blitzo so hard they both tumbled across the hood of another car. Glass shattered as Striker slammed the imp into the windshield, his blessed rope snapping free from his belt. With a snarl he looped it, aiming to cinch Blitzo’s throat.

Blitzo twisted, spitting blood, and headbutted Striker again—harder this time. The rope slipped. Striker hissed, vision flashing white.

“Yer mouth’s gonna get sewn shut,” Striker growled, pulling a second pistol from his hip. He pressed it to Blitzo’s gut.

Click.

Blitzo had jammed the barrel with his knife, twisting it upward with a wild smirk. “You gotta be quicker than that, cowboy.”

The gun misfired, smoke bursting out. Striker snarled, elbowing Blitzo in the ribs, forcing him to drop the knife. He rolled clear, grabbing the fallen rope again. With a flick of his wrist the rope lashed out, glowing faintly as its blessing activated, wrapping around Blitzo’s arm.

Blitzo shrieked as the burn seared into his flesh, the sanctified energy blistering his skin.

Striker yanked, hauling the imp down face-first into the cracked pavement. Dust clouded up.

Blitzo groaned, coughing blood, but his tail lashed out and hooked Striker’s ankle. With a vicious tug, he swept the snake-man’s legs out. Striker hit the ground with a grunt, air blasting from his lungs.

Both scrambled up, circling now—one with rope sizzling with divine light, the other with twin knives still dripping blood.

Blitzo spat on the ground, a manic grin splitting his bloody lips. “I’ve killed humans uglier than you, snakey fuck.”

Striker wiped his mouth, golden streaks across his skin glinting faintly under the streetlights. His revolver spun back into his hand, steady now.

“Funny. Snakes bite.”

Chapter 43: I can feel the light shine on my face

Summary:

“We are in for a glorious evolution.”

Vi’s scream ripped through the air as her fist crashed into Loona’s jaw. The blow detonated with a thunderclap of force, a shockwave tearing outward and knocking Striker and Blitzo sprawling across the ground. Loona skidded back, claws raking trenches into the stone floor to anchor herself. Her eyes burned a hellish red as she snarled, and then she sprang forward with animal fury.

They collided mid-charge, flesh and steel colliding with savage rhythm. Vi twisted her body, slamming her fists into Loona over and over, each strike echoing like drumbeats in the storm of violence. Loona whimpered under the assault, her legs lashing out in frantic kicks to break free. Vi’s hand lashed out, wrapping around Loona’s throat. Her grip tightened—harder, harder—intent to squeeze the fight from her, to crush out the growl still rumbling in Loona’s chest.

“Vi—don’t!” Striker’s voice broke through the chaos, but it was drowned by the sharp click of a gun being raised.

Blitzo stood trembling, finger locked on the trigger, Striker clawing desperately at his arm to pull the weapon away. The shot cracked.

The bullet buried itself into Vi’s shoulder. Her scream tore skyward, raw and broken, her head snapping back with the jolt of pain. Loona’s jaws found their mark in that split second—teeth sinking deep into Vi’s chest. With a savage twist, Loona hurled her against the wall. Stone split and dust showered down around her.

Angel Dust’s voice pierced the haze, shrill with panic. He yanked the ticking bomb into his hands, fangs snapping down on the fuse before spitting it out and hurling the device into the center of the chamber.

The metallic clatter hit Striker’s ears like the toll of a funeral bell. His face drained of color. He bolted back to Vi, whose blood-slick fist lifted, trembling but defiant. With a guttural cry, she slammed it into the floor.

Hextech roared to life. A shimmering dome surged around them both just as the bomb erupted.

The world convulsed. Fire ripped across the chamber, the blast hurling Blitzo and Loona like broken dolls into the rubble. Blitzo’s scream ended in a spray of blood as his arm was torn away. Loona’s ribs cracked and split beneath the fury of the blast.

Inside the dome, the storm battered against Vi’s barrier, sparks and fractures racing along its surface. She gritted her teeth, forcing the shield wider, holding it until the strain broke her body. And then—

It burst.

The explosion drowned everything in blinding white.

Silence followed, broken only by a high, merciless ringing.

Angel Dust stirred in the haze, his head pounding, ears screaming with the sound. He groaned, his body trembling, eyes flickering gold for a fleeting second before returning to their usual hue. Staggering upright, he saw them—Striker and Vi—both collapsed, unconscious, their forms barely rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The fog curled thicker, swallowing the battlefield, cloaking the ruin in a suffocating veil. The shapes of Blitzo and Loona were gone, hidden, uncertain.

And then… a presence slithered in with the fog. Cold. Familiar. Wrong.

From the mist, a tall figure took shape. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, his posture dripping with mockery, with ownership.

“Do you miss me, baby?” Valentino’s voice was velvet and venom.

Angel’s breath seized in his chest. His eyes went wide, horror clawing its way up his throat.

The fog swallowed the rest of his scream as Valentino surged forward and ripped him into the dark.

The smoke drifted in heavy coils, reluctant to vanish. A goetian stood at Striker’s side, his gaze dropping to the battered man before sliding to the unconscious form of Vi. There was pity in his stare, though it carried the detached sorrow of one who has seen too many wars.

As the haze thinned, his eyes caught movement—Blitzo and Loona. Their skin had shifted, no longer whole, now marred with the unnatural gray-and-white corruption that mirrored Vi’s own strange mark. An echo of her power had wrapped itself into their flesh, unbidden.

The goetian sighed, then stooped to gather Striker in his arms, vanishing into the shadows of his palace.

Stolas remained. He lingered in the distance, his silhouette sharp against the fog, his gaze narrowing upon Vi. His steps were silent until he stood over her. Before she could stir, his hand clamped around her throat. Stone spread from his touch, a power older than her, colder, and he tried to force her eyes open beneath his gaze.

But Vi kept them clenched shut, gasping through grit teeth, her body shuddering as lightning crawled through her veins—the painful aftershock of her own hextech’s last stand. She tried to wrench free, but the grip was unyielding.

With a cruel deliberation, Stolas drew out a rope woven from blessings and ash, wrapping it tight around her neck. He gave it a sharp tug, jerking her close, the fibers burning her skin.

“You won’t be dying any sooner,” he murmured, voice low and venomous. “A blade cannot keep you down…” His claws pressed deep into her abdomen, hot blood spilling across his fingers. “…but I know now how to erase you.”

Vi’s eyes fluttered shut again, her body convulsing, hextech light flickering weakly beneath her skin.

Stolas turned without pause, dragging her by the rope. A portal unfurled before them, swallowing both master and captive in violet flame.

On the other side, Loo Loo Land loomed in its twisted parody of joy. A massive tank waited, pipes jutting out like veins, the glass chamber prepared to drown and contain.

In the shadows nearby, Angel Dust rattled the bars of his cage, fists slamming against the iron. His outfit had been stripped away, replaced with tight black latex that clung to his frame—mockery dressed as spectacle, as though he were meant to be paraded in some cruel circus.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” he screamed, voice breaking as he hurled himself at the bars.

Valentino stepped out of the darkness, his grin wide, his hand snapping around Angel’s jaw through the cage. He yanked him forward until their faces nearly touched.

“Do you know how much I’ve lost because of you, baby?” he hissed, his words hot with venom. “I should’ve known you’d crawl to this human trash for your savior.” His tongue slithered from his mouth, dragging wetly across Angel’s cheek.

Angel’s response was swift—his teeth clamped down, vicious and unrelenting.

Valentino screamed as his tongue split in two, blood spraying across the cage. Angel spat the severed flesh back at him, lips curling in a twisted sneer.

“Anye guhh!” Angel mocked, mangling Valentino’s own name into a guttural parody of how it would sound through the torn tongue.

Valentino’s laughter broke into a howl of rage. He lunged again, his blood-soaked hand wrapping around Angel’s throat. Angel clawed at his grip, his scream piercing the chamber—his eyes snapping gold in an instant.

A surge of cyan and gold erupted from him. Power flared outward, blasting Valentino back as though the universe itself had intervened. The force hurled him across the room, his body slamming against steel with bone-cracking weight.

Angel froze, chest heaving, staring at his trembling hands as though they belonged to someone else. The air still hummed with the residue of the energy he’d unleashed.

Across the chamber, the tank meant for Vi began to glow. Her limp body twitched inside, the cords of hextech running through her pulsing with an otherworldly gold light that matched Angel’s.

Valentino staggered to his feet, blood bubbling at his lips, his half-torn tongue slurring every word. “You… will not… get away with this!” he rasped, choking on his own rage.

But for the first time, it was his voice that trembled.

Blitzo groaned as he forced himself upright, his vision swimming. Beside him, Loona was already awake, staring down at her body with wide, shaken eyes. Her chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm as her hands ran over her skin—whole again, unmarred, no trace of the shattered ribs that had nearly killed her moments ago.

She panted, lips trembling. What the hell happened to me…? I was almost gone.

“Loona!” Blitzo lurched forward and pulled her into a fierce embrace, clutching her as though she might vanish if he let go. “Sweetie—I’m so glad you’re okay…” His voice cracked, rough with relief.

Loona stiffened, then slowly wrapped her arms around him in return. As she did, her eyes flicked over his body—and she froze. The same pale, artificial flesh clung to him, covering wounds that should’ve been fatal. The sight mirrored her own.

Blitzo followed her gaze and looked down. His hand trembled as he pressed into the strange, metallic skin.

“Dad,” Loona whispered, her voice carrying both wonder and fear, “what… what happened to us?”

Blitzo shook his head, forcing a smirk through the unease gnawing at him. “Doesn’t matter, kiddo. Something kept us alive. That’s all that counts.” He tightened the hug as if to convince himself of the words.

From the distance, frantic footsteps echoed. Millie and Moxxie rushed into the clearing, their faces pale with worry.

“Blitzo!” Moxxie called, eyes wide as they spotted him upright. “We’re so sorry—we couldn’t get here sooner!”

But the apology died on their lips when their eyes settled on him and Loona.

Millie slowed, her voice wavering. “What… what happened to you guys?”

She reached out hesitantly, brushing her fingers over the prosthetic flesh along Loona’s arm. A faint blue light shimmered beneath the surface at her touch, pulsing like a heartbeat. Loona flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Does it hurt?” Millie asked softly.

Blitzo shook his head, his expression hard to read. “No… I feel… more, actually. More than I ever thought I could.” His voice was quieter now, almost reverent, as though he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Moxxie’s brow furrowed, unease flickering in his eyes. “We don’t know what this is, Blitzo. If it saved you, fine—but what if it changes you? We can’t know the cost.”

Blitzo exhaled through his nose, then glanced away. “Doesn’t matter. Not right now.”

Moxxie stepped closer, his tone tightening. “Stolas found Vi. He’s got her pinned down in Loo Loo Land… he’s killing her as we speak.”

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Then Blitzo let out a sharp bark of laughter, though his smile was hollow, his eyes gleaming too brightly.

“Oh, I’d love to fucking see that.”

Striker crashed down from the rafters with a heavy thud, his body twisting as he hit the floor. The breath left him in a harsh grunt, and for a moment all he could hear was the rattle of his own tail echoing in the hollow chamber. Dust clung to his skin as he pushed himself upright, spitting blood into the dirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow pulls of air, his muscles twitching from the aftershock of the fight.

A voice, calm and smooth as oil poured over glass, cut through the stillness.

“Well done, imp. You kept the chaos veiled long enough.”

Striker’s gaze darted up. Sorath stood before him—a towering figure wreathed in shadow, his presence gilded with the kind of authority only an ancient Goetian could carry. His eyes glowed faintly, their light both regal and suffocating.

Striker scowled, dragging himself to his feet. “Good job coverin’ us up, huh? Damn near broke my back fallin’ like that.”

Sorath’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, though his words lilted with a measured grace. “Your body is temporary. Your service, however, leaves an impression.” He let the words linger, his laughter low and deliberate.

Striker wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his tail still rattling in irritation. “Where’s Vi? What’s happenin’ next?” His tone was sharp, though beneath it simmered an unease he couldn’t quite hide.

Sorath tilted his head, brow furrowing as though savoring the weight of the answer. Then he chuckled, a low ripple of sound that carried the coldness of inevitability.

“Stolas has her,” he said, his voice rich and unhurried, each syllable pronounced with elegant cruelty. “He keeps the human in a glass prison—like some trinket—at that garish playground you mortals call Loo Loo Land. A fishbowl, if you will. He has uncovered her weakness… and intends to drown her.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment Striker’s tail stopped rattling altogether. His eyes narrowed.

Sorath went on, stepping closer, his cloak brushing the floor with the weight of unspoken authority. “But do not mistake inevitability for finality. We will be there. We will pry her from his grip, tear down his arrogance piece by piece. The owl believes himself clever, but even clever birds may have their wings clipped.”

He paused, looking past Striker as if already seeing the battlefield in his mind.

“Yet…” His voice softened into a silken hum, dangerous in its calmness. “Perhaps she will not need us. Perhaps Vi will awaken that power she carries—the one she scarcely understands. If she does, Stolas will drown not her… but himself.”

Striker clenched his fists, jaw tightening. “An’ if she don’t?”

Sorath’s smile widened, his teeth flashing like polished ivory. “Then we intervene. We fight, as is written. But tell me, imp—” his voice dipped lower, velvet over steel— “will you stand firm when the water rises… or will you be the first to choke?”

The silence that followed was broken only by the slow, echoing drip of water from the ceiling.

“We are in for a glorious evolution.” Sorath spoke, his eyes turning golden.

Vi jolted awake, the shock of cold water licking at her ankles. Her breath came ragged, and every nerve in her body snapped with residual electricity, sparks twitching along her arms and shoulders. The glass walls pressed close around her. She stumbled upright, her pulse hammering in her ears as she realized where she was.

The glass. The water. The walls closing in.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. It was the asylum all over again—the endless tests, the needles, the drowning chambers. The experiments that carved scars into her mind as deep as any blade could into flesh.

“No…” Her voice cracked, rising to a desperate scream. She hurled her fist against the barrier with a thunderous crack. Pain shot up her arm, but the glass didn’t so much as splinter.

“LET ME OUT!”

Electricity surged through her clenched fists, violent sparks dancing across her skin. She slammed them against the barrier again and again, each blow muffled by the tank, her rage and terror pounding uselessly into its unyielding surface.

On the other side, movement caught her eye—a cage. And inside it, Angel Dust clinging to the bars. His voice broke through the murk, muffled but desperate.

“Vi!” he screamed, his hands tearing at the metal as if he could claw his way out.

Vi’s chest heaved. “Angel!” She staggered to the glass, pressing her palms against it. “I’ll get you out, I promise! I promise!”

But her words drowned beneath a new voice.

A deliberate tap tap tap echoed on the glass.

Stolas stood before her, his height casting a long shadow across the chamber. His eyes glowed faintly, cold and clinical, like a scholar dissecting a specimen. He tilted his head with eerie poise, his fingers tracing the tank as if it were an ornament.

“You’ve taken much from me,” he said softly, almost like a lullaby, but every syllable dripped venom. “Overlords, assassins, pawns… all failed, all lost. They broke themselves against you.” His beak-like smile curved cruelly. “So I will not waste them any longer. I will finish the job myself. And I will do it… properly.”

He turned his back and walked away, his robes whispering across the floor.

Vi’s fists trembled against the glass, her breath ragged with fury. The water surged higher, crawling past her shins. She whipped her head upward and saw the network of tubes feeding the chamber. No levers. No valves. No way to stop it.

Her chest tightened as panic clawed its way up her throat.

Footsteps. Another figure emerged, his presence sharp and elegant. Sorath came to stand beside Stolas, his smirk cutting against the owl’s composure.

“You are bold,” Sorath drawled, his words rich and measured, like silk laced with poison. “But boldness alone does not make one wise.” His eyes flicked to the tank, then back to Stolas. “You think drowning her will erase what she is? Tch. You misunderstand. You have learned much, Stolas… yet not all. For such a clever Goetian, you comprehend so little.”

Stolas turned his head slowly, regarding him with detached disdain. His voice was cold iron. “And this lecture comes from a cast-out? A Goetian who couldn’t hold his place among us?”

His head tilted slightly, gaze piercing. “Tell me, Sorath—what is more bitter? Salt… or irrelevance?”

Sorath chuckled low, unfazed, shaking his head as his golden eyes slid back toward the tank. His voice lowered to a murmur, yet every syllable carried, vibrating against the glass.

“Release yourself, Vi.”

Her breath caught.

Before she could process the command, another shadow stirred in the haze.

Striker.

He approached with deliberate steps, the sound of his boots echoing in the chamber. Vi’s heart jolted, her brows knitting as she saw him—her last ally, battered but alive.

“Striker!” Relief and fear warred in her voice. “What are you—”

She stopped. Her eyes widened.

At his hip hung a glimmering hex gem. The same kind of crystal that once fueled her own power, stolen and tethered to him now like a badge of betrayal.

Her face twisted, rage and disappointment bleeding through her expression.

“You…” Her fists clenched so hard they sparked. “You filthy fucking traitor!” Her voice cracked, raw with fury. “How could you do this? Why?!”

The water climbed higher, and Vi slammed her fists against the glass again, each strike now carrying not just fear—but despair.

And Striker’s smirk was the only answer she received.

Striker stopped a few feet from the glass. He tilted his head, that familiar crooked grin stretching across his face.

“Well, darlin’,” he drawled, voice slick with mockery, “turns out runnin’ with you ain’t exactly profitable. You make a mess everywhere you go, leave nothin’ but bodies and smoke in your wake. Ain’t a damn thing left for a man like me but scars.”

Vi’s breath hitched, her fists slamming the glass again. The water climbed higher, now at her thighs.

“You were supposed to—”

“To what?” Striker cut her off, his grin sharpening into venom. “To follow you into the grave? To play lapdog while you burn the world down with your tantrums?” His eyes slid toward the gem at his hip, its glow reflected in the water climbing around Vi’s legs.

“I was sent by the sun Goetian,” he went on, voice low and mocking, “to bleed you for what you’re worth. To take your secrets, your strength… to use you. And hell, Vi—” he let out a wheezing laugh, bitter and sharp, “—it’s been less like fightin’ at your side and more like babysittin’ a rabid mutt.”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Vi’s fists sparked with violent bolts, her chest heaving. She pounded the glass, each strike leaving spiderweb arcs of electricity crawling across its surface. Her scream rattled the chamber, muffled but fierce.

“You son of a bitch!” Her voice cracked into desperation. “After everything—you sell me out to them?”

Striker tilted his head, unbothered, his tail rattling lazily behind him. “Don’t flatter yourself, sugar. You were never worth loyalty. Just information. A job.” His smirk widened, cruel and deliberate. “Don’t worry, you’ll make it through.”

The water surged higher, foaming around Vi’s waist. Her body trembled—not just from the cold, but from the gnawing realization that Striker hadn’t just betrayed her. He had never once stood beside her.

He leaned closer, his smirk inches from the glass. “Let’s see if a bein’ like you from a different universe survives in ours.”

Vi’s entire body shook, her voice shredding against the roar of the water.

The I.M.P van screeched into the square, tires burning against the cobblestone. A thick crowd of demons had already gathered, drawn to the sight of the massive tank at the center—Vi thrashing inside, water rising around her like a cruel hourglass.

Blitzo hopped out first, dusting himself off with exaggerated flair before strolling up behind Stolas. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, voice dripping with petty sarcasm:

“Well, look at that. Big bird finally decided to get his talons dirty. Took you long enough to actually do your job, feathers.”

Stolas didn’t turn right away. His head swiveled instead—owl-like, unnatural—until those glowing eyes pinned Blitzo with disdain. His voice carried, cold and sharp.

“How quaint. An imp, lecturing a Goetian on duty.” He rose to his full height, feathers bristling in restrained irritation. “Tell me, Blitzo, how goes your work? Still squandering contracts? Still playing assassin when all you really do is play house with your broken little family?”

The crowd chuckled uneasily.

Blitzo’s smirk faltered for half a heartbeat, but he recovered fast, throwing his arms wide in mock applause. “Wow. You really got me there, birdbrain. That wit? Killer. Almost as killer as—oh wait—your track record ain’t shit without us.”

The two locked eyes, silence stretching, tension snapping in the air like a taut wire.

Loona leaned out the van window, arms folded on the sill, her tail flicking in irritation. “Ugh. How long is this freak show gonna drag out? I’m already bored.”

“Patience, Loony,” Blitzo called back without breaking his stare with Stolas. “Let the big scary owl get his rocks off drowning the human first.” He shrugged, voice dipped in dark humor. “A slow death’s entertaining. Let’s not rob the crowd of a good finale.”

Stolas gave no response, only a low hum, before finally breaking eye contact and gliding past Blitzo. He stepped into his ornate carriage-like car, every motion deliberate, his robes trailing as if the confrontation hadn’t mattered in the slightest.

But his narrowed gaze as he sat down told another story—Stolas had heard every word.

__________

Hours had dragged on. The crowd that once jeered and buzzed with excitement had fallen into a heavy, suffocating silence. All eyes fixed on the tank, where Vi’s body drifted closer and closer to stillness.

She had been clawing her way upward, fists slamming against the reinforced lid at the top, each strike weaker than the last. The water had long since filled her lungs, every gasp swallowed by the choking weight pressing against her chest. Sparks still danced weakly along her skin, each pulse warping the water into turbulent waves, like the tank itself shared her rage and despair.

Then her body slowed… stilled. She hung suspended, hair fanning out around her face, her fists falling slack.

The audience leaned in, some whispering that it was finally over, others holding their breath in morbid anticipation.

But inside, Vi plummeted into blackness.

The world around her dissolved into a vast abyss, thick and endless, yet she could breathe. She floated as if in water but felt no drowning here, only a heavy ache in her chest. And there—drifting not far away—was herself. Small. Fragile. A child Vi, hair tangled, thrashing weakly as though drowning in invisible currents.

“No…” Vi whispered, her voice trembling in the dark. She swam forward, arms cutting through the thick void, desperate to reach her younger self. “Hold on! I’m here!”

But the little girl only shook her head, eyes wide with sorrow that mirrored her own. When Vi grabbed her hands, the child didn’t resist—she held tightly, their fingers interlocking. Together they sank, not into darkness, but toward a well of light glowing beneath them, pulling them down.

Back in the mortal plane, the tank began to quake. The water surged with violent force, hammering against the glass walls. Fractures spiderwebbed outward, glowing faintly cyan as if infused with her energy.

Sorath’s golden eyes widened with delight. His lips curled into a grin. “Ah… here comes Vi,” he murmured, voice rippling with elegant anticipation.

Stolas rose sharply from his seat, panic breaking through his cold composure. He flung his hands forward, summoning his power in streaks of eldritch flame, wrapping around the tank to hold it together. “What is this?” he roared, straining, every feather bristling. “What is happening?”

The crowd erupted into chaos.

A crack split wide with a deafening snap. Water exploded outward in a tidal surge, smashing through stalls, toppling tents, swallowing demons whole. Imps shrieked as the current pulled them under, their screams muffled by the rushing flood. Stuffed toys, food stands, weapons, and scraps of debris spun chaotically, floating above the chaos like forgotten remnants of a carnival.

At the center of the ruin, on a jagged bed of shattered glass, Vi lay sprawled. Her body glowed in rapid pulses of cyan, each throb of hextech energy rattling the air like a drumbeat.

The water drained away in spiraling rivulets, leaving the ground soaked and broken. Striker stood nearby, dripping but unfazed. He tipped his hat back into place with a casual flick, his eyes flicking toward Vi with a dangerous glimmer.

Blitzo and his crew gathered together, trembling with a fear none of them admitted out loud.

Vi’s body convulsed. Her lips parted, spewing water as she gasped violently back to life. Her eyes flickered with crackling light, unfocused and frantic. She wrapped her arms around herself as if to contain the surging storm inside her, but it was no use.

She whimpered—small, human, terrified—then her whole body arched. A scream tore from her throat, raw and deafening, as blue-white bolts coursed violently across her skin. Her muscles spasmed, every nerve igniting at once, until she thrashed uncontrollably, wracked by a power even she could not understand.

The crowd could only stare. Vi had returned—but what had returned was something else entirely.

Vi’s voice split the air, raw and jagged.
“I cannot believe you’ve done this to me, Stolas!” Her throat burned as she screamed, her eyes locked on him with unflinching rage. “You’ve crossed the fucking line!”

Tears threatened to spill, but before they could, something inside her shifted. Cyan bled away as molten gold seeped into her irises, flooding her gaze until it shone like liquid metal.

Stolas laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. His body unfurled into his true form—wings snapping wide, talons gleaming, his shadow filling the room. With predatory speed, he lunged.

Vi’s arm whipped through the air. Symbols burned to life, runes wrapping her fist in radiant arcs. They detonated outward, hurling Stolas back like a ragdoll.
“Stay away from me!”

Her legs gave out. She collapsed to her knees as power spiraled violently around her, whipping the air into a shrieking gale. Sparks raced across the floor. Her body trembled, unable to contain the storm boiling inside her.

And then—the sky answered.

From above, threads of pale gray and blazing gold plunged down like spears of silk and lightning. They struck Vi with a snap, fastening to her head, as if connecting her to something.

Her veins lit beneath her skin, golden rivers surging through her body. Her gaze shot upward, unblinking, as though a hand had seized her chin and forced it skyward. Her limbs went still, her feet lifting from the floor as the threads held her suspended.

The imps and demons froze. The chamber filled with the sound of their ragged breathing, each too afraid to move.

But the threads weren’t finished. They spread.

Like hunters scenting prey, more strands uncoiled from above, sweeping across the room in slow, inevitable arcs. They descended toward the others with a predatory patience—seeking, reaching, choosing.

One snapped onto Blitzo’s skull. His body jerked violently, the gun clattering from his hand as the thread embedded itself. His eyes flared gold, pupils drowning in the glow, and his head wrenched upward against his will. His legs stiffened, then left the ground entirely as the thread drew him into the same suspended state as Vi.

Sorath staggered back, hands clutched to his chest as a filament lashed onto him. His mouth opened in a silent cry as his veins lit with the same molten light.

Loona snarled, trying to back away, but the line found her, piercing into her like a hook. Her red irises burned away, replaced by a light gold as her body stiffened, gaze dragged skyward.

Striker’s jaw hung open when the arcane seized him. He fought it, muscles bulging with strain, but the thread anchored itself to his skull, pulling his head back until his lips parted in awe and horror alike.

Even the lesser imps, the ones who had already suffered from Vi’s surges, were not spared. Strands rained down in dozens, hundreds, latching to each one, hoisting them aloft like marionettes on wires.

The scene was grotesque—an entire host of demons, soldiers, killers, all caught by invisible hands, their eyes glowing the same unnatural gold.

And at the center of it all rose Vi. Higher than the rest. Her body slack, her hair lifted weightlessly in the storm, she hung like an effigy crowned in threads of fire.

Stolas’s grin faltered. His laughter died. For the first time, fear clouded his expression as he saw her taken by something he could not command, could not fight.

Below, Millie and Moxxie clawed desperately at Blitzo, trying to pull him down, but their hands passed uselessly through the luminous threads that held him aloft. No blade, no strength could cut them.

The threads had chosen their prey. And once chosen, none escaped.

Angel Dust clutched the bars of the cage, his breaths shallow, chest heaving as he watched the chaos unfold. The air burned with gold light, every figure around him suspended in unnatural stillness, their eyes glowing like molten glass.

Valentino’s swagger was gone; his body jerked upward, threads already tangled in his head and chest, dragging him into the sky. Vox’s screen-face flickered erratically, static hissing from his speakers as gold veins crawled beneath his panels. Both hung above him like grotesque puppets, thrashing once before their movements stilled.

Angel couldn’t make sense of it—couldn’t even think about when, or if, this nightmare would end. His heart hammered against his ribs. “The fuck is happening…?” he rasped under his breath, claws tightening on cold steel.

And then he felt it.

Through the ceiling of the cage, the light found him.

A thread slipped through metal as though it were smoke, descending in a slow, merciless line until it brushed the crown of his head. The moment it touched him, his whole body seized.

A weak gasp broke from his throat, his chest collapsing inward as if the air had been punched out of him. His pink eyes flared gold, vision tunneling upward toward the light. Fingers clawed uselessly at the bars, legs kicking against the floor, but resistance only made the pull stronger.

The cage rattled violently as his body lifted. His grip faltered, and the bars slipped from his hands. His feet rose from the ground, his body trembling as the arcane threads held him fast, dragging him into the same harmony as the rest.

Vi’s eyelids parted slowly.

She expected stone, fire, chains—anything but this. Instead, her vision opened onto an endless expanse that defied reason.

Colors danced across the void like rivers of light—emerald, violet, and gold flowing in great curtains, weaving around each other like the auroras she’d only ever heard of in stories. The air shimmered as though alive, vibrating with a low, steady hum that settled into her bones. There was no horizon, no ceiling, no ground—only an infinite sea of brilliance that seemed to breathe.

She looked down at herself and almost didn’t recognize the figure she saw.

Her body glowed faintly, veins illuminated with a golden sheen that pulsed like currents under glass. Her skin looked thin, translucent, like a reflection stretched across water. Her hair floated around her head in weightless strands, carrying the same strange glow—as though she had been sculpted from Hextech itself, half-mortal, half-energy.

She reached for her own arm, pressing trembling fingers to her skin, but felt only warmth, as though touching light itself. A sick ache turned in her stomach. What am I?

The world rippled under her steps as she moved. Each shift of her foot sent waves of color expanding outward, like she was disturbing the surface of a cosmic pool.

And then she saw him.

The figure towered in the distance, shadow carved against light. His form was dark, but where the edges of his body should have ended, they refracted into brilliant rainbow streaks that bent and coiled into the void around him. His cane rested in his right hand, planted like a pillar, yet Vi knew it was not for support—it was a mark of dominion.

Every breath she took was heavy in his presence. He wasn’t standing in this place. He was this place. The lights bent to him, the ground rippled with him, the hum that filled the air thrummed from his chest.

And around him—visions. Flashes.

Piltover, broken. Towers collapsed, bridges shattered, the shimmer of Hextech glass turned jagged and black. Flames curling where life should have been. Her home twisted into ruin.

Vi’s chest clenched. Her eyebrows drew together as she realized with a sick certainty—this godlike being had done it.

She took a step forward, then another, but the space stretched infinitely between them. He remained unreachable, distant, even as she strained toward him. And yet, though her path never closed, his head tilted. She felt his eyes—not looking at her, but into her.

She wasn’t alone.

Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Striker prowled across the shimmering floor, his boots crunching as though the light were brittle glass. His face was taut with suspicion, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Ahead, Blitzo and Loona staggered through the glow, calling Vi’s name in broken shouts, their voices swallowed by the hum. Sorath looked up at the herald in awe, fascinated by his beauty. Valentino tried to use his abilities but, in this place, it seemed useless. Vox looked at himself, seeing his body in this ethereal like state.

And then—

“...Vi?”

Her breath caught. She spun.

There, a short distance away, stood Jinx.

Her sister’s eyes were wide, shimmering with tears. Her lips trembled as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She staggered forward a step, her whole body trembling.

“Vi?” she whispered again, louder this time, choked.

Vi’s chest cracked open. Her vision blurred with tears as she ran. Jinx broke into a sprint too, stumbling at first, then hurling herself forward. They collided, arms wrapping around each other so tightly it hurt.

Jinx buried her face against Vi’s shoulder, her voice tumbling out in broken fragments.
“You’re here—you’re actually here—I thought—you were gone, you were—” Her words broke into sobs, shaking against Vi’s body.

Vi clutched her tighter, her own tears spilling freely. “I thought I’d never see you again, Powder. I thought you were gone too.”

Jinx pulled back, her hands gripping Vi’s arms, shaking. Her tear-streaked face was frantic, desperate.
“Where were you?! What happened to you? You just—disappeared! Everyone said you were dead, I thought you were dead! Where did you go, Vi? Where did you go?”

Vi’s throat closed. She tried to speak, but the words lodged like stones. When she forced them out, her voice broke.
“I fell, Powder. I fell into something I couldn’t climb out of. It was… it was hell. Fuck, I can’t even describe. I fought every day to survive—I thought I’d never crawl out.”

Jinx’s brow furrowed, tears dripping down her chin. She shook her head violently, confusion twisting her features.
“No—that doesn’t make sense. Hell? You’re telling me you—you fell into hell? That’s not—you don’t just fall into hell, Vi! What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know!” Vi shouted, her voice breaking. Her knees threatened to buckle as she clung tighter to Jinx. “I don’t know how, I don’t know why! But I swear to you, Powder, that’s where I’ve been. Every scar, every nightmare—I’ve been living it since the day I lost you.”

Jinx’s lips trembled. Her hands cupped Vi’s face, holding her steady as if Vi might fade away. Her tears dripped onto Vi’s cheeks.
“You came back,” she whispered. “I missed you!”

Vi managed a broken smile through the tears. She brushed a lock of Jinx’s blue hair aside, her thumb trembling.
“You even cut your hair. Look at you—you look just like Mom with those eyes.”

Jinx gave a small, wet laugh, pressing her forehead to Vi’s. “I thought I’d never hear you say that again.”

They embraced once more, tighter than ever, desperate not to let go.

But the world around them shifted.

The auroras slowed, the light stretching into frozen ribbons. The great figure—Viktor—halted mid-motion, his cane frozen in place. The hum deepened, then broke into silence.

And from the light, another shape emerged.

Ekko.

But not as they remembered him. Here, he was larger, towering, every line of his form traced in light. His outline rippled with time itself, fragments of gears and shattered clocks orbiting him in flickers of motion. In his hands, he held a device glowing like a fractured sun, its pieces spinning in and out of existence, as though it were being built and destroyed at once.

He walked with crushing gravity. Each step sent ripples through the void, waves of aurora light surging outward. His eyes burned, locked on Viktor with a fury that pierced through the silence.

Vi’s heart seized. She gripped Jinx’s arm, her voice panicked.
“What’s happening?!”

Jinx tilted her face upward, her lips parting. “He’s… stopping Viktor.”

Vi’s chest constricted. She shook her head, desperation tearing through her. “No. No, wait, he can’t! Not like this!” She screamed, her voice echoing across the frozen void. “Ekko—don’t!”

Ekko raised the device high, its light swelling until it consumed his silhouette. His arm blurred as time stuttered around him—forward, backward, forward again—before he hurled it toward Viktor.

The void erupted.

The light was absolute. The auroras shattered, swallowed by white fire. Vi screamed, clutching Jinx as their bodies glowed gold, dissolving into fragments of light.

“Powder!” she cried, voice raw, “I can’t lose you again! Not again!”

Jinx’s tears burned as they streamed upward into the light. She held Vi as if her arms alone could hold back the inevitable.
“Sis, please, live for me, even when we’re worlds apart.” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“No!” Vi’s scream tore the void apart as everything collapsed, the world shattering into brilliance.

The threads of gold that had bound them shivered once—then slipped away.

One by one, they fell.

Loona gasped as her eyes flickered back to red, her body collapsing to the floor with a sharp thud. Striker hit the ground hard, grunting, his chest heaving as though the air had only now been returned to him. All around, demons and imps landed in tangled heaps, stunned into silence, their faces pale with fear and confusion.

Blitzo landed worst of all, belly-first on the stone, the breath ripped from his lungs. He coughed, gagging, his hands clawing at the ground. Millie and Moxxie rushed to him, panic carved into their faces.

“Boss!” Moxxie cried, his voice cracking as he struggled to haul Blitzo upright. “What happened—what the hell was that?!”

Blitzo staggered against Millie’s support, wheezing, his eyes wide as if he’d glimpsed the end of the world. He lifted his trembling hand and pointed at Vi. “Vi… she’s not—she’s not from here. She’s been from a whole other fucking universe this entire time—”

All eyes turned toward her.

Vi still hung above them, suspended like a broken marionette, her body trembling. The last threads of gold bled from her eyes in fading streams, dissolving into the void. At last, the arcane released her. She plummeted.

She hit the ground hard, rolling, coughing raggedly as her body fought to remember its own weight.

Stolas turned his head sharply. His gaze found Sorath, who was slumped to one side, still groaning, dragging himself up with an unsteady hand. Slowly, the fog cleared from him. His breathing steadied. His dark eyes lifted, and fixed on Vi.

He began to walk.

Each step was deliberate, measured. His presence cut through the shaken silence. The others dared not move as he crossed the floor, coming to stand over her.

Vi forced herself upright, swaying, her arms quivering as she pushed to her knees. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. She met Sorath’s gaze, her lips parted.

“The first time we’ve met someone from another universe,” Sorath said softly. His voice carried no mockery, no malice—only wonder.

Vi shook her head, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. “No—no, I was there! I was supposed to go back—I should have been taken back!” Her voice cracked into a scream. She crumpled forward, covering her face with both hands as sobs tore out of her.

The air shifted.

Power swelled inside her chest, not gentle, not guiding—raw and furious. Her scream deepened, echoing until it filled the cavern, reverberating off every wall. The stones trembled beneath them. Cracks webbed outward from where she knelt, light bleeding through the fractures like molten veins.

Sorath lowered himself, slow, deliberate. He sank to one knee before her, bringing his height to hers. His hand hovered near her, not touching, but steady—an anchor offered without demand. His voice, low and even, met her trembling cries.

Vi’s head tilted upward, her tears streaking down her face. Her breath hitched, ragged, as the energy clawed at her chest.

She shut her eyes.

The scream broke into silence. Then—

A shockwave ripped outward from her body.

The force blasted across the chamber, an external eruption of rage and grief that knocked dust and ash into the air. Every torch guttered and flared. Every demon staggered, shielding themselves.

And when the dust settled, Vi stood.

Her shoulders squared, her chest heaving, her fists trembling at her sides. Her eyes—no longer streaked with gold—burned bright cyan, alight with raw defiance.

The light reached its peak—cyan flames rippling like a storm around Vi’s body, flooding the chamber in searing brilliance. The air vibrated with her scream until it became impossible to breathe, impossible to think.

And then—silence.

The shockwave pulsed outward one final time, dust and ash scattering across the floor like a tide. The light bled away in a sudden rush, leaving the chamber dark, scorched, trembling from the aftershocks.

Where Vi had stood—

There was nothing.

The others blinked through the haze, coughing, staring at the empty space.

“Wh—where the hell’d she go?” Striker panted, dragging himself upright, his eyes scanning wildly.

Loona rubbed at her eyes, still dazed. “She just… vanished.”

“Well, good job fuckin’ failing again, bird ass.”

Blitzo’s voice cut through the quiet like a knife, dripping with venom. He spat the words at Stolas as he stumbled past, dusting himself off with jerky movements. Millie and Moxxie trailed after him, still shaken, but neither daring to add anything.

Loona shot Stolas a glare as she followed, muttering under her breath, “Real useful back there, huh?”

One by one, the others drifted away, too rattled to speak, too bitter to stay. The chamber emptied, leaving only the echo of their footsteps.

Stolas remained where he was.

He did not move. He did not retort. His feathers drooped slightly, his wings half-folded against his back. The brilliant arrogance that usually carried him had drained from his features, leaving only a quiet stillness. His eyes followed the place where Vi had once stood—still glowing faintly with the echo of her power.

When Vi opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the chamber.

Her knees hit polished stone. She gasped, sucking in the still, cold air around her. The world here was vast, immaculate, suffused with pale light that poured down from an unseen source above.

The palace.

But it wasn’t Piltover’s grandeur—this was something older, heavier, carved into towering spires of obsidian and marble, its halls echoing with silence. Every step she took sounded too loud, too hollow, as though the place itself resented her presence.

Her hands shook. She stared at them, translucent with residual energy, veins glowing faint cyan before dulling back to flesh. Her breath came fast, uneven.

“Damn it,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I was there—I almost had it—I could’ve gone home—”

Her fist slammed into the marble beneath her. The stone cracked, but the sound only deepened the emptiness pressing against her chest.

Her eyes burned, tears streaming hot and relentless. She pressed both hands to her face, dragging her nails down her cheeks. Footsteps echoed.

Sorath emerged from the shadows of the hall. He moved with measured calm, his expression unreadable, though his eyes carried the faint gleam of something between fascination and pity.

Vi snapped her head toward him, her tear-streaked face twisted with rage. “What the fuck did you do to me?!” she screamed. Her voice echoed violently through the chamber, bouncing back at her until it sounded like dozens of Vi’s screaming at once.

Sorath did not flinch. He stepped closer, his boots clicking on the polished floor. “I did nothing,” he said evenly. “You were pulled here, just as I was. This… palace is not of my making.”

Vi’s chest heaved. She shook her head, curling into herself as if she could make the fury stop. “I was there. I felt it. My world. And it just slipped through my hands.” Her voice broke. “It’s never going to let me go back, is it?”

For the first time, Sorath’s composure cracked. He studied her with a long, contemplative silence, then lowered himself slowly to one knee, as he had before, bringing his gaze level with hers.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted softly. “But hopelessness is not death. You are here. You still exist. And in this place, that means something.”

Vi’s laugh was hollow, bitter, choked with tears. She wiped at her face with the back of her trembling hand. “I don’t care if it means something. I don’t want this. I don’t want your world, your demons, your palace. I just want to leave!”

Her voice cracked on the name. She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking, tears hitting the marble floor in quick, sharp drops.

Sorath looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke again, his voice quieter, almost reverent.

“A misfit, Vi. You’ll always be the misfit— We won’t bury it; we’ll use it. This Hextech you spoke of… it saved more lives than the demons you’ve destroyed with your fists. And here, it can rule— if you let it.”

Vi’s breath hitched. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at anything. The palace around her felt endless, merciless, and yet so suffocatingly small.

She was alive. But she had never felt so trapped.

Notes:

Stop being sad and troubled.