Morning Caffeine.

by Mushhushshu

Summary:

Coffee and radio first embraced in the 1920s.

As the vacuum tubes warmed up and emitted their first hum, someone always had a coffee pot gurgling nearby. The roasted aroma kept radio announcers awake in the wee hours, and the airwaves carried that same scent to millions of kitchens where people gathered around the machine, a cup in hand.

Brands like Maxwell House and Chase & Sanborn paid jazz orchestras so that listeners would associate each melody with the taste of freshly brewed coffee. Radio sold coffee; coffee kept the radio on. They were the same warm respite in the cold of the night, two vices necessary for survival in that era.

While one awakens the body, the other keeps the mind awake. Together, they never let the world sleep.

And that seemed perfect to a demon who serves both with a smile.

Notes:

Hello!
Just a quick heads-up about the basics, this is my first fanfic, and God willing, my last.

Because of how the second season of Hazbin Hotel ended, I became way too obsessed with this character and ended up giving in to my desires.

I've always had the plot in mind, however, I realized it was a bit of a cliché in Ao3 because most of the fics I read in English were similar. That discouraged me a little, but I think that even though something is repeated a lot, some will stand out and others won't.

Although I'm not too worried, since I'm only writing this fic to satisfy my craving for something related to Alastor. I got really obsessed, sorry. Also, I'll stick to the canon as much as possible, since I don't actually dislike it that much.

My native language isn't English, so I apologize if it's not as clear as I'd like.

Chapter 1: Prologue.

Alastor’s room, hidden in the quietest wing of the Hotel, wasn’t just a refuge; it was more of a boundary. A line that separated the chaos of Hell from a different kind of silence: a dense one, limited—at that moment—to two presences who knew how to coexist without needing to explain anything, amid a blurred plane between an ordinary room and a reflection of the bayou, courtesy of Alastor. There they were; she sat on one of the chairs near the window, her black vest open, hanging at the top to let the fabric breathe, her gaze fixed on a map spread out on the low table. Her long black hair fell like an irregular curtain over her shoulders and half her face, barely illuminated by the reddish light that filtered through the heavy drapes.

“You’re underestimating Missi Zilla’s expansion…” she murmured, pointing to an area marked with irregular neon-green ink. “Her movements may be noisy… quite loud. But they’re not actually that precise.”

The Radio Demon remained by her side, and as he rearranged some papers, he let out a soft laugh. He wasn’t trying to mock her, but rather to reveal a hidden nuance of trust and amusement that he could indulge in within the intimacy of their company.

“My dear, underestimate is a very strong word. I think I simply… observe with an altruistic perspective.”

He moved closer to her. The sound of his cane tapping the floor slowed, becoming more contemplative. As he stopped beside her, he tilted his head slightly to follow the path of her finger across the map. And without asking permission—because between them, it wasn’t necessary—he placed a hand on her shoulder. Barely a touch at first, then a gentle weight, as if confirming that she was still there, tangible, part of his private space.

That kind of gesture was exclusive to their private meetings. No one else was allowed to see the Radio Demon in that way.

She let him, even tilting her head slightly toward his touch. Not out of submission or need, but in an intimate acknowledgment they only shared in solitude. He then let his thumb brush the fabric of her T-shirt near her neck, smoothing a crease with far too much care for a simple adjustment. It was that wordless affection, the kind he would never admit to possessing.

“Even if you look at it objectively,” she continued, “someone is provoking her. And you know who.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes slightly, his smile remaining in its usual place, trying to hide the obvious.

“Oh, believe me… I know.”

The silence between them was far from awkward; it was more like a bridge. A way of speaking without saying anything that she felt. And that he, in some way uniquely his own, felt too.

But Hell—especially in that ironic hotel—never respected those kinds of moments. As the woman squinted at the radio-man, glaring at him…

“MR. ALASTOOOOR!”

Nifty’s shrill voice echoed through the hallway a split second before the little imp pushed open the door without knocking. She burst in like a whirlwind of color and movement, completely confident in her impulsive act and emboldened by the fact that the “On Air” sign was off.

“There’s a problem on the second floor! The pipes exploded, again! There’s hot water chasing Angel Dust, and I think he’s learning to talk!”

The woman in black barely blinked, her expression minimal. Alastor slowly withdrew his hand from her shoulder, noticing the intrusion, as if releasing a delicate object, or perhaps simply to maintain that touch a little longer.

“How inconvenient…” he said with an almost theatrical calmness for the situation.

Nifty turned to face her then, observing her for the first time. Her giant eyes blinked like freshly washed dishes.

“Oh.” That was all she said. Something between surprise and confusion, as if there were a camera in front of her. Paralyzed, dumbfounded. “I need you to come now,” she insisted a few seconds later, addressing Alastor after recovering from her sudden revelation. “The water insulted me!”

The newly summoned man straightened his posture, his smile returning to public mode.

“Very well… Take care of the map for me, sweetheart.”

She simply nodded once.

“Go.”

The red demon left the room with the same elegance with which he had entered, and Nifty trotted after him urgently. The intruder returned to the table, but let her gaze drift to the closing door, gauging the potential disaster of what had just transpired: Nifty, the most gossipy, observant, and least discreet creature in the Hotel—if not in all of Hell—had seen her.

And that, inevitably, would reach someone else’s ears…

Smiling in anticipation of the whole scandal, the woman calmly returned to her main task, doing what she did best:

Serving coffee.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

To no one’s surprise, the situation wasn’t so catastrophic: a burst pipe, a boiling puddle, Angel Dust shouting obscenities. Just the usual chaos of the Hotel, really. Alastor resolved the problem in less than two minutes, turning valves with his tentacles and striking a section of the wall with his cane as if the very simplicity of the conflict owed him obedience, peacefully calming the not-so-peaceful situation.

Although, in reality, it was more of a reaction.

Charlie allowed herself a sigh of relief. Vaggie frowned, as always. Husk barely looked up from his cocktails, and Angel posed dramatically with his back against the wall, still reeling from his very recent survival of his accidental murder.

And just as calm seemed to return, Nifty raised her hand.

“Mr. Alastor! By the way!”

Everyone turned to her. Alastor did too. That small gesture was enough for Nifty to feel she was doing something important, which made her feel excited.

“Who is the woman in your room?”

And so a thick, sticky silence fell, perhaps too demonic, even for the hotel.

Charlie lost her voice, beginning to wonder at what time the Radio Demon had brought a corpse up to her room. Vaggie, beside her, opened her mouth in horror, echoing her girlfriend’s thoughts. Angel Dust choked on his own cigarette while Husk cursed under his breath. Sir Pentious—who didn’t even have a reason to be there—dropped one of his inventions, believing his snake ears had finally stopped working.

Perhaps Alastor’s smile didn’t change one iota, but the air around him certainly did.

“My wife,” he replied with absolute nonchalance.

And with that answer, no one allowed themselves to breathe. Not even blinking.

The demon in red scanned the entire group as if he were assessing them, though perhaps the “as” was unnecessary, since it was more than obvious that he was.

“Any other domestic matters you wish to discuss?”

The echo of “my wife” still vibrated off the walls of the second floor. It wasn’t the sound itself, but rather the impression it had left everyone stunned, paralyzed, breathing as if oxygen had been replaced by boiling coffee.

As soon as Alastor finished his statement, it took Charlie a full ten seconds to regain the ability to exist.

“Y-You…? Wife? YOU…?”

“And how long have you been hiding something like that?” Vaggie blurted out, pointing her finger at him as if she were facing a serial killer, not an Overlord… Although, to be honest, in this case, there was no difference.

Angel Dust let out a hysterical laugh. “HAHA! Oh, no way! Smiles… he’s married! MARRIED! Oh, Daddy, where were you hiding Mrs. Radio? In the attic? In a freezer? Or did you eat her whole—?”

Alastor’s cane struck the floor once, emitting a sharp vibration. Lethal to the spider’s instincts… So Angel fell silent so quickly he nearly fainted from the exertion.

Husker remained skeptical, watching the scene from the makeshift bar they’d set up to dry soggy bottles. There, he grunted:

“I told you so. When something seems too quiet, double-check.”

Nifty—delighted to have started the social apocalypse—jumped.

“I saw her! She’s so pretty! She had a fancy jacket on and looked so important! And funereal! Who is she? Where did she come from? Does she work here too? What’s her name? Can we be friends? Why was she in her room? Why—?”

“Because she belongs there,” the demon interrupted, with a dangerous gentleness that allowed them to mistake his threat for calm, answering as if he had already thought through countless scenarios where he would respond to the same question in the same way.

The entire group swallowed hard.

And Charlie, always trying to restore harmony, took a few steps closer.

“And… could we… meet her? Sometime?”

Alastor’s red eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were calculating even the air in the room, seriously considering the answer before it slipped from his tongue… Or perhaps he was just taking his time.

“No.” he answered without hesitation.

“Why not?” Charlie asked with genuine curiosity.

He tilted his head, maintaining his characteristic smile.

“Because I don’t wish to expose her to your level of… messiness.”

Vaggie snorted.

“And at what point did you decide we had the right to know something as big as—”

Alastor interrupted again with a smile, this time sharper than any insult.

“At no point. That’s precisely the point.”

Silence fell once more, thick with discomfort, laden with a cruel, undeniable reality: Alastor had never been obligated to tell them anything.

Nothing necessarily related to his privacy, much less anything to do with his relationships, and certainly nothing to do with the possibility that he had… well, a wife.

Chapter 2: His Genesis.

When he first descended into Hell, Alastor had been quite the... innovative sinner. He made it his mission to prove his worth to the others, the very reason he was there.

Not in the sense of bringing new concepts—murder, manipulation, the thirst for power were as old as Hell itself—but in the presentation. In the style. In the way he turned carnage into a spectacle worthy of broadcast.

Most sinners arrived disoriented, terrified, crawling through the crimson streets as they tried to grasp the magnitude of their eternal damnation... Yet Alastor had arrived smiling. And with the ease afforded by that collar around his neck? He began to climb the ranks of the high-level demons; from overlord to overlord, he showed no mercy when selecting his victims.

His first broadcast occurred three hours after his death.

A lesser Overlord—whose name no one remembered anymore—had tried to claim him as prey in his territory. A fundamental mistake. And the last he would sadly make. Alastor had methodically destroyed him, broadcasting every scream and every plea, every moment of agony through radio waves that saturated Hell. And the best part was that he didn't even use all of that as a warning, but rather as entertainment; a welcome would be a more fitting word. Like that bell that rings when you enter a coffee shop.

Hell, hungry for novelty, had turned to watch with delight.

But what truly accelerated his rise wasn't just his creative brutality. It was the collar.

Invisible to most, yet always present: that ethereal chain around his neck, connecting him to the contract he had signed moments before his arrival. The exact terms remained secret—as did its very existence, for Alastor was careful with such information—but the results were undeniable.

Raw power. Immense and ever-growing.

With each Overlord he eliminated and each soul he claimed, the collar pulsed with energy that seeped into him. It was a twisted symbiosis: he fulfilled—so to speak—the terms of the contract by eliminating "waste" from the infernal ecosystem, and in return, he received the resources to continue doing so.

He was efficient, he was brutal.

He was perfect.

In the city of the pentagram, his name was already being whispered with a mixture of fascination and terror.

"The Radio Demon."

Alastor appreciated the nickname. It had a certain... rhythm. A certain theatricality that complemented his style. And, besides, it was everything he was looking for.

He sat in what had been the office of his seventh victim—an Overlord who controlled an illegal arms district—reviewing soul contracts that now belonged to him. Dozens of lesser demons, all now bound to him through transactions the previous Overlord had executed with stunning negligence.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, incinerating a particularly poorly drafted contract. “How did he survive decades with this incompetence?”

His cane—a gift from his contractual benefactor, though “gift” implied generosity that was definitely lacking—tapped rhythmically on the floor as he methodically considered his next moves.

Seven Overlords in six weeks. Impressive by any standard, but not enough for him.

Not when his true target remained untouched.

He pulled out the mental list he’d been cultivating: names of Overlords who controlled significant territories, valuable resources, or simply existed as obstacles to his continued rise. Some names were already crossed off. Others remained, gleaming with the promise of perhaps future violence; he still had to think carefully about that.

However, there were names on that list that even Alastor, with his characteristic confidence, recognized as... complicated.

Zestial. Ancient, powerful, prudent. Eliminating someone of his caliber required planning that Alastor didn't yet possess, nor did he believe he would, at least not for many years. His time as an ancient granted him invaluable advantages that would be a shame to squander.

Carmilla Carmine. An arms dealer, monopolizing her market. A valuable asset alive. If she died, it would be a waste of strategic resources and long-term alliances. Besides, he didn't dislike her.

Rosie. ...Rosie was in a class of her own, and he really wouldn't bother touching her. Not yet.

Oneira.

He paused carefully at that name, tracing the handwriting with his fingers gently, carefully. He didn't have much information about her. She was a competent owner of a coffee company, the only one above the Pride Circle. An empire built on something as mundane as coffee, yet seemingly with a reach far beyond mere trade, thanks to its monopolization and control. Something that doesn't surprise him at this point in Hell.

Alastor had investigated discreetly—as discreetly as his nature allowed, which wasn't much—and the information was... limited.

Having gathered information about her business, he gleaned that many said the 'Manhattan Café' was just that: a chain of elegant coffee shops frequented by the infernal elite. Places where Overlords negotiated, a warmth where information flowed as freely as caffeine in their bodies.

There wasn't much information about her skills, nor about her hobbies. It seemed the best way to contact her was strictly through business related to the monopoly she had worked so hard to establish.

"Fascinating," Alastor murmured, twirling his cane with an imminent sense of anticipated pleasure.

He decided it was time to move strategically. A moment of reconnaissance, a necessary assessment before the moment of action. He had already dealt with enough high-class individuals, whether necessary or not, and the only exception on his kill list was the owner of the collar that remained firmly embedded around his neck.

With disgust, the demon in red ran his hand along his neck, trying to cool the suffocating feeling that filled him every time he remembered why he was there. Powerful, not just another face in the crowd, just as he wanted.

Adjusting his attire, he decided his broadcast needed new content anyway.

 

— ꨄ —

 

The establishment was... unexpectedly sophisticated.

Alastor had anticipated pretentious decor, an atmosphere that screamed "look at me, I'm important, glamorous, and stupid." Instead, he found a certain genuine elegance: soft lighting that made the space feel intimate without being claustrophobic, furnishings that balanced comfort with aesthetics, and a coffee aroma that was genuinely exquisite. It didn't surprise him so much coming from a woman, really.

The clientele was an interesting mix in his eyes: a few minor Overlords whom Alastor recognized, several high-class demons whose faces he'd seen on his rise, and a surprising number of ordinary sinners who could apparently afford the establishment's exclusive prices.

"Welcome to the Manhattan Café." A demon waitress approached with a professional smile. "First visit?"

"Indeed," Alastor replied in his most charming tone. "I've heard... things. Thought I'd experience it for myself."

"Excellent choice." The waitress guided him to a table near the window. "Our menu is here. I recommend the Special Dark Roast if you prefer something strong, or our House Blend if you're looking for something more balanced."

Alastor accepted the menu, scanning it as his eyes also scanned the establishment. He was looking for... something. A presence that would justify the mysterious reputation the lady carried with such grace.

He found nothing, a bit predictably.

"Excuse me," he called to the waitress before she walked away. "I'm curious. Does the owner frequent this establishment? I'd love to express my appreciation for the ambiance in person."

The waitress hesitated. Perhaps only for a moment, but Alastor clearly noticed.

"The lady values ​​her privacy," she replied carefully. "But we'll pass on her appreciation if you'd like."

"How thoughtful." Alastor smiled more broadly. "Then I'll have the Special Dark Roast. And perhaps... some information about the lady. I'm new to Hell, you know. Trying to understand the power structure. Who's who."

The waitress looked at him with a new expression: an assessment mixed with a warning. Though for Alastor, it was difficult to discern whether it was for his own protection or for his mistress's.

"Some friendly advice, sir." Her voice lowered. "Manhattan Café values ​​neutral ground. We make sure that conflicts are left at the door. The lady is... rather particular about maintaining that policy."

"Fascinating." Alastor didn't lose his smile.

The waitress didn't respond verbally to his indirect threat. It had been quite some time since she'd encountered someone who wanted to see the old woman directly; the thought only brought a feeling of unease to her stomach and a premonition of a confrontation she clearly wanted to face.

The atmosphere was thick with a tense feeling invoked by the radio demon. With the receptionist waiting, she began to reconsider her options for contacting the owner in a cool manner. Her gaze shifted to the demon who patiently awaited her response; a sinful one, clearly. She had probably sold her soul for work, so he proceeded to inspect the girl's body in front of him without shame or morbid curiosity. He didn't expect much, for he, more than anyone, was aware of the importance of appearances, yet he was also aware of their insignificance in Hell.

After all, everyone was there for a reason.

And perhaps the woman's reasons weren't related to domestic abuse or abuse of power over the souls under her control. For, again, he found nothing obvious marked on the demon's body.

"I understand," he said finally. "Neutrality respected. Just coffee then."

The waitress nodded approvingly and left with a palpable sense of relief.

Alastor lingered for an hour, sipping genuinely excellent coffee as he observed. The shadows in the corners. The way certain customers avoided specific areas of the establishment. The occasional whispers that abruptly ceased when something—someone—came too close.

When he finally rose to leave, he left a generous payment in appreciation of the quality he had enjoyed, along with a simple note beneath his freshly finished cup:

"Impressive establishment. I would love to discuss business when the lady has time. — A"

He hadn't expected an immediate response, but he had planted a seed.

And Alastor was excellent at nurturing seeds until they blossomed into opportunities.

Chapter 3: Gluttony.

Notes:

Caution is advised until the next divider. Mentions and descriptions of cannibalism and murder.

Three days later, the demon in red was pacing the seemingly endless streets of Pride Ring. Despite his growing interest in that coffee monopoly, he couldn't wait to be chosen for a private rendezvous. He needed to move, not feel stuck; and so the next man on his list was particularly unpleasant, even by his infernal standards. Almost all men were, really.

Vexor the Butcher—a name the Overlord had adopted with excessive pride—controlled the industrial district where sinners toiled in conditions that made mortal slavery seem like a vacation. His specialty was "processing" lesser demons for useful components: bones for construction, hides for trade, fragmented souls for fuel... And that was pleasantly unpleasant. Don't get me wrong, Alastor enjoyed the same activities as the butcher, both in life and in the afterlife. What he found utterly repulsive was that such a valuable market was monopolized by infernal scum like himself.

Such a precious market should be free. He didn't want to have to resort to increasing his wealth through such a despicable act. Besides, he was a great benefactor to Rosie, whom she deeply detested.

Cannibalism is an art not everyone has the gift of performing. And it was precisely the kind of waste Alastor's contract incentivized to eliminate! A formal invitation would have been all it took for him to fulfill all the requirements.
Although it wasn't necessary.

Efficient as ever in his passion, the broadcast began at 3:00 a.m., when the district was at its peak. Alastor didn't believe in subtle surprise attacks. Where was the fun in that?

"Good evening, sinners of the Industrial District!" his voice boomed from the loudspeakers he had strategically installed hours earlier. "I present to you your new late-night entertainment host, and tonight I have a special program."

Vexor was in his office reviewing production quotas when the lights went out, and then his booming laughter began to echo through the loudspeakers of that lonely office. That same laughter that Hell was already learning to fear.

"Vexor, Vexor, Vexor," Alastor's voice emerged from the shadows. "What an... efficient operation you have here! Processing demons like cattle. I admire the lack of sentimentality! We would have made good friends."

The Butcher stood up, brandishing his signature weapon: a massive mace made from the compressed bones of his victims. Perhaps his greatest display of brute strength to date.

"Who the hell—"

"Oh, excuse me! How rude!" Alastor materialized before him with a broad grin. "Alastor. The Radio Demon. Perhaps you've heard of me; I've been making quite a racket lately."

"Ah! The rookie who thinks he can intimidate the real Overlords. Yes, I heard you. And frankly... I'm disappointed. Seven weaklings hardly qualifies as an impressive feat."

“Weaklings?” Alastor tilted his head, closing his eyes as the tension grew more palpable. “Mmm, perhaps. But they were tedious. And Hell runs better without low-grade tedium. You, however…” His eyes flashed crimson, glaring into two large radials as he opened them again. “…might be entertaining. At least for a while.”

Alastor had a certain advantage over Vexor's limited mobility; his colossal size—compared to Alastor's, at least—allowed the gluttonous creature to be more confident, for his bestial nature was always with him. Snorting with rage, the pig-like sinner would charge at the radio demon without any shame, slashing his flesh axe at the wall behind the demon and shattering it without fear of the consequences. This lack of respect from the young man was something that, because of his pride, Alastor couldn't simply ignore.

The industrial district reeked of burnt grease, clotted blood, and old fear. It was 3:17 a.m. when the crane chains still hung limp and the furnaces breathed dying embers; the air became thick, electric, like before a storm that, in this moment, represented them.

As Vexor charged first, after missing his initial attempt, the thunder of his hooves against the concrete echoed, followed by the whistling of the sledgehammer descending in an arc that could split a tank in two. The blow landed with a dull thud; the ground sank half a meter, and where Alastor had stood, only a smoking crater remained, his laughter echoing through the loudspeakers, now higher-pitched, as if—clearly—he was enjoying the attempt.

The third charge was faster and more blind, the sledgehammer igniting with necrotic green fire and reflecting the hundreds of crushed souls shrieking within the compressed bone. This time, he didn't flinch and took the full force of the impact. The skull exploded in a shower of black splinters and pulverized horn; the body was flung out, crashed against a loading pillar, and hung there for an instant, headless, before slowly sliding to the ground in a viscous trail.

The black tentacles that sprouted from the severed neck like live wires plunged into the concrete and pulled the corpse upward. Brains slid across the floor, sucking themselves back into the shattered cavity with wet, sucking sounds. Alongside the crunching bones, they fused together with dry clicks. In four seconds, Alastor was standing again, dusting fragments of himself from his suit like someone elegantly dusting off a wardrobe.

Vexor roared and charged again, this time with his bare hands. His fingers, thick as poles, closed around the radio demon's lean torso and squeezed until Alastor's ribs cracked. His grin didn't fade; on the contrary, it widened. Shadows rose from the ground in spirals, coiled around the butcher's arms, and began to slice, slow, deep, as if relishing the touch. First the skin, in wide strips that peeled away with a sound like wet tape; then the muscles, which opened up like red and black flowers.

Vexor's blood was thick, almost oily, and fell in heavy drops that scorched the floor. He tried to regenerate, and the flesh bubbled, attempting to close. Alastor raised a hand, and the air filled with static. The wrong frequency twisted the healing: new tissue sprouted crookedly, filled with tiny mouths that screamed in desperate agony. Each time the butcher tried to close a wound, three more appeared, and worse, more painful.

The next thing happened without any hurry.

The shadows lifted Vexor from the floor, unfurled him against the factory's largest hydraulic press like a carcass in a slaughterhouse, and the meat hooks sank into his shoulders, his thighs, and the base of his neck. The skin of his back peeled away in a single, perfect sheet, with a long, wet sound that echoed through the rafters. Alastor held it aloft for a moment, admiring the disgusting texture, so like that of a real pig, before hanging it on a hook as if it were an expensive coat.

The speakers broadcast every sound with rapt attention: the creaking of ribs painstakingly crafted into a xylophone, the hissing of intestines used as strings, the slow, stubborn beat of the heart Alastor kept beating inside a glass jar so it could continue to feel. When nothing recognizable remained, only a pulsating sac of exposed flesh and bone, he hung it on the center hook of the main chain. Blood trickled in a steady rhythm, almost like one of his thousands of movements in relation to other low-ranking demons.

Alastor stood motionless beneath the only lamp still working, breathing through his open mouth like a dog after the hunt. His suit was a wreck: ripped, soaked in someone else's blood that was already cooling and sticking to the fabric like black molasses. His fingers trembled. Not from fear; never from fear. It was the same vibration he felt when the signal saturated just before a live broadcast, that electric hum that rose from the base of his spine to his fangs with satisfying satisfaction.

Vexor's body hung above him, gutted, swaying barely in the toxic breeze that drifted in through the shattered windows. The flesh still throbbed in weak spasms; great demons are slow to admit they're dead, and judging by the static, it would be a while before he could regain consciousness.

Alastor licked his lips and tasted the metallic tinge of his own blood mixed with the pig's. Hunger struck him suddenly, not the refined hunger of banquets with Rosie, but something low and wet that twisted his insides and made him clench his teeth until they cracked, as if they would break under the force of his jaw.

He leaped onto the hook, gripping it with one hand while with the other he plunged his fingers into the gaping cavity of the abdomen. The meat was hot, almost boiling inside. The intestines slithered between his fingers like fat, slimy snakes, coated in a layer of yellowish fat that smelled of an old slaughterhouse and bile.

Disgusting, but not enough to make him abstain.

He tore off a piece of the liver—a dark, heavy chunk, full of veins that still pumped black blood—and held it up to his face as it dripped. The smell was thick, sweetish, rotten; it filled his nostrils and made him close his eyes for a second in pure, filthy pleasure. He brought it to his mouth slowly, like someone tasting an expensive wine, but as soon as his teeth grazed the surface, all delicacy vanished.

He bit down with fury.
The meat tore with a wet, stringy sound; disgustingly hot juices spurted onto his chin and ran down his neck, seeping under his shirt collar. It was soft yet tough, as if he were chewing on live rubber. The taste was revolting, and that was perfect for him: rusty iron, lots—really lots—of rancid fat, bitter bile, and something else, something perhaps only possessed by demons who had eaten demons for centuries. He swallowed almost without chewing; the piece went down his throat like a hot stone and stayed there, burning in his stomach.

Each bite was a jolt, and the adrenaline didn't subside; it surged. His legs trembled. He tore a chunk of the pig's cheek and devoured it like freshly fried bacon, grunting low like an animal. His tusks slashed and his molars crushed tiny bones that crunched like nuts until they reached the inner cheek. The meat was so tender it practically fell apart, and he allowed himself to suck out the accumulated fat with an obscene sound that echoed through the empty factory.

At the end of his pleasant chat with that pig-like demon, Alastor left a contract on the counter of the room. If the pig truly didn't want to see him again, it was in his best interest to sign that petition.

 

— ꨄ —

 

Euphoria still coursed through his veins like pure caffeine.

Eight overlords. Eight names that would never be uttered again without someone wetting themselves for reasons beyond his control. The taste of the last one—still warm, greasy, and delicious—weighed in his stomach like a hot, satisfying stone. Alastor stopped in front of the flagship location of the 'Manhattan Café' series, the largest in the Pride Ring: its polished obsidian facade featured golden lettering that gleamed even in daylight, accompanied by an aroma of roasted espresso that wafted out onto the street like an expensive, addictive perfume.

Closed. 4:47 a.m. Blinds down.

Alastor smiled so wide it hurt at the corners of his mouth, if that were possible. He dissolved into liquid shadow, seeping under the door like black smoke, and reappeared inside the main hall. The marble tables reflected his red silhouette; The Italian coffee makers gleamed in their absence.

"My dear Oneira..." His voice echoed through the unlit lamps, distorted with its characteristic radial tone, accompanied by multiple reverberations. "I know you're here. And I know you're avoiding me, how rude. I only came to... negotiate."

Silence.

He paced between the tables, dragging a claw across the surface of one, leaving deep grooves.

"This whole chain of yours... so beautiful, so profitable. It would be a shame if you woke up tomorrow without employees. Or without customers. Or without a head."

The lights flickered. The air suddenly became thick with the smell of burnt grain and something that smelled like burning plantations, a faint scent of raw, charred flesh that, for Alastor, even made him hungry.

A figure formed at the back of the room, behind the main counter. Somewhat short, elegant, enveloped in a dark vapor that smelled of freshly ground coffee. Perhaps it was Oneira's silhouette; I couldn't confirm it was truly her. It was a shadow in her form, wearing a black dress with caramel-like gold patterns. Her eyes, perhaps the only colorful feature of her figure, were two empty cups reflecting Alastor's red outline, adapting that color and illuminating her pupils with the same crimson that sought him out.

She didn't even need to speak to communicate with him. Without making a sound in the room, Alastor laughed at her eloquence and raised his right arm, pointing to himself with his open palm while his left hand rested on his cane. The lingering excitement within him made it impossible to conceal his demonic features.

"Like a puppy? My dear, I just ate a seven-ton pig and I still have room for dessert." I'd like a coffee one, if you don't mind...

As he tried to move forward, he quickly realized he couldn't.

The ground turned into a thick, black liquid, like boiling coffee, and his shoes sank up to his ankles. Oneira's shadows lengthened, multiplied, and transformed into coffee roots that crept up his legs, burning, squeezing, tearing through fabric and flesh alike. Alastor growled, trying to dissolve into radio frequency; the static hit an invisible wall and ricocheted, making his ears bleed, leaving the deer-like demon in shock.

The shadow approached slowly, its heels clicking across the black pool. Each step left a trail of ripples, as if confirming that the ground around them was no longer physical at all, and that walking on water was truly possible.

A lash of liquid darkness caught him by the neck and slammed him to the ground, the impact emptying his lungs. He tried to summon tentacles, anything, really. Everything dissolved into vapor before it could even form, and despair was becoming clearly visible in her eye sockets. He didn't understand why her shadows weren't responding to her commands, and it was becoming infuriating.

Delicious.

The shadow, though silent, allowed the invading demon to witness the gleeful satisfaction through the furrow of his brow. He knelt effortlessly upon Alastor's chest; as he ran his hand across it, the limb made of boiling coffee climbed up, seized his jaw, and forced his mouth open. With his other hand, he lifted a cup that hadn't been there a moment ago: black porcelain, filled to the brim with a liquid that didn't reflect light.

"Drink," she commanded.

Alastor writhed, his eyes bloodshot, his smile broken for the first time in... the short time he'd been in Hell. The liquid inevitably burned his tongue, then his palate, then his throat; it went down like molten lead and filled his stomach with burning embers. He saw his own reflection at the bottom of the cup: small, stained, panting like a dog that'd just been kicked.

Wretched.

The world turned dark and bitter.

The shadow tightened its grip on his neck, once, twice, until Alastor's eyes rolled back and his body lay motionless beneath the weight of the coffee.

Silently, the cup tilted and a final drop fell onto the cross on the radio demon's motionless forehead.

Chapter 4: They Genesis.

The pavement smelled of old blood and rotting flesh.

Alastor woke up with his cheek pressed against the cobblestones, feeling each stone digging uncomfortably into his face. Trying to pry his face free, he discovered that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all, as his entire body protested as if he'd been shoved in a blender and then spat out.

He sat up slowly, spitting out something dark that tasted like burnt coffee mixed with bile. The taste refused to leave, clinging to his tongue like tar... Not so unpleasant, since he preferred black coffee.

As he focused his gaze around him, he recognized the Victorian houses decorated with far too many bones. The streets were too clean to be in ordinary Hell.

Cannibal Town, he concluded mentally with a long exhalation.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, noticing how his voice came out raspy, as if there were traces of coffee grounds burning his throat.

As if that weren't enough, his ears perked up toward the maniacal laughter coming from his right. He didn't need to turn around to recognize it, so he let out a grunt of annoyance.

"Alastor, oh dear!"

Rosie's voice, getting closer with each passing second, drilled into the deer's ears as the woman exploded with irony at the sight before her.

"Oh Lucifer! OH GOD!" Rosie was practically doubled over at this point. "You were really careless! LOOK AT YOURSELF!"

Some cannibals had come out of their houses upon hearing the commotion coming from their leader. Expectantly, some joined in Rosie's laughter, though more subduedly; They weren't fools enough to mock him so blatantly in front of the very sinner he was.

Alastor was feeling something deep in his gut that he probably hadn't felt in many years, even since his mortal life... Shame.

"Rosie—"

"NO!" Interrupting whatever excuse he was about to offer, she felt tears streaming down his cheeks. "They left you on my doorstep like garbage!"

The underlying discomfort was a strange sensation that threatened his forced smile. Alastor wasn't used to it.

And he didn't like it.

"If you're finished—"

"NOT EVEN CLOSE," the woman finally wiped away her tears. "But I suppose it's time you went inside before you collapse out here. You look like shit."

Grabbing him with surprising strength for her delicate appearance, Rosie led him toward her Emporium, still chuckling occasionally.

The private back room was familiar territory for the man. Alastor slumped into the Victorian chair without a hitch as Rosie vanished and reappeared instantly with a dark bottle.

"Drink."

"Huh?" A shiver ran through the sinner's misshapen body as the overlord watched him, puzzled by his hesitation.

"It'll help with your discomfort. It's herbal tea. It's nothing special, but it's something."

His gaze shifting between the white teacup and the woman before him, he couldn't help but recall his recent moments outside and snorted, making a soft, hissy sound. Without protest, he sipped the tea.

She sat across from him, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her upper knee, a smile playing on her lips. She was clearly enjoying the situation.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Tell me everything! I'd love to hear both sides of the story."

Raising an eyebrow, the radio operator quickly connected cables and rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he began to recount every moment of his departure from the butcher's shop until the moment his vision went black.

As he listened intently, the cannibal's expression shifted from amused to curious, then thoughtful. She rested her hand on her chin.

"She made you drink it, then," she murmured. "She signed your body. Wow, stupid."

His ears pricked up, he squinted slightly as he tried to process the woman's words.

"What, excuse me?"

"That she can now sense where you are if she cares enough to pay attention." She poured herself some tea before continuing. "It's like... a warning label. 'This idiot tried to kill me, keep an eye on him.'"

Great. Perfect.

Rosie kept her gaze fixed on him for a few seconds, then sighed and her expression changed. She was no longer in the mood.

"Now let's talk about your stupidity."

She narrowed her eyes—or rather, where they should be—at him.

"What the hell is going through your head?" Despite her anger, she clearly didn't need to raise her voice. "Not even a plan? Did you even bother to find out? You didn't even ask me about it."

"I thought I could handle it—"

"You were thinking with your inflated ego." Rosie interrupted. "Do you really think that because you killed eight of us you're capable of lecturing the heavyweights?"

Alastor didn't answer, because he didn't need to. He had already proven that he couldn't.

Rosie leaned back in her armchair, her fingers drumming against her cup.

"Do you think you're special? Do you know how many demons have tried the same thing as you just because their job is to make coffee? Dozens. And do you know how many have survived? Three with you, because they found you entertaining or saw potential. One of them is the Maestro himself, the overlord dedicated to music."

As she let the information sink into Alastor's small brain, she took another sip.

"And yet, you've fallen into that category... Congratulations, I suppose."

"I didn't know you were... friends."

Flattered, Rosie laughed and waved her hand casually.

"We're acquaintances. Colleagues. Oneira and I have a mutual understanding of how to conduct business without descending into the utter barbarity that some overlords prefer. We occasionally share tea, discuss infernal politics like civilized people..."

She paused.

“That’s why she texted me before depositing the money. Professional courtesy. ‘Your associate was an idiot, I handled it, here it is again.’ That kind of text.”

“So you’re not bothered that I attacked her?”

“Bored?” Rosie looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. “Why would I be bothered? Oneira can defend herself perfectly well. Better than I can, even. She doesn’t need anyone to advocate for her.”

She leaned forward.

“What bothers me is that you almost wasted your entire potential because you can’t control your damn ego. Because let me make something clear, Alastor: I have an investment in you. Contractual.”

And there it was again. Alastor grunted and shifted in his seat, looking away after finishing his tea, feeling the medicinal liquid finally settle in his system.

“Lesson learned,” he muttered reluctantly.

“You’d better be.” Rosie stood up. “Because I don’t want to repeat this conversation. Now rest... Or do whatever you please while I decide otherwise. You have weeks of mental recovery ahead of you, and I have a business to run.”

From the comfort of his seat, the demon in red watched as his self-proclaimed 'owner' headed for the door and disappeared through it.

He smiled with distaste, feeling a slight irritation around his neck.

 

— ꨄ —

 

The caffeine empire was, truly, a perfect foundation on which to build.

The best way to control people was through need. They had to need you, create an urgent need in them, so that they genuinely couldn't live without you.

Like an addiction.
An addiction that caffeine could easily generate.

Oneira watched from the window of her private office—above the main Manhattan Café branch—as the business district buzzed with nighttime activity. Demons came and went from her establishment, some for the first time, others for the twentieth time that week.

They all came back.

They always came back.

It wasn't just the flavor. It wasn't just the quality. It was what she added to every cup, every drink, every damn sip that passed their lips.

Ordinary caffeine was already addictive by nature. A stimulant that the body began to crave after regular consumption. But Oneira had perfected something more subtle, more insidious.

Their blends masked the initial effects.

A demon could drink three, four, five cups without feeling the full impact. The caffeine silently accumulated, mingling with its infernal chemistry, waiting. And when it finally struck—once the amount in the body was abysmal—it did so with almost triple the potency.

And the best part was that no one questioned it.

Because coffee was respectable.

Socially acceptable. Not like alcohol with its visible drunks or drugs with their obvious addicts. Coffee was the drink of professionals, of busy people, of those who needed to 'stay awake to work.'

No one admitted to caffeine addiction. It was simply "needing coffee to function."
Convenient semantics.

Even if that were the case, who cared? It was hell; alcohol and drugs were everywhere. Coffee was one of the most decent things you could find amidst all the acceptable crap in the pride circle.

What if you mixed caffeine with one of those two? It was addictive.
The placebo and enhancer effects of Manhattan brand coffee worked perfectly in all kinds of consumables. Therefore, its market wasn't limited to just coffee; there was room for all kinds of consumables. Manhattan coffee was like salt in those cases; you didn't always need to experience it pure to consume it, it could also season other foods.

Oneira smiled as she watched a junior overlord—one who had been coming three times a day for the past month—enter again, his expression sophisticated, his eyes bordering on desperation. His hands trembled slightly, and from her perch, she noticed his ragged breathing. A telltale sign of withdrawal starting.

She would order a double espresso. Maybe a triple. And she would feel better for exactly four hours before the cycle restarted.

Perfect.

However, caffeine was only the surface layer of her operation.

What she truly benefited from—and what made her irritatingly present—was the other thing. What came naturally with her control.

Insomnia.

Each cup of her coffee not only created a caffeine dependency. It also subtly interfered with the consumer's ability to sleep.

Obviously, not immediately... but gradually. Cumulatively, its essence seeped into their infernal nervous system, making sleep... difficult. When the demons couldn't sleep, when they closed their eyes and found only unsettling darkness, or worse—someone waiting in that darkness—they returned seeking a solution.

More coffee, obviously. Because if they couldn't sleep anyway, at least they could be functionally awake. Besides, didn't that create more work? Indirectly, she was contributing to Hell's production like no one else could. Shouldn't they be thanking her for that?

It was a beautiful cycle within a cycle within a cycle.

Her attention was interrupted by a brief ring from her cable line.

Her shadow—the other one, her other—materialized, floating near her shoulder, eyeing with a certain distaste the new gadget that facilitated communication for the lady of the house. She didn't speak; she didn't really need words. Oneira sensed her aversion to the futuristic machine that had recently become a common sight in Hell.

As she watched her refuse to adapt to the times, Oneira couldn't help but reminisce about it.

There were two of them. They had always been two, really. Even when she was alive, when she was still human with a name she no longer used, there had already been two consciousnesses sharing one body. Death had only made that division more obvious. More... functional, thankfully; while one acted as the café and its business, the other acted as its consequences, the insomnia.

They worked in perfect sync despite their disagreements in life. Despite having been forced to the confines of hell by the whim of her alter ego.

" ? " with a somber symbol above her, the shadow had remained watching her as Oneira rambled about her past.

Startled, she picked up the phone with a hint of disgust as the dark-haired—or rather, grayish, in this case—woman emerged from her reverie. Wasn't she so good at that? Mara—as the shadow was nicknamed—waited with her eyes blissfully closed for her alter ego to offer her head caresses.

"Welcome, this is Oneira." Immediately ignoring the shadow, the sinner decided to simply answer the ringing line.

"Oneira, have a wonderful day."

A slight smile spread across her face as the dark-haired woman began winding the phone cord with her finger.

"Maestro, what a surprise to see you call. What brings you here?"

Hearing a soft chuckle from the other end, the sinner pricked up her black, mare-like ears, turning her body toward the largest window in her office.

Its tail would swivel charmingly, sweeping up some of the dirt on the ground thanks to its ample length.

"I'd love to. I'll be there."

Chapter 5: Insomnia.

The ceiling of the borrowed room was dark wood, with beams that crossed in patterns Alastor knew by now by heart.

It had been about four days... or five. Maybe six.

He'd lost count since Rosie had settled him into one of the Victorian houses in Cannibal Village with a polite "while you recover, dear," though they both knew it was clearly surveillance in disguise. Despite that, the house was comfortable, decorated with that macabre-elegant taste characteristic of the district: bone chandeliers, dark red velvet curtains, furniture that had probably belonged to someone who was now in the stomach of a local resident...

It didn't bother him! It was functional.

What did bother him was the damned taste that lingered in his body and refused to leave.

Alastor ran his tongue over his teeth for the umpteenth time that morning, trying not to consciously identify what was there. It wasn't unpleasant, and that was the damned problem. The coffee was roasted and bitter, with a hint of something else he couldn't quite place. Had he put blood in that black filth? He'd brushed his teeth three times the night before just to remove that nocturnal reminder. He'd even eaten raw meat, thinking the iron would mask it enough to be ignored.

And nothing worked. The taste still clung to his tongue as if it were stained with ink or some damned, demonic cavity in his teeth emitting that unpleasantly pleasant flavor.

He got out of bed with a low groan, and although his joints protested, at least they weren't as bad as in previous days. They still reminded him of his body, which had been basically liquefied and spat out recently. Looking at himself, the full-length mirror in the corner reflected his image; his suit was immaculate despite everything, his ears perked up...

The only visual distraction was the look in his eyes. There was something about them he didn't like, a certain... weariness that clearly shouldn't be there. As if he hadn't slept well, which was ridiculous because he'd slept perfectly the last few nights.

Right?

Alastor frowned for the thousandth time since he'd been confined and locked away in that cabin that felt like a prison for what felt like a thousand years... Before leaving the main room, he allowed himself to neutralize his expression again. He didn't want Rosie to pay one of her unexpected visits.

The last thing he wanted was to show her that he had more control over him than she cared to admit, and that started with keeping everything contractual. He couldn't allow her decisions to affect him too much, or at least not for her to notice.

The only solace Alastor found was the freedom he had as he climbed the ladder of power.

The house's kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped. Rosie had made sure he had everything he needed, including a cupboard full of "provisions" consisting mainly of cuts of meat of dubious origin—he didn't mind if it was that way anyway—and a few bottles of liquor that had probably been looted from some fallen Overlord. Alastor opened one of the bottles—pure whiskey, judging by the smell—and poured himself a generous glass.

He didn't hesitate to down it in one gulp.

A bitter, simple gulp.

The alcohol burned his throat, settled hot in his stomach, and was utterly... mediocre. Flat. Plain. Lacking the weight, the richness, that feeling of... of...
He stopped halfway through pouring another glass, raising an eyebrow with mixed feelings.

There was no way he was actually looking for the taste of that damn coffee...
He grunted, again, and slammed the bottle down harder than necessary, making a sound that echoed throughout the empty kitchen.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

The red demon spent that day doing nothing in particular.

Normally, he would have been planning his next move, identifying his next target, perhaps broadcasting something to keep his presence fresh in the minds of Hell, or other such attractively demonic things for sinners of "his caliber." However, Rosie had strongly suggested he take a break, and although Alastor hated to admit it, she was probably... right.

The Overlords he'd eliminated so far weren't exactly beloved, but his rise had been rapid enough to make more than a few people nervous. A breather would probably calm some waters, lower others' guard—I repeat, things like that, lauded overlords like himself should take into account.

It was pure, unadulterated, clever strategy. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that every time he thought about going back out onto the main streets of the Pentagon, his mind immediately jumped to coffee shops.

He was starting to think he was one of those weirdos who enjoyed that kind of violent sexual activity. Damn it, he was supposed to be the one causing the violence.

Manhattan Café had branches everywhere. He'd seen them during his previous forays; they had elegant facades, golden signs, and that damned aroma that seeped out onto the street like a perfume designed to trap and soothe the weariness you felt in your body.

And Alastor actively avoided them now.

He changed his route if he saw one, averted his gaze if he passed nearby, and if by chance the smell reached him anyway, he gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, ignoring the way his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, reinforcing that phantom taste that still refused to let go.

It was almost pathetic. It wasn't that hard for him to avoid anything that reminded him of coffee, but for some reason, ever since that encounter at the flagship branch, Manhattan Cafés were appearing far more often than before. Like when you break up with someone and start running into them everywhere you go.

The thought made Alastor roll his eyes.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Rosie showed up that afternoon unannounced, because of course she had.
She walked in through the front door as if it were her own home—which technically it was, or so Alastor assumed—with a bright smile and a basket that smelled suspiciously of fresh meat.

"Dear Al! How's your recovery going?"

The visitor was sitting in one of the Victorian armchairs, flipping through a dreadful newspaper he'd found lying in the entryway. He looked up with his characteristic smile.

"Rosie, what a... predictable surprise. I'm perfectly fine! As you can clearly see."

With an unflappable smile, she studied him, her eyes barely squinting, assessing him. Her smile didn't waver as she settled inside.

"Hmm," was all she said, placing the basket on the table. "You look terrible."

"How flattering!"

"It's true." she defended herself as she sat down across from him without asking permission, elegantly crossing her legs and placing two coffee cups on the table between them. “You have that look of a demon who hasn’t slept well. Nightmares, sinner?”

That ironic question irritated the red man, who forced a smile.

“I sleep perfectly, thanks for your concern.”

“Of course I do.” Rosie didn’t sound convinced at all, but to her credit, she didn’t press him. “Well, anyway, I brought food. And news, if you’re interested.”

“News?”

“About the outside world you’ve been avoiding.” She smiled more sharply. “The sinners are getting restless. Some think your sudden silence means your appetite has been satisfied. It’s quite entertaining, honestly.”

Alastor felt a spark of irritation, and his ears twitched in displeasure. Grabbing the newspaper on the table, his gaze lingered for a moment on one of the coffees he assumed was for him.

His mind, quite conveniently, conjured up the image of another cup. A black porcelain mug filled to the brim, hovering near his face, coffee-stained hands poised to plunge through the liquid and force his jaw open—

A shiver ran down his spine. Alastor subtly shifted his gaze to the woman in front of him, taking the paper with the infernal news once and for all.

"I'm not avoiding anything. I'm simply strategic with my movements."

"Of course, of course, I forgot." Rosie waved a hand casually. "Anyway, I thought you might like to know that Maestro is organizing an event in a few days. Something fancy, theatrical, that sort of thing. You should probably consider showing up, just to remind everyone you're still around or something, the kind of thing praised sinners on the rise do."

Alastor opened his mouth to automatically reject it.

"I'm not interested in—"

"Oneira will be there."

The man automatically fell silent. That name landed in the conversation like a stone in still water, sending ripples that Alastor felt more than he cared to admit, and Rosie could swear that the name that had left her lips had hit the bullseye of some Alastor-shaped target.

That made her look at him with a smile. She knew exactly which button she had pressed.

"I thought that would interest you," she said sweetly and subtly as she looked away. "You know, since she's the one who... well. You know."

The silence stretched between them for a few seconds. Finally, Alastor closed the newspaper completely and set it aside.

"I'll see if my schedule allows it."

Rosie's smile widened, pleased with his indirect affirmation. Not that he had anything better to do within these four walls, but she'd let his attempt to play hard to get go.

"Excellent! I'll send you the details later."

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

That night, Alastor couldn't sleep.

He lay awake in bed, staring—for the thousandth time—at those wooden beams he knew by now by heart, his mind circling needlessly around things that didn't matter. The taste in his mouth, the way he'd stared miserably at that cup for too long, the way Rosie's casual mention of his name irritated him.

Oneira. Oneira. Oneira.

Could he summon her by saying her name three times over coffee?

That woman had truly deflated his ego, not so literally. He looked like a fool obsessed with the fact that she'd put him in his place and unable to accept it.

The fact that he would be at that event still echoed in his head, causing Alastor to smile in the darkness, feeling something dark and determined settle in his chest.

He would have the opportunity to prove that he wasn't afraid, that the incident had been... a miscalculation. Nothing more.

Finally, his eyes closed... And when they did, emptiness awaited him.

There was no ground.

Or at least that was the first thing he noticed upon regaining consciousness. His feet touched something solid, but when he looked down, there was only absolute darkness, as if he were standing on solidified nothingness. The space around him was equally empty, without walls, without a ceiling, without any points of reference. Just infinite blackness stretching in every direction.

Alastor tried to move and discovered that he could, but each step sounded hollow, as if he were walking on an empty stage... At least he could move, something he discovered simply by placing one foot in front of the other and repeating the process.

As he watched his feet, trying to decipher the type of ground beneath him, the slightest movement a few meters away alerted his senses and prevented him from moving any further in that direction.

The shadow gradually took shape. First, it was just a smudge darker than the surrounding void, then it took shape with vaguely humanoid contours, fluid like smoke but denser, and finally... its eyes.

Red. Bright. Two crimson points staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

And Alastor, his fury rising, recognized those eyes.

His smile tightened, shifting into something closer to a grimace as his body instinctively took a step back, triggering a static sound with his defensive posture.

Yet the shadow didn't move, nor did it need to.

Instead, it tilted what was probably its head, studying him the way one might study a particularly interesting insect under a microscope. Its crimson orbs were crescent-shaped, conveying the amusement it felt at having the Radio Demon in this state. What was the word...?

Expectant.

"You," he murmured mockingly as his antlers stretched, now freer than when imprisoned by the coffee.

The shadow didn't respond verbally; instead, it simply drew closer. There was no footsteps or crawling on its part; it had simply approached him. Intimately. Unlike her, Alastor had tried to avoid her presence by retreating to another position, but to no avail. His feet, seemingly out of nowhere, were glued to the ground. Or perhaps it was his body simply unresponsive to his commands?

The static grew much louder, as if he had banged on the radio trying to calibrate a better signal.

The shadow extended what might have been a hand. Its long fingers, made of condensed darkness, approached his face with a deliberate slowness that somehow tortured Alastor with its imminence.

The fingers brushed his cheek and were warm. With that specific warmth of freshly boiled liquid that hasn't quite cooled, causing Alastor to shudder involuntarily... And the shadow seemed to find this fascinating. Its eyes gleamed brighter as that hand slid along a path that traced his jaw, his neck, his spine with an attention that made Alastor's skin prickle beneath his fur.

It was... curious, as if the shadow were learning his form, memorizing every reaction, every tiny involuntary shudder. The fingers stopped at his chest, right over where his heart should be, pressing gently at first and then more firmly. Alastor felt something warm and liquid seeping through his clothes, through his skin, straight into his soul.

Coffee.

"N-no..." he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate.

The shadow tilted its head again, and although it had no visible mouth, Alastor had the horrible certainty that it was smiling. Something materialized in her free hand, forming a black porcelain cup, identical to the one she remembered from that night.

Filled to the brim, of course.

The shadow raised it, bringing it close to Alastor's face with that same deliberate slowness that was beginning to drive the radio man to despair. As it drew near, he tried with all his might to move his limbs, then tried to close his mouth, at least tried to turn his face away. None of it worked. On the contrary, his jaw opened of its own accord—or perhaps of its own accord—and the rim of the cup pressed against his lips.

The liquid entered, and it was exactly as he remembered it: burning, thick, bitter with a touch of sour sweetness that made it impossible for him to decide whether it was pleasurable or torturous.

He swallowed once, then twice, trying to finish with three times. The cup seemed never to empty, and as he drank, as that liquid filled his stomach and seeped into his system, the shadow watched him.

Waiting, studying, recording every expression, every glimmer of something Alastor usually hid so well: vulnerability, confusion...

The cup finally moved away.

Alastor gasped, coffee dripping down his chin, mingling with something that might have been saliva or might have been more coffee; he wasn't sure anymore. The shadow extended its hand again, and this time its fingers slid across Alastor's chin, wiping away the drops with an intimacy unworthy of it.

And then, for—not so—the first time, it spoke. Its voice was multifaceted, like several frequencies transmitting simultaneously, something soft. Almost... tender.

"Such honest expressions."

Alastor felt his blood run cold. The shadow moved closer, until its red eyes—filled with a strange sweetness—completely obscured his vision.

"I wonder how many more you can make."

The Radio Demon awoke abruptly, rolling from the bed to the floor with a ragged cough, as if he'd choked on his saliva while resting. His ears, instead of being pricked forward as usual, were folded back in response to his physical unease.

He brought a hand to his mouth as he sat bolt upright.

"That... Argh."

He didn't insult women. His mother had taught him well not to, yet how the hell was he supposed to address that damned coffee witch? The taste of caffeine was more intense than ever on his tongue, and it only made him nauseous.

He was seething with rage. The static around him was painfully sharp and grated as loudly as his teeth.

Alastor sat in the darkness for the rest of the night, his eyes wide open, angrily refusing to close them again.

That refusal continued for the next two days, during which he utterly resisted sleep. Not in an obvious way, of course; he kept busy and actively functioning as if nothing were amiss. He did a lot of things, like reviewing contracts he'd inherited from certain blackmail schemes, organizing his newly acquired territories, even making a brief radio broadcast—nothing spectacular, just a reminder that he still existed and that his silence didn't mean…whatever the elders were thinking.

Each time night fell and his body begged for rest, Alastor simply chose not to give in. He stayed awake reading, pacing the house, gazing out the window at the quiet and interesting streets of Cannibal Village. Anything was fine as long as it meant not closing his eyes and risking finding that disgusting, repulsive emptiness again. The taste in his mouth softened slightly with each passing hour.

Rosie appeared at his door again, two days after her previous invitation to the play. Since her schedule was free that day, she was happy to have him attend.

"Good morning, dear," she said. Her tone was cheerful, but there was something more beneath it. "I see you've been... productive."

"I always am." Alastor didn't look up from the papers in front of him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Rosie sat down across from him, placing the papers she'd brought on the table with a soft tap that demanded his attention.

"Details of the event. I thought you'd want to know exactly what you're getting into."

That caught his attention, and he finally looked up, his red eyes meeting Rosie's as she took the papers. They were formal invitations, elegantly printed in gold ink on thick black paper.

"Maestro cordially invites the Pentagon elite to an evening of music and theater at the Grand Auditorium Infernal. Formal attire. Civilized behavior required."

"Maestro has good taste in business partners," Rosie remarked, observing Alastor's reaction with those overly perceptive eyes. "Oneira has been supplying premium coffee for his events for decades. It's a... mutually beneficial partnership."

"How convenient." Alastor set the papers aside with measured care. "And what exactly is expected of the attendees?"

"Civilization." Rosie smiled more sharply. "Maestro is very particular about the atmosphere of his events. No conflict, no violence, no... unnecessary displays of power."

"Sounds boring."

"Oh, my dear little Alastor. You're still very young in this sort of thing... Your energy makes you stand out, and that's normal. Most of us who go to these places are very... archaic, by your standards."

The red man raised both eyebrows at the woman, carefully analyzing her words, unsure whether she was being genuine or ironic.

Seeing her smile, as always, didn't help matters, and he sighed.

"It can't be too different from gatherings of the wealthy."

"Actually, no!" Rosie clasped her hands together, pleased that he'd grasped something similar to what they were doing. "That's not all, though. There's a tiny little problem."

Alastor's gaze was enough for her to know she should continue.

"There are some unwritten rules. Protocol, if you think of it in a friendly way. First and foremost is to avoid using your shadows offensively within the auditorium. The Master considers it bad form and has ways of... neutralizing attacks that disrupt his event. You also mustn't ignore the calls of other overlords; it's basic respect. Don't insult, don't threaten, don't broadcast, don't poison, don't..."

Blinking slowly and unevenly—for some reason, he'd close one eyelid before the other—the radio demon had begun to ignore the monologues the woman was directing at him, despite watching his face the entire time.

His mind wandered through the various hypothetical scenarios that could unfold at the same entertainment gathering.

Alastor might not be stupid, but he desperately needed answers. He needed to get that damned witch out of his head once and for all.

And he would find out how, with her included.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The event arrived sooner than Alastor would have liked.

He awoke—having finally succumbed to a light, restless sleep of barely two hours—with a taste stronger than ever. As if his body knew he would see her again today and was... anticipating it.
It was unpleasant. A little, perhaps.

He showered and dressed with more care than usual. His signature red suit, immaculate as always, but this time he made sure every detail was perfect and pristine. Every button fastened correctly, every pleat in place, his bow tie perfectly centered.

His cane rested against the wall, polished to a shine.

The demon in the mirror looked exactly as he wanted: dangerous, elegant, and completely in control.

His smile was perfect.

His eyes, however... Alastor looked away from the mirror before he could analyze too much of what he saw there.

Rosie arrived promptly at dusk, dressed in an elegant Victorian ensemble in shades of black and red that complemented her cannibalistic aesthetic. She wore a hat adorned with what were probably small bones, and her smile was as radiant as ever.

"Ready for your social debut, darling?"

"This isn't my debut." Alastor gripped his staff and looked at her, raising his eyebrows. "I've attended events before."

"Not of this caliber." Rosie extended her hand. "Come on. We don't want to be late."

Alastor took her hand, and the world dissolved into shadows.

The teleportation was brief and seamless.

When the world solidified around them again, they stood before the Grand Auditorium Infernal.

The building was breathtaking, even by Hell's standards. Its architecture blended Gothic elegance with Art Deco, with columns soaring toward a perpetually red sky and stained-glass windows depicting scenes from tragic operas. The main entrance was flanked by statues of demonic musicians, and a red carpet stretched from the doors to the street.

Other sinners were already arriving.

Alastor recognized some faces while others were entirely new. All were formally dressed, all maintaining the mask of civilization that the event demanded.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Rosie commented as they ascended the steps, her arm in his hand. "Master really knows how to put on a show."

"Hmm."

At the entrance, an elegantly dressed demon was checking invitations. Rosie presented hers with a charming smile, and they were admitted without a hitch.

The interior was even more mesmerizing.

The main hall was enormous, with soaring ceilings adorned with frescoes of fallen angels and ascending demons. Crystal chandeliers hung, casting a golden light, and the polished marble floor reflected everything like a dark mirror.

And the aroma… Alastor smelled it immediately. Coffee. Rich, roasted, unmistakable.

He rolled his eyes.
Of course. Sponsor.

“I’m going to say hello to some acquaintances.” Rosie patted him on the shoulder. “Feel free to explore. We’ll meet in our seats when they announce the start.”

And before Alastor could reply, she had already slipped into the crowd with that natural social grace she possessed.

Leaving him alone.
In a hall full of Overlords.
Where she was somewhere. Alastor gripped his cane and smiled more broadly.

Perfect.
Time to explore.

Chapter 6: Theater.

The lobby of the Grand Auditorium was an ecosystem unto itself.

Alastor moved among groups of demons with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to project a presence without announcing it. His cane tapped the marble with a steady, almost musical rhythm, and his smile remained fixed as his eyes scanned every corner, every face, and every interaction.

To his left, a group of petty sinners argued over territories in the financial district. To his right, high-society demons—those with money but not necessarily real power—sipped from crystal goblets filled with something that was definitely not ordinary wine.

And everywhere, that damned aroma of coffee.

There were service stations strategically placed throughout the lobby. Elegant tables covered with black tablecloths, attended by demons in immaculate uniforms who served coffee in fine china cups. The Manhattan Café logo was discreetly engraved on each cup, on each napkin, on small golden plaques beside the stations.

Alastor actively avoided approaching any of those stations, though he noticed that most of the attendees already had cups in hand. Sipping casually, chatting, completely oblivious to what they were actually consuming.

Or perhaps perfectly aware and simply didn't care.

Hell thrived on addictions of all kinds, after all.

His attention was caught by a familiar voice echoing from across the hall.

"...and I told him that if he wanted to keep his territory, he'd have to offer something more substantial than vague promises."

Zestial.

The elderly overlord stood near one of the main columns, conversing with two other demons Alastor didn't recognize. His figure was imposing even in repose; tall, slender, with a presence that could only come from centuries of infernal existence. He dressed in a style that blended medieval and Victorian touches, all in the dark green and black tones that seemed to define him.

His eyes—multiple, arranged in a pattern reminiscent of a spider—shifted toward Alastor almost immediately, as if he had sensed his gaze.

There was a moment of mutual assessment.

Then, to Alastor's surprise, Zestial inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before excusing himself from their current conversation and approaching.

“The young sinner who’s been causing quite a stir lately.” His voice was deep, with an accent Alastor couldn’t quite place and a mesmerizing echo. “Alastor, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Firsthand.” Alastor bowed politely, recalling the few words he remembered Rosie saying about protocol. “And you must be Zestial. Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours, young demon. Your fall into Hell was… impressive by any standard.” Zestial studied him with those multiple eyes, not hostile but with clear curiosity. “Though I notice you’ve been… noticeably quiet recently.”

“It’s part of the strategy.” Alastor replied easily, a broad smile on his face. “Even the most voracious hunters need to allow the forest to repopulate occasionally.”

That elicited something akin to a chuckle from Zestial.

“A wise perspective. Too many young ones burn out quickly because they don’t understand when to take a temporary break.” He paused. “Tell me, what do you think of the event so far?”

“Elegant. I think it’s well organized.” Alastor glanced around deliberately. “Although I find a certain amount of… caffeinated sponsorship a bit excessive.”

Zestial’s eyes sparkled with what could have been interpreted as amusement.

“Ah, yes. Ms. Manhattan is rather… persistent with her presence at these events. Though I must admit her product is of undeniable quality.” He took a sip from his own cup, which Alastor hadn’t noticed until that moment. “Don’t you drink?”

“I prefer to keep my senses completely clear at social events.”

“Prudent.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly naturally after that. Zestial was, contrary to what Alastor had anticipated, quite pleasant to listen to. He spoke with the cadence of someone who had seen too much to be easily impressed, but who still found entertainment in the ever-changing dynamics of Hell. Zestial didn't directly mention Alastor's murders, but there was an unspoken understanding in the conversation, a recognition from predator to predator.

It was during a natural pause in the conversation that Alastor felt it.

A pulse.

Subtle but unmistakable, as if something inside his chest had been gently pulled in a specific direction.

His smile tightened imperceptibly.

“Is something wrong?” Zestial asked, tilting his head, noticing the change.

“Nothing important.” Alastor forced his attention back into the conversation. “Go on, you were talking about Carmilla…”

But the pulse returned, stronger this time.

And Alastor, against his better judgment, allowed his eyes to follow the direction of the tug.

There.
Across the hall, near the entrance to the main auditorium.

Oneira.

Seeing her in person after the dreams, after the constant taste, after days of avoiding even thinking about her too much… She was different.

She was conversing with Maestro—or Alastor assumed it was him from the way she commanded attention even while speaking casually—and two other Overlords he vaguely recognized.

She was dressed with an elegance that actively rivaled anyone in the room: a waistcoat typical of her, though more formal; At least a hand's width away, marked by wool at the hem of her jacket, which was all that covered her upper body, strategically concealing her chest but leaving her neck and midriff exposed through a teardrop-shaped hole. She wore loose black trousers and matching heels. Her hair was gathered around her face, while the rest fell freely down her back to below her knees.

Her eyes were golden, and Alastor blinked a few times, making sure he wasn't seeing things.

Had he been too far away last time to notice her? Or...? She hadn't seen him yet. She was completely focused on their conversation, gesturing elegantly as she explained something to the Master, who nodded with obvious interest.

"...Alastor?"

Zestial's voice brought him back to reality.

"Excuse me." Alastor regained his attention with a cough. "I was momentarily distracted."

Zestial followed his previous line of sight, his multiple eyes narrowing with something akin to understanding.

“Ah. Ms. Manhattan.” There was something in his tone, something Alastor couldn’t quite decipher. “You know her?”

“We’ve… crossed paths.” Alastor chose his words carefully. “Briefly.”

“Interesting.”

Before Alastor could ask what exactly he found interesting, a bell rang throughout the lobby. Clear, melodious, demanding attention.

Conversations gradually died away as everyone turned toward the source of the sound. Maestro had moved to the center of the lobby, with Oneira still at his side. He raised a hand, and his voice—naturally amplified, arguably even musical when he spoke—filled the space.

“Esteemed guests, welcome to the Grand Auditorium. It is an honor to have you all here tonight.” His smile, though through a skull, was charming; probably practiced. “In a few moments, we will open the doors to the main auditorium where you can enjoy a presentation that I hope you will find... memorable.”

There were murmurs of approval.

“Before that, I’d like to thank our patron tonight,” she gestured elegantly to the mare. “Ms. Manhattan, who has generously provided the fuel that keeps our minds sharp and our conversations flowing.”

Polite applause echoed through the lobby, and Oneira bowed her head in appreciation, smiling with a professional grace she had likely been honing for decades.

And then, as if sensing the weight of a specific gaze, her eyes shifted.

Directly to Alastor.

Her smile didn’t change. She didn’t even blink; she simply looked at him, recognizing him with the same casualness one might recognize a distant acquaintance at a social gathering. And then she looked away, turning her attention back to the Master as if Alastor were no more important than any other attendee.

Something dark and hot twisted bitterly in Alastor’s stomach.

“The doors will open in five minutes,” Maestro continued. “Please find your assigned seats. The presentation will begin promptly.”

Zestial gave Alastor one last appraising glance.

"That's been an... enlightening conversation, young Alastor. I hope we both enjoy the show."

"Likewise."

Zestial slithered away with the grace of an ancient spider, leaving Alastor alone amidst the moving crowd.

The pulse in his chest was still there, constant now, like a secondary heartbeat that shouldn't exist. Alastor gripped his cane and followed the flow of demons toward the doors.

He needed to find Rosie.

He needed to get to her seat.

And he absolutely needed to stop feeling that damned pull that seemed to connect him directly to a woman who had clearly forgotten him the moment she'd left him stranded at Rosie's door.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Alastor entered, following the flow of guests, and paused briefly to take in the sheer scale of the space. The ceiling arched impossibly high, disappearing into shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The walls were decorated with gilded reliefs depicting scenes from classical operas—all ending in tragedy, of course—and the stage at the front was enormous, framed by dark red velvet curtains that shimmered in the dim lighting.

Boxes rose in tiers on either side of the auditorium, private structures complete with ornate railings and cushioned seats in black velvet. Each box could accommodate two or three demons, offering privacy and a privileged view of the stage.

The overlords would clearly occupy these spaces, setting themselves apart from the other sinners and even those born in Hell who had come to witness the performance.

Alastor located his name on a small golden plaque: Box 7, upper left tier. It wasn't bad; he had a prime position with a comfortable and expansive view of both the stage and the other boxes.

He ascended the side staircase, his staff clacking against the marble steps. Other Overlords were doing the same, each making their way to their assigned seats with the calculated dignity that characterized events of this kind.

Rosie was already in the box when he arrived, elegantly settled in one of the seats with a cup of coffee in hand—of course—and that knowing smile that suggested she knew exactly what Alastor had been up to downstairs.

"Just in time, pumpkin." She gestured to the seat next to her with her typical grin. "Did you enjoy your exploration?"

"It was... quite enriching." Alastor sat down, resting his cane on the armrest. "I met Zestial."

"Oh?" Rosie's eyes twinkled. "And how was it?"

"Pleasant, indeed."

“That’s Zestial for you. One of the few Elders who understands that not everything should be resolved with immediate violence.” Rosie took a sip of her coffee. “But don’t be fooled, my dear. He’s as—or even more—dangerous and sadistic as any of us when he needs to be.”

Alastor didn’t reply; his attention had already shifted to the other boxes, which were gradually filling up.

Zestial was taking his place in box 3, accompanied by another demon Alastor didn’t recognize. Carmilla Carmine was in box 5 with two other demons, women, who bore a certain resemblance to her. Several lesser overlords followed, distributed on lower levels.

And then he saw her. Box 2. Directly across from his, on the other side of the auditorium.

Oneira.

This had to be a bad joke.

She was alone in her box—apparently one of the perks of being a sponsor—settling in with fluid, natural ease. A servant demon brought her something on a tray: a cup of coffee, naturally, in porcelain, which even from this distance Alastor recognized as identical to the one in his nightmares.

The pulse in his chest jumped slightly, his nose snorting. Oneira took the cup with gloved hands, brought it to her lips, and sipped slowly.

And then, as if she had sensed his gaze, she looked up.
Directly at him.

The distance between their boxes was quite considerable, but not so great that Alastor couldn't see perfectly clearly when her golden eyes met his.
There was a moment—barely a second—when something changed in her expression. It wasn't obvious, for her smile neither widened nor faded, there was no surprise or dramatic recognition.

But Alastor saw it anyway: that glint in her eyes, that slight narrowing that suggested… amusement? Satisfaction?

He hoped she'd picked up on the pure irritation in his eyes. And she probably had, because she picked up her coffee and began innocently running her middle finger—hidden by gloves of a color no one would ever guess—along the rim of the cup, even without looking directly at him.

Alastor felt a shiver run down his spine, and she smiled. Not a wide smile, just a slight curl of her lips that transformed her expression from politely courteous to something more… playful.

As he pulled his ears back, Rosie coughed softly beside him.

"Alastor? Are you okay? Your static's acting strange."

He blinked, forcing his attention back to his companion. Sure enough, he could hear the uncontrolled crackling around his body, as if his radio were searching for the right frequency.

“Perfectly fine,” he lied easily. “I’m just adjusting to the atmosphere.”

Rosie looked at him with overly obvious skepticism, but decided not to press the issue. Probably because the auditorium lights were beginning to dim.

Maestro appeared on stage, now dressed in formal attire that was somehow even more elaborate than the one he had worn before. The spotlights focused on him as he raised both hands in a gesture of welcome.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Overlords and distinguished guests…” His voice filled the auditorium without the need for artificial amplification. “Tonight, I have the honor of presenting a work whose performance I have been perfecting for decades. A tragedy in three acts about ambition, downfall… and the price of pride, a sin rooted in our fallen nature.”

There were appreciative murmurs.

“I present to you: The Descent of Icarus.”

The curtains slowly parted, revealing an elaborately decorated stage depicting what appeared to be a hellish version of Mount Olympus. Demonic actors were already in position, frozen in a living tableau.

The music began, Maestro left the stage, and the play began.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Alastor tried to focus on the performance.

He really tried.

The play was objectively impressive. The actors were clearly professional, the music was hypnotic, the story—a twisted version of the Icarus myth where the protagonist knew exactly what awaited him but flew toward the sun anyway out of sheer pride—was appropriately tragic. But Alastor couldn't help being hyper-aware of the presence directly in front of him.

Oneira watched the play with apparent complete interest. Her posture remained relaxed, her hands folded gracefully in her lap, she occasionally sipped her coffee... These were fluid movements that Alastor followed out of the corner of his eye despite trying not to.

It was during the first act—just as Icarus declared his intention to fly regardless of the consequences—that Oneira raised her cup again.

She brought it to her lips, sipped slowly, and her eyes shifted to Alastor.

She didn't take her eyes off the stage, nor did she turn her head. She simply moved her gaze, finding his precisely as the dark liquid went down her throat.

The pulse in Alastor's chest responded immediately, and the taste in his mouth intensified.

She lowered the cup.

Her lips—slightly moistened by the coffee—curved into something that was definitely not a polite smile.
It was pure provocation.

Alastor gripped his cane until his knuckles turned white beneath his fur. And Oneira returned her attention to the stage as if nothing had happened.

Though not for long, because the third act was pure agony for Alastor.

Not because of the play—although Icarus's descent was depicted in brutal detail, including disturbingly realistic sound effects of bones shattering against the sea—but because Oneira had apparently decided that the real spectacle wasn't on the stage.

It was between them. Every time Alastor tried to focus on the music, the actors, literally anything else, she was doing something.

The coffee, that dark, pure liquid he had drunk countless times, always unconsciously, was having some strange effect on him, and the decisions of the woman in black before him were deeply ingrained.

It was driving him mad.

With her gloved fingers, she traced patterns on the rim of the porcelain: circles, spirals, shapes that seemed random but repeated with subtle variations. They were a language.
A message Alastor couldn't decipher, but his body apparently understood, because each new shape made the pulse in his chest respond with a specific rhythm.

Their eyes met again across the auditorium, and this time, when Oneira smiled, Alastor saw something new in her expression.

Recognition.

She knew he had felt it.
She knew exactly what he was experiencing.

And she loved it.

Instead, he hated it.

He had never felt such revulsion toward his own body.

The way it reacted uncontrollably was driving him mad ever since the night he set foot in his establishment. The lack of control over his shadows, even his own damned limbs.

He was sick with it.
He hated it.

He hated her.

When Icarus finally crashed into the stage in a theatrical explosion of special effects and climactic music, the entire auditorium fell into absolute silence for a full three seconds.

Then, thunderous applause erupted. Alastor clapped mechanically, without truly processing what he was doing.

The actors came out to take their bows, Maestro reappeared, accepting the cheers with a radiant smile. Oneira, meanwhile, clapped gracefully with a professional expression, as if the last acts of silent provocation had never happened.

Alastor decided he'd had enough, and as if the audience were on his side for once, the auditorium lights began to gradually rise.

"Well." Rosie stood, stretching gracefully. "That was extraordinary. Don't you think, Alastor?"

"Hmm."

"There's an intermission now before the final reception. I suppose you'll want to... stretch your legs."

Alastor looked at her. Rosie returned a look that was too knowing, too aware for his liking.

"Or stand here staring at a certain coffee shop businesswoman. Whichever you prefer, darling."

The silence between them stretched until, finally, Alastor stood and adjusted his suit with unnecessary precision.

"I think stretching your legs would be... appropriate."

"Of course."

As they left the box and joined the flow of guests moving toward the reception area, Alastor let his gaze wander one last time over box 2.

It was empty. Oneira had already left.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The reception area was a lounge adjacent to the main auditorium, almost as elaborate as the entrance lobby but with a more intimate atmosphere. Low tables were strategically placed, dim lighting encouraged discreet conversations, and—of course—more Manhattan coffee stations.

The pulse in his chest was his involuntary guide, pulling him with increasing insistence in a specific direction. He followed it, jaw clenched and static, crackling under his barely maintained control.

Again, he was disgusted.
Disgusted by how his body responded without his permission. Disgusted by the taste that refused to disappear. Disgusted by that damned invisible thread that seemed to connect him to someone who had no right to invade his existence in this way.

Alastor had killed Overlords, for crying out loud. He had built an empire of terror in less than two months. Even before he died, he had signed a contract that bound him to Rosie, but at least this was a transaction he understood, one he had chosen, and whose consequences he willingly bore.

This was something else entirely, and he hated every damn second of it.

He found her on a side terrace.
It was a semi-private space, accessible from the reception hall but separated by glass doors that muffled the noise inside. A few guests were milling about, conversing in small groups, but there was enough space that a conversation wouldn't immediately attract attention.

Oneira was alone near the railing, taking in the view of Pentagram City stretching out beneath the eternally red sky. She held another cup of coffee—because of course she did—and her posture was relaxed, almost contemplative. As if she had no worries in the world.

Something dark and furious twisted in Alastor's stomach.

He approached, and she only turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him with those golden eyes that now haunted him even when he was awake.

"Radio Demon." Her voice was soft, polite, as if they were bumping into each other at some social event. "What a surprise to see you here."

Clearly, she didn't sound surprised at all.

Alastor stopped at an appropriate distance—close enough to talk, far enough away not to appear threatening to any honorable observers—and his smile tightened into something closer to a grimace.

"We need to talk."

"About?" She took a sip of her coffee with infuriating calm.

"About what you did to me." The words came out low, controlled, but laced with barely contained venom. "About this shit inside me."

Oneira tilted her head, studying him with an expression that seemed genuinely curious.

"Excuse me? We only met once. It's not like Hell falls in love with just—"

"Don't play innocent." Alastor took another step closer, lowering his voice even further. "I know exactly what you did. The coffee you forced me to drink, this... shit you left. I can feel you. Constantly. And the dreams—"

Something shifted in Oneira's expression. Only briefly, barely perceptible, but Alastor saw it: a flash of genuine confusion crossed her face before her professional mask was reattached.

“Dreams?” she repeated, and there was something in her tone that Alastor couldn’t quite decipher.

“Don’t fuck with me.” His static crackled louder. “Every night since that encounter in your establishment. You were there. Torturing me, studying me like I was some kind of goddamn experiment—”

“Alastor.” Her voice became firmer, cutting short her growing list of grievances. “Let’s back up a little. Do you remember why you ended up on the floor of my café, drinking against your will?”

The silence between them was thick with tension.

“Because you tried to kill me.” Oneira continued, seeing that he had fallen silent. “You invaded my establishment in the middle of the night with the clear intention of eliminating me, as you have done with others. Or have you conveniently forgotten that part of the story?”

Alastor gripped his cane.

“Then you did know—”

“You threatened me first.” She took a step toward him, and although she was considerably shorter, her presence somehow didn't diminish. "I defended myself. And frankly, I showed considerable mercy by simply knocking you unconscious instead of making you disappear permanently."

"Mercy?" Alastor's furious laughter came out distorted. "You call this mercy? Leaving me branded as... as your property?"

"You're not my property." Oneira corrected him immediately, her tone suggesting she found the idea almost offensive. "You're a threat I neutralized. The mark is a warning, nothing more. So I know if you decide to be stupid again."

He snarled. "And the dreams—"

"I don't know what dreams you're talking about."

The way she said it—with that genuine confusion—that Alastor couldn't quite place made him hesitate. Was she lying? Or did she truly not know?

“Can’t you accept that you attacked the wrong person, that I responded appropriately, and that we can both benefit from not being active enemies?”

It would take him a few seconds to hate admitting it, but perhaps she was right. Continuing this was… inefficient. It was wasting energy that could be used on real goals, not on personal vendettas born of his own miscalculation.

And if he was honest with himself—which he rarely was—part of him respected the way she had handled the whole situation. No unnecessary drama, no boasting of her victory, just… efficiency. He supposed she owed him more flexibility by not publicly humiliating him.

Finally, he let out a sigh that came out more weary than he intended.

“Neutrality, then.”

Before he could even press the issue further, Maestro's presence interrupted the moment.

“Ah, here you two are.” He appeared on the terrace with that… charming smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

The tone suggested he knew exactly what she was interrupting.
Oneira composed herself instantly, her expression returning to that mask of professional courtesy.

“Not at all, Maestro. We were just discussing… business prospects.”

“Oh, really?” His eyes moved between them with obvious interest. “How fascinating, though I fear stealing our dear patron for a moment, Radio. Some guests wish to express their appreciation for the excellent coffee.”

It wasn’t really a question.

“Of course.”

She turned to follow Maestro, but paused briefly beside Alastor.

The Radio demon cut across her path after observing her for a few seconds and stopped in front of her, maintaining an appropriate distance, his smile softening into something more genuine. With less tension, more… royal courtesy, he bowed his head in formal reverence, extending a hand.

“Then, before I’m asked, allow me to introduce myself properly, Alastor.” His voice had lost its former venom, replaced by the southern charm he used when he truly wanted to impress. “It is a pleasure to meet you officially, madam…”

Oneira watched the outstretched hand for the moment, stretching it more than was comfortable. Then, slowly, she placed her gloved hand in his.

“Oneira,” she replied simply. “And the pleasure is… mutual.”

Alastor took her hand with exaggerated gentleness, bowed, and pressed his lips to the back of her gloved fingers in a perfectly chivalrous gesture that his mother would have approved of.

When he straightened, their eyes met briefly. Oneira withdrew her hand with a certain grace reflected on her face.

“Well then, Alastor. I suppose this concludes our… reunion.” There was a hint of irony in her tone. “Try not to trespass on my premises in the future.”

And she left, following Maestro back to the main hall. Alastor watched his back until he simply disappeared among the demons, remaining in the same spot.

"It's all about perspective, isn't it?" the man murmured, running his hand over his clothing, needlessly wiping it clean.

He wasn't going to let her go just like that, yet he had to admit that his recklessness was leading him down paths he wouldn't normally take. He could allow himself the luxury of having committed all this... filth, merely as a slight detour from his usual escapades.

That 'break' he had taken was over for the other demons.

Although, for Oneira, it had only just begun, as the taste in his mouth and the pulse in his chest suggested that "neutrality" was going to be considerably more complicated than the term itself implied.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The carriage interior was silent except for the occasional clatter of the wheels against the infernal pavement.

The dark-haired woman watched from the window as Pentagram City flashed by in a blur of red and neon lights. The event had been... successful. Maestro was pleased with the sponsorship, she had made the necessary social connections, and her presence had been duly noted by the relevant Overlords.

And that matter with the rookie seemed to have been resolved civilly.

Neutrality. What a convenient concept.

The communicator in her lap vibrated with a familiar ringtone. She lifted it with her gloved hand, pressing the receive button.

"Oneira."

The voice on the other end was professional, slightly concerned.

"..."

"Perfectly fine, thank you for asking." Oneira settled back in her seat. "Though I appreciate the concern."

"..."

"There aren't many hellhounds in the Pride Ring. Most remain in other circles." She paused. Besides, I'm more inclined to sponsor a hellborn.

"...?"

"Hmm, give them opportunity, training, position. It's more... sustainable than simply buying protection." A small smile curved her lips. "And I already have one in mind, actually... No, not personally, yet. But he's been making waves in the right circles. He's skilled, ambitious, and needs resources that I can provide." Oneira drummed her fingers on the armrest. "I need to rethink my schedule for tomorrow. I'm busy and can't have meetings in the morning."

"...?"

"Standard sponsorship paperwork. Employment contract. And..." She paused, frowning slightly. "What was his name again? It started with S... No, with T..."

The carriage pulled up in front of her residence, the ornate gates of her private estate opening automatically.

Oneira stepped out with her characteristic grace, still holding the device as she walked toward the front door.

"It doesn't matter now, I have it in the documents I reviewed. Confirm the appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

"..."

Oneira paused in her doorway, glancing back briefly at the city that stretched out beneath the red sky. A genuine smile spread across her face as she finally remembered.

"Ah yes! I remember now. His name was Striker."

Chapter 7: Shades.

Oneira had several personal limitations when it came to business. She typically didn't negotiate without a deal that truly benefited her, which meant she had a limited circle of people she did business with.

One example of her limitations was her reluctance to make contracts with royalty.

Not because they were bad negotiators—each member, or most of them, even had their own territory to manage. The problem lay precisely in the fact that, like all royalty, they were always rife with gossip and surrounded by rumors as if they thrived on them.

Although she was just another sinner in the Ring of Pride, her business had crossed the divide between the upper classes of the other rings.

Unfortunately, her personal limitation had been imposed after this feathered bitch entered her life. And today, like every damned Tuesday for the past couple of months, the Goethia sat across from her in her private chamber, gesticulating dramatically with a coffee cup in her hand that threatened to spill with every exaggerated movement.

“So! THEN! Do you know what he did?” Stella didn’t wait for an answer, because she never did. “He had the nerve, the absolute nerve, to show up to breakfast smelling like cheap sulfur and cigarette ash! As if I were stupid! As if I didn’t know exactly where he’d been!”

Oneira took a sip of her own coffee, maintaining a carefully neutral expression as she watched the woman in white feathers practically vibrate with indignation.

The private lounge was one of the most exclusive spaces in the Manhattan Café Central. Decorated with understated elegance and far removed from the bustle of the main establishment, it was designed specifically for meetings that required… privacy.

Or in this case, to contain the dramatic outbursts of someone who apparently had no real friends.

“And the worst part, the WORST part of all…” Stella continued, her red eyes flashing with barely contained fury. “He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He used to at least have the decency to lie convincingly. Now he just… doesn’t even bother!”

Oneira placed her cup delicately on the table.

"Mmm."

That was the response she'd perfected over the past few months. No explicit commitment, no tacit support, but at least confirmation that he was listening... technically. In reality, her mind was running through the day's to-do list: supplier meeting at two, inspection of the new branch in the east district at four, and that appointment with the hellborn she'd mentioned the night before...

"And you know what he said when I confronted him?" she continued, spouting her nonsense. "'Fuck off, Stella, we have nothing going on.' OF COURSE NOT! Does he think I'm an idiot? Does he think I don't want to see him six feet under? The only thing that bothers me is his... his..."

"Indiscretions," she added flatly.

"Exactly!" Stella slammed her fist on the table, sending her cup bouncing precariously. "Indiscretions! With that... that... I can't even say his name without wanting to throw up! An imp! AN IMP, Oneira! Can you believe it?"

Oneira could, in fact, believe it perfectly. She'd heard this specific story roughly seventeen times in the last few weeks, with minor variations in the details but always the same dramatic core.

"It's a... complicated situation," she offered, taking another sip of coffee and seriously contemplating whether it was possible to die of boredom in Hell.

Probably not. That was her luck.

"Complicated!" Stella laughed humorlessly. "You know what's complicated? Explaining to my daughter why her father smells like garbage every time he comes back from his 'business meetings'! Although she's still too young to fully understand..."

There it was. The only part of these conversations that Oneira genuinely tolerated.

"How's the little one?" she asked, with an interest that was almost genuine. At least it wasn't part of the same monologue from weeks ago.

The change in Stella was instantaneous. Her furious expression softened considerably, replaced by something almost maternal if she hadn't known that manipulative, feathered viper.

"Oh... Octavia is wonderful. She just learned to read her first complete constellation on her own." A genuine flash of pride crossed her face. "She's brilliant, absolutely brilliant. She definitely got my intellect."

"That's nice." It definitely wasn't hers.

"Although..." Stella frowned slightly. "She has that strange tendency from her father. The other day I found her crying because she read about the eventual death of stars. Seven years old and already dramatic about astronomical concepts!"

Oneira almost smiled at that.

"She sounds like a smart girl."

“She is.” Stella sighed. “I wish she didn’t look so much like him, but at least she has my natural elegance. And my good taste, thank goodness. Last week she rejected a dress he bought her because ‘the colors didn’t match properly.’ Seven years, Oneira! Seven!”

“How impressive.”

There was a moment of relative silence as Stella sipped her coffee with that exaggerated delicacy she’d probably been taught since birth.

Oneira took the opportunity to mentally review her schedule again. The meeting with Striker was scheduled for three. She needed to check his background one more time, make sure the terms of the contract were…

“But back to that unfaithful bastard…” Stella continued as the mare in front of her used all her willpower not to roll her eyes. “Do you know what he did last week? He canceled our annual dinner with Paimon! ANNUAL, Oneira! A decades-long tradition! And for what? To go off on an 'adventure' with that... that...!”

"Imp." Oneira finished again, her tone as flat as the coffee she'd considered pouring herself but decided against it; she needed to maintain some semblance of sanity.

"YES!" the woman in white practically shouted, slamming her hands on the table. "And the worst part is, he's blatantly violating the terms of our marriage contract! He can't even be discreet! But oh no, apparently that doesn't matter because he's royalty and can do whatever he pleases."

There it was.

The only aspect of this whole drama that genuinely irritated Oneira. Contracts.

The only part of the infidelity that made agreeing with Stella worthwhile was the implication of a contract. She didn't care about dramatic marital problems, nor did she care about the kind of abuse the marriage endured to excuse debauchery; contracts were sacred in Hell, ironic as that sounded. They were the only thing that maintained some semblance of order in the chaos. And to hear about someone—especially someone of high rank—simply ignoring the agreed-upon terms because they could…

Oneira felt a spark of genuine irritation.

"Contracts should be respected," she said, her voice taking on a colder tone. "Regardless of who signs them."

"EXACTLY!" The avian demon leaned forward, letting out an odd squawk, his eyes glowing with validation. "That's exactly what I've been saying! But oh no, apparently my opinion doesn't matter! Apparently, I can just be publicly humiliated while he…"

And the bitch kept going on and on.

Oneira let her mind partially disconnect, maintaining enough focus to nod at appropriate moments as Stella wove another elaborate tale about some new planned humiliation.

Internally, Oneira seriously considered the advantages of throwing herself out the window.

She wouldn't die, of course. She was already dead. But at least it would interrupt this conversation, even if she'd probably ruin Stella's dress with her coffee in the process.

...Hmm.

It wasn't a bad idea, really.

Except then Stella would complain about it for the next three weeks, and Oneira really didn't have the energy for that particular level of drama or to have her against her, even if it was over the simplicity of a damaged dress.

Instead, she opted for the usual strategy she'd adopted since meeting the woman: nodding silently while tacitly fueling Stella's hatred for her unfaithful husband with comments calculated enough not to get too involved but still make her feel validated.

"That sounds... particularly disrespectful," he offered when Stella paused to catch her breath.

“IT IS!” Stella practically lit up at the validation. “Finally, someone who gets it! My friends are always saying ‘it’s normal in royal marriages’ or ‘I should expect it,’ but you…”

Oneira took another sip of coffee, contemplating whether it was possible to develop immunity to boredom through repeated exposure.

Obviously not, so she concluded that this was going to be a long morning.

Very, very long.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only fifty-five minutes, Stella said goodbye with a dramatic hug, kisses on the cheeks, and a promise to return soon to 'catch up'.

Oneira closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have allowed herself if the Goetia were still present.

And there was silence.

Blessed, wonderful silence.

She allowed herself exactly ten seconds of stillness before deciding to return to her desk, where a sizable stack of documents awaited her attention. Supplier contracts, sales reports from other branches, territorial expansion requests...

And of course, the paperwork related to the Imp, with whom she would meet later.

Oneira sat down with that fluid grace that characterized her every movement, picked up the first folder, and began reviewing it with the methodical efficiency she had perfected over decades.

Numbers, terms, clauses... Everything was perfectly in order, as it should be.

She opened the second folder.

More numbers, plus a minor discrepancy in the East District inventory that needed investigation. Making a mental note, she continued.

The third folder contained...

Oneira closed the folder with an almost imperceptible sigh.

There was something uneasy in the air. Not physically, not something others would easily notice, but she, to her dismay, did. That familiar feeling of impatience that wasn't entirely hers but that she couldn't ignore either.

Her hand stopped on the next folder.

“No.” she ordered quietly, without looking up from her papers.

The air around her thickened slightly, as if the temperature had dropped a degree. There was no verbal response because there never was one, nor did she need one, but Oneira felt the equivalent of a mental snort.

“I have work to do.” she continued in the same calm, firm tone. “And you need to stay put after what you did.”

This time the response was clearer: a wave of defensive indignation seeped into her consciousness like acrid smoke. Oneira finally looked up, staring at the corner of the office where the shadows were slightly denser than they should have been given the lighting.

“The radio demon,” she specified, her voice taking on a more severe tone. “Dreams, Mara. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The shadows twisted, and although there was no visible form, Oneira could sense the defensive posture. The mental equivalent of crossed arms and a defiant stare.

“He confronted me last night at the event. Directly. Asking about dreams I hadn’t caused.” Oneira leaned back in her chair. “Do you have any idea what a mess that caused? We reached a neutrality agreement, but only because I was able to convince him I had nothing to do with his nightly torment.”

There was a pause, then something akin to mischievous amusement seeped through their shared connection.

Oneira pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It’s not funny. That demon tried to kill me, and I neutralized him. It was supposed to end there.” Her golden eyes narrowed into the shadows. “But you decided… what? To play with him? Torture him for fun?”

The shadows rippled, and Oneira sensed the wordless answer: curiosity. Experimentation. The equivalent of 'seemed interesting' drifted through the air, causing the mare to roll her eyes.

“Interesting.” Oneira repeated in a flat tone. “It almost caused another conflict because he couldn’t sleep without you visiting him.”

Another wave of sensation: it wasn’t Mara’s fault that he was so… reactive, so expressive, so fascinating to study; a juicy subject by her standards.

Oneira exhaled slowly.

“We’ll talk about this later.” she finished, turning to the shadow. “When I’m done with the paperwork and the three o’clock meeting. Stay. Here.”

There was no direct response, but the shadows settled with something akin to reluctance. Like a cat forced to stay indoors when it would rather be hunting outside.

The woman from the Manhattan turned her attention back to the documents, opening the fourth folder with renewed determination.

More contracts, numbers, terms…

Five minutes passed. Ten... Fifteen. The unease in the air grew gradually, like pressure building in a pot. Oneira could feel it on the periphery of her consciousness: boredom, impatience, the equivalent of someone rhythmically tapping their fingers on a table or their foot on the floor.

She ignored the feeling, continuing with her methodical monthly review.

File five. Expansion request. Denied, unfavorable terms.

File six. Report of a problematic employee at the north branch. Required personal attention.

File seven...

The air shifted, and Oneira, somewhat awkwardly, looked up just in time to see the shadows in the corner condense, taking on a more defined shape for a second before gliding toward the door with a speed that suggested clear intent.

"Mara." Her voice came out sharply.

The shadows paused, rippling in what could be interpreted as feigned innocence as their eyes, shifting scarlet shapes, watched their alter ego with a downward crescent, effortlessly revealing their mood.

"Come back. Here."

There was a moment of consideration. Then the shadows moved again, but this time away from the door, toward the window instead.

"Don't you dare..."

Too late, the dark form slipped beneath the window frame, seeping out as easily as smoke escaping through a crack.

Oneira sat at her desk, staring at the now-empty window, her expression a mixture of exasperation and weary resignation.

Of course.

Of course Mara wouldn't stay still. She never did. In frustration, she slammed the folder she'd been reviewing shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet office.

“When you get back…” she muttered to herself, though she knew Mara could probably still hear her. “We’re going to have a very long conversation about boundaries.”

Only the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant murmur from the cafeteria below answered her demand. She exhaled, leaned back in her chair, and allowed herself exactly five seconds of visible frustration before pulling herself together.

Work. She had work.

And Mara… well.

Mara would do what Mara did best: cause problems that Oneira would have to deal with later.

As always.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Freedom was captivating.

Mara glided through the streets of the Pentagon like a liquid shadow, moving between buildings and alleyways with an ease that came only from having no physical form to maintain.

It wasn't that she was exactly restricted when Oneira was working. Technically, they shared the same space, the same existence. But there was a difference between being passively present and having active control. And now, gliding freely without Oneira's constant "don't do this, don't touch that, I need to concentrate"...

It was perfect.

The Pentagon by day was different from the Pentagon by night. Noisier, more chaotic, filled with sinners rushing about with their pathetic daily routines. Mara watched them with something close to amusement as she slipped through the shadows of an alley.

Where would she go?

Maybe not to Cannibal Village. It was too obvious, and Oneira would definitely look there first if he decided the escape was troublesome enough to disrupt his precious paperwork.

The entertainment district? It sounded tempting, but boring considering it was daytime; the best shows happened at night.

Maybe...?

Mara stopped, her red eyes gleaming in the darkness of the alley as she considered it.

The deer.

Oneira had said no. She'd been very clear about that, because "we'll talk later" meant "don't do anything else stupid for now."

Yet... Mara rippled with something like a quiet laugh.

Oneira was busy until three. That gave her at least two hours.

What harm could a little visit do?

Just to... watch. Nothing more, for two hours.

Definitely nothing that could cause another diplomatic incident... Probably.

The shadows condensed briefly, taking on an almost human form for a second—with glowing red eyes, a mouth, the faint outline of Oneira's body—before dissolving back into dark smoke.

And then Mara moved, gliding through the city with renewed purpose, ignoring her earlier brief reasoning about not going that particular way, heading for Cannibal Town. Toward a certain temporary house where a certain radio demon was probably still asleep... or trying not to.

Which, honestly, made all of this even more fun.

It wouldn't take her long to get there, really. Cannibal Village was picturesque in a disturbingly pleasing way, in her opinion.

Mara glided through the Victorian streets with curiosity, watching the residents stroll by with that... macabre elegance that characterized the district. Some noticed her—or at least noticed the shadows darkening slightly as she passed—but most simply went about their business.

Locating the deer was surprisingly easy.

That pulse. That connection Oneira had left as a "warning" worked both ways, and Mara could feel it like an invisible thread pulling her in a specific direction.

There.

Standing out of one of the more modest Victorian houses, next to that distinctive cane tapping the pavement in a steady rhythm.

Alastor.

Licking her nonexistent lips after having caught him, Mara condensed slightly into the shadow of a nearby building, watching him as he walked with that exaggerated confidence that screamed, "I'm dangerous, and I know it." His red suit was immaculate as always, his smile fixed at that unsettling angle, his ears pricked up.

Where was he headed?

Genuine curiosity seeped into Mara's consciousness. It wasn't just amusement this time—though that was definitely there too—but real interest. This demon was... different to her. Reactive in fascinating ways, his expressions in his dreams were so dishonest, yet so raw...

It reminded her that he was worth watching a little longer.

Mara followed him, gliding from shadow to shadow with ease as Alastor navigated the streets of Cannibal Village. Some residents greeted him with respectful—or perhaps wary—nods, which he returned with mechanical courtesy.

Finally, he stopped in front of a modest establishment with a sign that proclaimed "Infernal Tailoring - Quality Clothing for Distinguished Demons."

Ah.

Alastor pushed open the door and entered, the bell above the frame tinkling softly.

Mara waited exactly three seconds before slipping into the doorway, reassessing whether it was really worth it. From the moment she saw the tailoring shop, she knew she was trapped once again by the tedium of waiting. For that kind of joke, she would have been better off staying with Oneira.

Skeptical, she observed how the shadows inside were denser, certainly more inviting. Rolls of fabric stacked on the walls, mannequins wore half-finished suits, and there was the scent of cotton and something else... probably the "special materials" that infernal tailors—especially the cannibalistic ones—used.

Alastor was near the counter, talking to a thin demon who gestured with needles between his fingers while explaining something about "modern cuts" and "current trends."

Exhaling through her nonexistent nostrils, Mara condensed into a corner, preparing to move closer, perhaps eavesdrop on the conversation, definitely study those expressions the deer made when he thought no one important was watching...

But something pulled her back.

Not physically—for she had no physical force to pull—but more like... resistance. As if she had tried to move through thick water and it had decided to push her in the opposite direction.

Mara squirmed, confused and instantly irritated.

What...?

And then she saw it.

The shadow.

Not Alastor's shadow, naturally cast by the shop's lighting. That one was there, behaving normally beneath her feet.

No... This one was different.

It extended from her main form but moved independently, rising slightly from the ground like black smoke that had decided to ignore the basic laws of physics. It didn't have glowing red eyes like Mara's, but it had... presence. Consciousness.

And it was deliberately blocking her path.

Mara tried to move to the left.

The shadow swooped in, intercepting her with a speed that suggested it had been waiting for that exact movement.

Was it for real?

 

A mixture of amusement and irritation seeped into Mara's consciousness. She tried to move to the right.

The shadow blocked her again, this time with something akin to territorial satisfaction. Like a guard dog that had found an intruder in its yard and was enjoying the confrontation.

This was... unexpected, and honestly, a little offensive.

Mara condensed further, briefly assuming her near-human form—previously described—and launched herself forward with a speed that would have impressed most demons. In response, Alastor's shadow rose like a black wave, crashing into her with a force that shouldn't be possible for something without physical substance.

They met in mid-space, shadow against shadow, immaterial presences fighting for territorial dominance in a battle no one else in the tent could see.

Mara pushed, the shadow pushed back.

It was like trying to move through thick tar that was also trying to push her in the opposite direction. Constant resistance, neither giving an inch.

The shadow writhed, trying to envelop her, contain her, and Mara slithered around it, searching for an opening.

She found none.

This continued for several seconds—which felt considerably longer—before Mara stopped abruptly.

She stepped back slightly, her red eyes narrowing as she studied the other presence with a new perspective.

Oh... Oh.

This shadow was like her. Not identical, obviously. Every demon, every soul, every fragmented being had its own characteristics. But the basic nature…

They were the same.

A consciousness separate from its main source, an existence that operated independently while remaining connected, unbridled freedom within restraint. Mara condensed again, taking on that almost-human form she used when she wanted to express something more complex than a simple movement.

And she smiled. Not amicably, nor warmly, nor invitingly.

"Interesting" was the concept she wordlessly projected, knowing the other presence would understand.

Alastor's shadow didn't respond verbally—because it couldn't—but its posture shifted slightly, becoming less defensive, more appraising. As if it, too, had reached the same conclusion and wasn't sure how to feel about it.

Mara gradually dissolved, retreating toward the tent entrance with deliberate movements that made it clear she wasn't running away, simply... choosing to withdraw.

For now, there were other things to do, other places to explore.

And honestly, bothering the deer was more fun when he knew he was being bothered, so she slipped toward the door, peeking under the frame into the street outside.

And waited.

Because if that shadow was really like her...

There was a pause, then some movement.

Alastor's shadow emerged from the tent, separating from its source with an ease that suggested considerable practice. It condensed in the street, taking on a more defined form—still faceless and lacking any truly distinctive features beyond vaguely Alastor-like contours—and remained there.

Looking in the direction Mara waited, she rippled with something akin to a silent laugh.

Of course he would follow. Curiosity was universal, apparently, and especially so, even among fragments of demonic consciousness. Without much more to wait, Mara slipped down the street, moving through the shadows of Cannibal Village with Alastor's shadow trailing at a wary distance.

This was going to be fun.

Inside the tailor shop, completely oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded literally beneath his feet, Alastor found himself in a considerably less entertaining situation.

The tailor—a thin demon with too many limbs and an attitude that suggested he had only just discovered the concept of "self-confidence" last week—was being particularly... annoying.

“As I was saying,” the demon continued, gesturing with two of his six arms while the other four held fabric, needles, and what was probably an inflated price list. “These materials are imported directly from the Ring of Greed. Top quality. Not something just anyone can afford.”

Alastor maintained his smile, but there was a certain tension at its edges that suggested his patience was rapidly wearing thin.

“I understand. And the price you mentioned is…”

“Final.” The tailor interrupted him with a smile he probably thought was charming but which came across more as condescending. “Look, I know you’re new to the district. And that’s fine, we all start somewhere. But if you want to dress like an Overlord, you have to pay Overlord prices.”

The static around Alastor crackled softly.

“New?” His tone maintained that Southern courtesy, but there was something colder beneath. “An interesting observation.”

“Just saying.” The tailor shrugged, four arms raised simultaneously. “The suit you’re wearing is… good. But old-fashioned. Real Overlords, the established ones, come to me because they know quality when they see it.”

Alastor felt his right eye begin to twitch slightly. It was enough.

“I understand your… confidence,” he said, his voice dropping to that level that usually made smarter daemons back away. “But perhaps you should consider who you’re talking to.”

He straightened to his full height, his smile widening to that unsettling angle that preceded violence.

The static intensified, his antlers began to extend, and normally, this would be the moment when his shadow would rise dramatically behind him, multiplying into twisted shapes that filled the space with its menacing presence, transforming his already unsettling form into something utterly terrifying.

Normally.

Alastor waited for the familiar effect.

Nothing happened.

His shadow—the normal one, the one cast by the shop lights—remained exactly where it was. Flat, motionless, completely ordinary. Alastor blinked.

What...?

He glanced briefly down at where his shadow should have been rising menacingly.

Nothing.

Just him, standing there, antlers extended, wearing a probably ridiculous expression of confusion.

The tailor was looking at him with an expression that mixed confusion with something resembling poorly concealed amusement.

"Are you... all right?" he asked, all his arms still for the first time in the conversation.

The silence stretched for exactly three very awkward seconds.

His antlers slowly retracted. His posture relaxed. His smile, though still present, lost a considerable amount of its menacing edge.

He sighed.

"Fine." The words came out more irritated than he intended, almost a growl. "I'll pay... whatever it is you're asking for."

Definitely just this once.

And when his shadow decided to return from wherever the hell it had gone, they were going to have a very serious conversation about abandoning their main persona during critical moments of intimidation.

The tailor, to his credit—or perhaps his stupidity—smiled broadly.

"Excellent decision, sir... uh..."

"Alastor," he replied in a tone that suggested the name should be explanation enough.

"Lord Alastor! I'll begin the measurements immediately."

While the tailor bustled about with renewed enthusiasm, multiple arms measuring and noting with coordinated efficiency, Alastor remained still.

His eye twitched occasionally, his smile technically in place, but internally, he was compiling a very specific list of grievances to direct at his shadow as soon as it deigned to return.

Wherever it was.

Doing whatever it was doing.

Probably something stupid.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Rooster wasn't having a good day.

Although, to be honest, Rooster rarely had good days in Hell. Not since he'd fallen about a year ago and discovered his demonic form was... well. A rooster.

A red rooster with feathers that stood on end the wrong way, a comb that tilted to one side in a way that didn't intimidate... anyone, and claws that tripped over his own feet more often than any demon should admit. His outfit was the same one he'd worn before his wife murdered him.

He was pacing down one of the less populated streets in the Pentagon, his posture trying to be threatening but coming across more as a nervously hunched thing. His gang—The Poultry, a name that sounded considerably more intimidating in his head than out loud—had made it clear he needed to "contribute more" or they'd start questioning whether he really belonged.

And Rooster needed to belong.

Because this was Hell. You were supposed to be bad here. Evil. Ruthless. All those things Rooster was definitely, absolutely, capable of being.

Eventually.

...Probably.

"Just...do something bad," he muttered to himself, his claws tapping nervously against the pavement. "Something simple. Steal, kill. Anything that counts as...you know. Evil."

The problem was, Rooster wasn't particularly good at being evil.

He'd tried, many times, but something always went wrong in ways that defied statistical probability. Like that time he tried to threaten a demon and tripped over his own claws, falling face-first into a trash can. Or when he tried to join a heist and accidentally alerted the victim by stepping on his own feathered tail. Or...

Well. The list was long and painfully embarrassing.

But today would be different.

Today he would definitely do something that would impress the gang.

He just needed...an opportunity.

The shadows around them darkened slightly.

And Rooster didn't notice, but Mara watched the rooster-demon with a mixture of amusement and pity.

She had followed Alastor's shadow—or more precisely, the shadow had followed her, and they had eventually reached a tacit agreement to explore together—through the Pentagon for almost an hour. No particular direction, no specific objective.

That is, until they encountered this... demon specimen.

Mara condensed into the shadow of a nearby building, studying the nervous rooster who was clearly having some kind of existential crisis in the middle of the street. Alastor's shadow materialized beside her, equally still and observant.

The two presences gazed at each other without really seeing—because technically all they ever showed was a glimpse of their eyes and, very occasionally, their mouths—with mutual understanding.

This should be fun.

Rooster continued muttering to himself, oblivious to the audience he'd acquired.

"Okay, okay, I just need to... wait. Someone vulnerable will walk by. And then... WHAM!" He made a gesture with his wings that was probably meant to be threatening. "Perfect heist."

Mara rippled with a quiet laugh.

Oh, this was going to be a fun project.

She glided closer, moving across the ground like spilled ink, positioning herself where Rooster might... notice things. Alastor's shadow followed her, clearly curious about exactly what she was planning.

Five minutes passed before the perfect opportunity presented itself. An elderly demon woman—slouched, with a cane—strolled slowly along the sidewalk, a shopping bag dangling from her wrinkled arm. Rooster straightened immediately, his feathers bristling with something akin to determination.

She was perfect.

An easy target. Vulnerable. She wouldn't be able to defend herself against...

A rock rolled past his feet. Out of nowhere. Hitting the pavement with a sound that caught his attention.

Rooster looked down. The rock was... pointing. I mean, technically it wasn't pointing because it was a rock, but its position suggested a clear direction.

Toward the old woman.

Rooster swallowed.
It was a sign. Definitely a sign from the universe—or Hell, whatever—telling him that now was the time.

In the nearby shadow, Mara was practically vibrating with anticipation. Alastor's shadow had condensed more densely, watching with what was probably skeptical interest.

Rooster took a deep breath.

You can do this. You're evil. You're ruthless. You're...

"LADY!" he shouted, running toward the old woman with his wings spread in what he probably thought was intimidating.

The old woman turned slowly, and Rooster, at his most confident, tripped. On his own claws.
Again.

He fell face-first onto the pavement with a wet, pathetic thud that echoed through the street. His crest bent crooked, and his feathers scattered in all directions.

The old woman stared at him for a long moment.

Then, with surprising speed for someone of her apparent age, she struck him squarely on the head with her cane.

Once.
Twice.
Three times to make sure.

"YOU DEGENERATE!" she shrieked. "TRYING TO ROB A POOR OLD WOMAN! In my day, demons RESPECTED THEIR ELDERS!"

She continued to strike him as Rooster tried in vain to shield himself, whimpering with each impact.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—! Ouch! Please—! OUCH!"

Eventually, the old woman grew tired of it, spat in his direction with impressive disgust, and continued on her way muttering about "the youth of today."

Rooster lay sprawled on the pavement, breathing heavily, his comb completely bent to one side and his dignity as shattered as his posture. In the nearby shadows, Mara and Shadowlastor, his new best friend, exchanged what was probably a look of shared disbelief. They both stood still, waiting to see what the pathetic rooster would do next.

It took Rooster approximately ten minutes to compose himself enough to stand up.

His comb was still bent. His feathers were ruffled. And his confidence was somewhere near the center of the earth, but at least he could walk.

"Well..." he muttered to himself, limping slightly. "That... doesn't count. It was a trap. Obviously. That old woman was... clearly a retired assassin or something."

Mara could practically feel the desperate rationalization emanating from the rooster demon as she, for her part, insisted that he had to be in hell for a reason... Him or the old woman. Both, maybe.

"I just need... something more straightforward," Rooster continued, his voice taking on a tone of renewed determination. "Something that can't go wrong. Like... like..."

The rooster stopped abruptly, his eyes settling on a poster tacked to the nearby wall.

"MERCEANS WANTED. GOOD PAY. BRING YOUR OWN WEAPON."

Rooster stared at the poster for an embarrassingly long time. Then he nodded slowly, as if he'd just solved all his life's problems.

"Mercenary... perfect. You kill people. You get paid. The gang is impressed. It's... it's brilliant."

It wasn't brilliant.

Mara and Alastor's shadow knew it. Rooster clearly didn't.

Yet getting the gun was surprisingly easy. Rooster found it in an alley—apparently abandoned by some demon who'd probably met a similar fate to the one Rooster was about to experience—and picked it up with renewed confidence.

It was a pistol. An old model, heavy, probably with more recoil than Rooster anticipated.

But he had a gun now.
That meant he was dangerous. Definitely.

"Good..." he mumbled, holding the pistol with both wings in a way that made it obvious he'd never held one before. "I just need to... aim, and fire. Simple enough."

He moved through the streets with a posture that was meant to be stealthy but came across more like a nervous duck walk as shadows followed him, keeping a safe distance. Mara was starting to have a bad feeling about this.

And Alastor's shadow seemed to be experiencing the same thing, judging by how it had condensed closer, as if preparing to witness an impending disaster. Again.

Rooster stopped at a corner, watching a lone demon casually smoking against a wall.

It was a perfect target. Off guard, not particularly large or threatening.

Rooster took a deep breath.

You can do this.

He stepped out of hiding, weapon raised, aiming at… Well.

Technically aiming.

In the general direction of the target… More or less.

"HANDS UP!" he shouted, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

The demon turned slowly, the cigarette dangling from his lips, observing Rooster with an expression somewhere between boredom and confusion.

"Huh?"

"IT'S A ROBBERY!" Rooster tried to sound threatening. "Give me your... your...!"

The chicken man pulled the trigger, and two things happened simultaneously:

First, the recoil of the weapon—which Rooster definitely hadn't anticipated since he hadn't even tested it—threw him backward with such force that his claws slipped.

Second, the bullet shot out in the exact opposite direction from where he'd been aiming.

And it hit Rooster in the foot.
His own foot.

The scream he let out was a mixture of surprise, pain, and utter existential shame.

He fell to the ground, clutching his injured foot as the weapon flew from its wings and landed somewhere far away with a metallic clang.

The demon he'd tried to rob stared at him for exactly three seconds... then shrugged, took another drag on his cigarette, and went on with his day as if nothing had happened.

Rooster lay there on the ground, bleeding from his own foot, contemplating every life decision that had led him to this moment.

In the nearby shadows, Mara and Alastor's shadow remained completely still.

Processing what they had just fucking witnessed.

Mara was the first to move, undulating her body—shadow, in this case—in a way that probably translated to a disbelieving laugh.

Alastor's shadow writhed, and although it had no face, it emanated the energy of something that had just lost all faith in humanity. Or in this case, in demonity.

They looked at each other without really seeing.

Mara slid closer to Alastor's shadow, positioning herself beside it as they watched Rooster try to crawl away to some more private place to regenerate.

The shadow didn't move away.

Instead, it leaned slightly, with a subtle movement that suggested a certain reciprocated interest.

Curiosity.

Because this other presence was... different. It operated with similar logic but different methods, and there was something fascinating about watching how it moved, how it interacted with its surroundings, how it clearly enjoyed the suffering of others as much as she did.

Mara emitted something like a silent purr, a vibration that resonated through the space without producing any real sound. In contrast, Alastor's shadow responded with its own movement: a light, almost imperceptible brush, like two currents of air briefly intertwining before separating.

Rooster finally managed to crawl behind a dumpster, whimpering pathetically as his body began the slow process of demonic regeneration.

The shadows waited patiently.

Because this toy—this utterly pathetic project—promised hours of entertainment. And now they had company to enjoy it with.

Mara stretched slightly, her contours expanding and contracting in what was probably equivalent to a satisfied stretch.

Alastor's shadow did something similar, its edges blurring before sharpening again.

And both settled into the nearby shadows, waiting and watching, enjoying the silent complicity they had developed.

Rooster was still moaning behind the container. This was probably going to be a long day for him.

But absolutely delicious for them.

In this way, the sun—if you could call that perpetually red thing hanging in the infernal sky a sun—was beginning to tilt toward what passed for sunset at the Pentagon.

Mara had spent the last three hours alternating between psychologically torturing Rooster and developing a negative appreciation for Alastor's shadow.

Of course, it wasn't friendship, not even camaraderie in the traditional sense. It was more like that professional recognition that exists between artists in the same field.

Rooster had regenerated. Three times. And all three times he had tried something new that had failed spectacularly in ways that defied basic logic. After processing the shock of each attempt, the situation became rather amusing to admit.

But now, with dusk approaching, Mara felt that familiar tug. That subtle but insistent reminder that Oneira awaited her return.

Not because he completely controlled her, of course—no one controlled Mara when she truly decided to do something—but because they shared space, existence, and eventually needed... to reconnect.

She turned toward Alastor's shadow, which also seemed to be experiencing something similar. A certain unease. The awareness that his presence was required elsewhere.

Both presences remained still for a moment, studying each other.

See ya.

Because the Pentagon wasn't that big, and both were curious by nature. Inevitably, their paths would cross again.

Mara dissolved first, her outlines blurring into dark smoke that drifted down the streets with a clear direction: back to the Manhattan Café. Back to Oneira. Alastor's shadow waited exactly three seconds before doing the same, slipping through the shadows of Cannibal Village with speed.

Rooster had been forgotten behind the dumpster where he'd been regenerating from his latest failure, not even noticing that his audience had vanished.

Probably better that way.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Oneira was finishing reviewing the final terms of the contract when she felt that familiar weight, that presence that had been absent for hours and now returned with something akin to lazy complacency.

Mara.

Her pen stopped mid-signing, her expression perfectly neutral as the demon sitting across from her continued speaking.

Striker was... exactly what she'd expected, based on the reports. Tall for an imp, with a physique that spoke of years of hard work and practical violence. His tail twitched occasionally with barely contained restlessness, like a predator forced to stay still for too long. He dressed in a cowboy style he'd likely carried over from his mortal life: hat, boots...

His eyes—golden and sharp—studied her with an intensity that bordered on disrespect, but at least she had enough self-control not to cross that line completely.

"So," he was saying, with a more pronounced but less refined Southern accent, "you're telling me you want to... what exactly? Train me?" Become your personal guard dog?

Oneira looked up, her golden eyes meeting his without blinking.

"Something like that." He didn't bother to hide it, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Providing you with resources, training, connections that would otherwise take you decades to acquire. In return, you work for me when I need you to."

Striker leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he assessed her with an expression that mixed skepticism and consideration, hissing like a snake before continuing.

"And why me? I'm not exactly... well-off." The last word came out with a hint of venom. "Nor royalty. Nor born with advantages."

"Exactly." Oneira closed the folder in front of her. "Demons born with power tend to squander their potential because they never had to fight for it. You…" his eyes narrowed slightly "…have fought for everything you have. That makes you more valuable.

Something shifted in Striker’s expression. Not exactly softening—far from it, in fact—but recognition. As if those words had touched something rarely acknowledged.

“And the royalty…” Oneira continued, his tone colder, “…can rot for all I care about. I don’t work with them for reasons that are none of your business. But know this: we share a certain… mutual disdain for their existence.”

That elicited something resembling a smile from Striker. Not friendly, but definitely appreciative.

“Well said.”

Oneira thrust the contract toward him.

“The terms are clear. Read them carefully. Don’t sign anything you don’t fully understand.”

Striker took the papers, scanning them with eyes that clearly knew how to read beyond basic legal jargon. He wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. Just... raw, unpolished. Exactly the kind of demon that could become a lethal weapon if aimed correctly.

As he read, Oneira felt Mara settle into the periphery of his consciousness. Present again, unusually content.

"Where have you been?" he mentally projected toward her, without saying it aloud.

Mischievous amusement filtered through as a response, and fragmented images surfaced in his memory, as if he had lived them: a pathetic rooster, repeated falls, spectacular incompetence, and another dark presence, familiar yet different.

Oneira processed it briefly.

Ah.
The shadow of the deer.
Of course, if she couldn't mess with him one way, she had to mess with... him, another way.

We'll talk later. She reiterated this in a mental tone that made it clear that this conversation wasn't over yet.

Mara undulated with something close to nonchalant indifference, but settled in anyway, happy to observe the rest of the meeting from a comfortable position.

Striker finally looked up from his papers.

"Fine," he said, his tone suggesting he'd found the terms acceptable. "But I have a condition."

Oneira raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"If at any point he asks me to work for royalty, the contract is null and void. I don't care how much they pay. I won't do it."

There was a pause while Oneira considered that, thinking of Stella for a moment.

Then she nodded once.

"Acceptable." You're free to choose who you work with; I won't force you.

"Then we have a deal."

Striker took the pen Oneira offered him and signed with a decisive movement that didn't waver for a second.

When the ink dried, a subtle sheen crossed the paper. Sealed and binding.

Oneira extended her hand.

"Welcome to Manhattan Café, Striker."

He took her hand, squeezing it with a firmness that was respectful without trying to intimidate.

"I hope this is worth it."

"It will be." Oneira withdrew her hand. "We start tomorrow, six in the morning. Don't be late."

Striker stood up, adjusting his hat with a gesture that had become almost trademark.

"I won't be, boss."

And with that, he left the office with a confident stride that made his spurs jingle softly against the floor. With the agility of a reptile.

When the door closed, Oneira allowed herself a sigh of relief.

She had a new employee, essentially a new investment, another piece on her chessboard. And Mara was in an unusually good mood.

It was definitely going to be a productive day.

"Now," she projected toward her other half, "let's talk about your little fling."

Her nonchalance was the only response, and Oneira sighed, knowing this was going to be a long conversation.

Meanwhile, Alastor had just emerged from the tailor's shop with the ordered suit, a receipt that made his eye twitch every time he looked at it, and in a considerably worse mood than when he'd entered.

The sunset painted the streets of Cannibal Village in darker shades of red, the shadows lengthening as the residents began their usual nighttime activities.

His cane tapped the pavement with an irritated rhythm that perfectly reflected his state of mind. Shadowless, humiliated in front of a mediocre tailor. Forced to pay inflated prices because he couldn't properly intimidate them with the shock of not having him. In his short time in Hell, he hadn't known he could choose not to be there.

When he found his shadow...

Something slid across the ground near his feet, and Alastor stopped abruptly, looking down.

His shadow—the traitor, the vanished one—had returned. It extended from his feet as if it had never left, behaving perfectly normally.

Except it wasn't quite normal, because there was something... different about it, though not visually. Shadows didn't change their appearance because they had no real appearance beyond the absence of light.

But Alastor could feel it. That connection he shared with his other half, that awareness of its presence.

He was... satisfied. A contentment he rarely experienced.

The stag narrowed his eyes, looking irritably at his own shadow.

"Well?" "Where the hell have you been?" he asked in a low voice, aware that he probably looked crazy talking to his shadow in the middle of the street.

The shadow didn't answer verbally—because it couldn't, haha—but its form rippled slightly. A movement Alastor had learned to interpret as the equivalent of a nonchalant shrug.

Around.

"Around," Alastor repeated in a flat tone. "While I was being blackmailed by some mediocre tailor because you decided it was the perfect time to disappear."

The shadow squirmed in a way that could be interpreted as amusement.

Oops.

He didn't sound particularly remorseful.
Alastor felt his eye twitch again. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and controlled the urge to kill his own shadow right there in the street because that definitely wasn't possible.

He continued on his way, his shadow obediently following, gliding across the pavement with fluid movements. But Alastor could sense it. That lingering satisfaction. That unusual good humor that suggested she'd spent considerably more time enjoying herself than being present during a dull business transaction.

And there was something else.

A trace of something—someone—his shadow had encountered. Alastor frowned, processing that information as he walked.

Until he caught a whiff of it.

Alastor stopped again, turning to look at his shadow with an expression that mixed disbelief with something akin to betrayal.

"Were you with her?"

The shadow rippled.

Maybe.

"Maybe?" His voice rose slightly. “Did you spend the day with the woman who’s been torturing me nightly, psychologically?”

And with that, he felt another ripple. This one more resolute.

Alastor stared at his own shadow for exactly five full seconds. Then he turned abruptly and continued walking, his static crackling around him with barely contained irritation.

“Betrayal,” he muttered to himself. “My own shadow. Fraternizing with the enemy.”

The shadow followed him without showing any particular remorse.

And as Alastor walked back to the temporary house, processing the utterly ridiculous day he’d had, his shadow glided behind him with lingering satisfaction.

It would definitely happen again.

Notes:

Seeing how we completely forgot about poor Rooster, who was always there at the hotel, convinced me to give him his own episode. I'll think more about whether to involve him further in the future, but I probably won't use him for anything other than comic relief.

The comments are lovely, thank youuuuu

Chapter 8: Business.

A couple of days had passed since the event at the Grand Auditorium.

And for Alastor, it had been enough time for him to decide that his "strategic rest" had lasted just right and that it was time to remind Hell why he'd been so nervous in the first place.

It wasn't that he'd forgotten the neutrality agreement with a certain coffee businesswoman. That constant thumping in his chest ensured that it was impossible to forget, unfortunately. But neutrality didn't mean inactivity. It simply meant... not specifically targeting her.

The rest of the Pentagon was still fair game, and Alastor had unfinished business.

Like a certain demon who owed him three souls. Three souls that had been promised two weeks ago under very specific terms that the fool had apparently decided to ignore, believing that Alastor would forget or lose interest.

A huge mistake on his part, because the radio demon didn't forget debts. And he definitely didn't lose interest when someone tried to scam him, especially after he'd started building that intimidating reputation he'd forged during his weeks as an undead.

Upon arriving, the demon could see that the establishment in question was a seedy bar in one of the Pentagon's less respectable districts. The kind of place where low-level demons gathered to drink cheap liquor and plot crimes that rarely worked. Perfect for someone trying to hide from more dangerous creditors, but not so perfect when he was the creditor. The door was half-hanging off its hinges, and the neon sign above the entrance flickered erratically, spelling out "THE DEN" with two completely blank letters. Distorted music filtered in from inside, mingling with harsh laughter and the occasional sound of shattering glass.

It was a dump in his opinion, and the name left absolutely nothing to be desired, but he wasn't there to dwell on such trivialities. Alastor pushed open the door with his cane, entering with a confidence that stopped the conversations nearby and caused heads to instinctively turn.

His ears perked up, proud of the presence he exuded.

The interior was exactly as deplorable as he had anticipated. Craggy tables, a sticky floor that probably hadn't been cleaned in decades, air thick with cheap cigarette smoke, and something that smelled suspiciously like burnt sulfur.

And there, at a table in the back, was his target. A vaguely reptilian-looking demon with dull green, scaly skin and eyes that darted nervously even as he tried to appear calm. He was surrounded by three other demons—probably his "muscles," though they looked more like typical extras—playing cards with a concentration that suggested the game was the only thing keeping them awake.

Alastor walked toward the table with measured steps, his cane tapping the sticky floor with a rhythm that cut through the ambient noise.

The indebted demon saw him approach, his eyes widening, and to his credit, he didn't immediately try to run.

"Alastor," he answered. His voice tried to sound casual, but came out somewhat strangled. "What a... surprise to see you here."

"Surprise?" Alastor stopped in front of the table, his smile widening. "How curious. I'd say it's entirely expected, considering our transaction had a deadline that expired three days ago."

The muscle around the debtor tensed. His hands moved toward his weapons with a slight tremor, as he reconsidered his options, taking into account the deadline, the debt, and above all, who he was dealing with. Suddenly, he raised his hand, trying to stop the pressure from the radio demon that was about to run him over.

"Look, about that... I've had some... setbacks. Nothing personal. I just need a little more time to—"

"More time." Alastor repeated his words as if they were a foreign concept, though perhaps they were to him. "How interesting. Because I remember very clearly that the agreement didn't include extensions, so... The souls you promised. Three of them. By today."

"I'll have them," the other insisted, feeling sweat form into beads and trickle down his scales. "Just give me another week, or two at most. I swear, I'll get them and—"

"No."

That word escaped the sinner's lips dryly as static began to pollute the air around him, causing not only an awkward sound and even a musical interruption for those at the table, but also raising the hairs of the other users present in the conversation.

Swallowing hard, anxiety began to surface not only in the scaly debtor's stomach, but also visibly in his eyes.

"What?"

"I said no." Alastor tilted his head slightly, studying the reptilian demon with an expression that maintained his smile but lost all warmth. "Look, I have a reputation to uphold. And that reputation is built on the fact that when I make a deal, that deal is honored. It's not negotiated. It's not extended. It's honored."

Sensing a palpable sense of threat, and exactly as a body would react before being struck by lightning, one of the thugs had decided he'd had enough and stood up in an intimidating manner... Or at least that's what he wanted to project.

"Listen, buddy. The boss said he needs more time. So maybe you should—"

The horned man didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, because Alastor's shadow—present and obedient this time, thank goodness—rose like a black wave, engulfing the thug before he could react. He lifted him off the ground, held him suspended for exactly two seconds, and then slammed him against the nearest wall with such force that the entire bar shook.

The demon slid to the floor, unconscious, as the music finally stopped playing for everyone else in the establishment and silence settled over it. Alastor kept his gaze fixed on his primary target.

"What were you saying?"

The other two thugs exchanged glances, clearly reassessing their options. Without much hesitation, they both slowly stood up and walked toward the exit, their steps trying not to look like cowardly retreats, though they clearly were.

The door closed behind them.

Now only Alastor, he, and about a dozen other customers remained, all of whom had suddenly found their drinks far too interesting to stare at. The target swallowed audibly again.

"Look... I can explain. The souls I promised, it turns out, are... complicated to obtain. They have protection I didn't anticipate and—"

"I didn't ask you that." Alastor sat in the chair one of the thugs had abandoned, placing his cane across the table with casual deliberation. “I’m interested in results. And since you clearly can’t deliver what was agreed upon…” He leaned forward. “…we need to renegotiate terms.”

Something shifted in the other man’s expression. It went incredibly quickly from panic to cautious hope.

“Renegotiate? So you’re willing to—?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me.” Alastor’s smile widened. “I’m not being generous. I’m being practical. If you don’t have the three promised souls, then you’ll give me something of equal or greater value.”

“Like what?”

Alastor let his gaze wander around the bar. It was deplorable, yes. Filthy, a little subhuman even by subhuman standards, but it had a decent location. And more importantly, the man trembling below clearly had connections in this district that could be... useful in the future.

“This establishment,” he finally declared. “And the connections that come with it.”

The owner’s hopeful eyes met hiss, blinking a few times as he repeated the words in his head, just to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“Are you… messing with me?”

“I rarely joke about business.” The human radio drummed his fingers on the table. “This bar, all its assets, and a full list of your contacts in the district. That covers the debt.”

“This place is worth more than three miserable souls!”

“Then perhaps you should have considered that before you reneged on an agreement with me.” The static around them intensified. “Or we can resolve this in a less civilized manner.”

His antlers began to extend slightly, causing his target to glance toward the exit, then at the still-unconscious demon against the wall, then back at Alastor. The calculations started racing in his scaly head, trying to come up with some profitable alternative.

After a couple of seconds, his shoulders finally slumped.

"Fine," he muttered resignedly. "Fine. The bar's yours, the contacts too."

"Excellent decision." With a satisfied smile, Alastor stood up and adjusted his suit with unnecessary precision. "You'll have the paperwork ready by tomorrow. And..."

As he walked away, ready to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder condescendingly.

"Next time you consider breaking an agreement with me, remember that I'm considerably less patient when people waste my time twice."

And with that, he left the bar with a completely new smile. The air outside was only slightly less stifling than the bar's interior, but at least it didn't reek of cheap desperation mixed with even cheaper liquor. Alastor inhaled deeply, allowing himself a moment of genuine satisfaction as his cane tapped the pavement in a rhythm that reflected his improved mood.

A new establishment. Contacts in a district he hadn't previously controlled. And the personal pleasure of having reminded someone why trying to scam them was a terrible idea.

Excellent use of his morning.

The street was relatively quiet for mid-morning in the Pentagon. Some demons walked purposefully toward unknown destinations, others simply wandered aimlessly. The usual kind of infernal activity. His thoughts were interrupted by a subtle sound, almost imperceptible amidst the usual noise of the Pentagon, but which he heard clearly: the distinctive hiss of something rapidly slicing through air, followed by a stifled scream that ended rather abruptly.

His ears twitched toward the sound, feeling curiosity instantly prickle him. It was coming from the alley across the street, so he headed that way without much thought. After all, it was Alastor. What did he have to worry about?

And Alastor wasn't the type to ignore curiosity when it piqued his interest.

Especially when that curiosity involved a certain kind of violence executed with such precision, just enough to capture his sacred attention.

The sinner crossed the street with deliberate steps, approaching the alley with instinctive caution; after all, one didn't survive in Hell by being careless. He paused at the alley's entrance, remaining in the shadows as his eyes scanned the unfolding scene.

The alley around him was narrow and dark, save for the red light that filtered faintly from the main street; dumpsters lined one side, creating perfect spaces for ambushes or stealthy work.

And there, in the middle of the narrow space, was a demon.

No, correction.

An imp.

Alastor recognized the form immediately because of its curved horns, its pointed tail, and a smaller build—though not by much, so he guessed it was a hybrid—but clearly muscular. This particular one dressed in a style that screamed "wild west," courtesy of his cowboy hat, spurred boots, and the vest over his shirt that had probably seen better days.

He was wiping a dagger, blood dripping from the blade. At his feet lay the body of a considerably larger demon—something between a dog and something else with too many teeth—and a clean cut across its throat, precise and efficient. The kind of wound that killed quickly without wasting effort.

The imp finished wiping the dagger on his victim's clothing and then sheathed it with a practiced motion that spoke of considerable experience. He straightened, rolled his shoulders as if he'd just finished light exercise, and turned.

Directly toward where Alastor was watching.

His eyes—golden and sharp, with certain lighter curves—fixed on Alastor with an intensity that betrayed no surprise, only a cautious assessment.

"Enjoying the show?" His voice came out with a marked Southern accent, coarser than Alastor's but still quite distinct.

He maintained his smile, without moving from his position.

"Impressive work, quite clean and professional." He inclined his head slightly, smiling confidently. "Though I wonder what the poor wretch did to deserve such an... efficient end."

The imp studied him for another, longer moment before simply shrugging.

"I've been doing this for quite some time," he said simply, without elaborating.

"Hmm. I suppose so." Alastor took a step into the alley as his cane tapped against the pavement, something he was getting used to. "Do you work for anyone in particular or are you a freelancer?"

The imp's eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly at the obvious question—for imps rarely worked alone—not yet threatening, but definitely more alert.

"Why do you care?"

"Professional curiosity, my dear friend." Alastor gestured vaguely toward the imp's body, playing with the imp's timing. "One recognizes quality when one sees it. And you, clearly, know what you're doing."

"Of course I know." The imp crossed his arms. "I've been doing this since... well. Long enough."

There was an awkward pause where they both observed each other.

Alastor noticed certain details: the scars on the imp's arms, the way his fingers remained close to his weapons even in casual conversation, the confidence that came from someone who had fought and won enough times to have no doubts about his abilities.

He was interesting, quite interesting considering the race we were talking about.

The cowboy, meanwhile, seemed to be drawing his own conclusions about Alastor. His eyes moved from his immaculate suit to his cane, then to the antlers barely visible beneath his hair, and finally to his perpetual smile, which probably unnerved most people on purpose.

"You're that new guy," he finally remembered. "The one on the radio. I've heard about you."

"Oh, really?" Alastor smiled more broadly, enjoying being recognized. "How flattering. I hope what you've heard is entertaining."

"Depends on your definition of entertaining." The imp relaxed slightly, though his hands still remained close to his weapons. "They say you've been eliminating Overlords like they're pests."

"Not exactly pests. More like... unnecessary obstacles."

“Sure.” The imp seemed almost… amused by this; they had similar ideals at first glance. “Well, radio-man, unless you’re here to cause me trouble, I have work to finish.”

The cowboy, ready to leave, bent down, grabbing the dead demon’s body by one arm with surprising strength for his size. He clearly planned to move it to… wherever one moved bodies in the Pentagon.

As he joined in the feeling of leaving, Alastor felt a pulse tighten inside him. That same damned pulse in his chest that had been calm, ignorable, all day, but now throbbed intensely, like an alarm, and Alastor felt his eye twitch.

No fucking way.

His eyes moved from the imp to the alley entrance, and there, materializing from the shadows with that fluid grace he now recognized with growing irritation, was her.

Oneira emerged from the shadows with that fluid grace he already recognized, her form solidifying from the darkness as if she had been there all along and had simply decided to become visible.

She was dressed more casually than at the Auditorium event—in her signature vest, black as always, trousers that allowed for easy movement, and without the most elaborate accessories—but equally unmistakable. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, swaying slightly with her gait. Her golden eyes fixed on Alastor immediately, and in her expression was a flicker of something that could have been exasperation, or irritation, or possibly both.

The imp turned at the sound of her presence, and the change in his posture was immediate and obvious. He relaxed completely, his shoulders slumping, his hands moving away from his weapons, his expression softening almost imperceptibly into something bordering on genuine respect.

"Boss," he said in a tone that was casual yet still clearly respectful. "Job done, no complications."

He paused briefly, his eyes moving between Oneira and Alastor, clearly noticing the way they looked at each other.

"...Mostly."

Oneira nodded once, briefly, but her eyes didn't leave Alastor.

"I see."

The silence that followed was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife.

Alastor maintained his smile, though he felt its edges tighten uncomfortably.

Oneira kept her expression neutral, though there was something about the way her tail twitched slightly that suggested barely contained irritation.

The imp—bless his ignorant soul—looked between them with growing confusion.

"You... know each other?"

"Briefly," Alastor replied in a tone that was too cheerful to be genuine.

"Certainly," Oneira added in a perfectly flat voice.

Another awkward silence prompted the imp to blink.

"Oookay," he slurred. "This is... awkward."

"Striker." Oneira finally tore her gaze from Alastor, addressing her employee more gently. "Finish disposing of the body. I'll wait for you outside."

Striker—the radio had just discovered that was his name—nodded, though his golden eyes flickered between them once more, and he clenched his jaw briefly, not entirely pleased with the order, but he nodded nonetheless.

He crouched down, gripped the dead demon's body by one arm with surprising strength considering its relatively compact size, and began dragging it toward the end of the alley where there was likely some method of disposal that Alastor didn't want to dwell on.

But before he vanished completely into the deepest shadows, he stopped.

He turned.

And looked directly at Alastor with an expression that conveyed the very clear message: I'm watching you.

Then he disappeared with the body, leaving Alastor and Oneira alone in the alley.

The silence returned, a little heavier than before.

Alastor opened his mouth to say… something. Anything to break this suffocating awkwardness.

Oneira spoke first.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nice night to be overseeing murders.”

Oneira looked at him with an expression that clearly conveyed, “Really?”

“I could say the same about lurking in alleys.”

“I wasn’t lurking. I was… observing.”

“Sure.” She crossed her arms. “Because that’s completely different.”

“It is.” Alastor persisted, knowing he sounded ridiculous but unable to stop himself. “Observing implies professional interest. Stalking implies malicious intent.”

“And your intention was…”

“Curiosity.” She answered honestly. “Your… employee. He’s competent.”

Something shifted in Oneira’s expression. Not exactly softening, but acknowledgment.

"He is," she said simply. "That's why I hired him."

"Hmm." Alastor drummed his fingers against his cane. "How long has he been working for you?"

"A couple of days."

"Oh."

More silence.

Alastor hated this. He hated the discomfort, he hated the throbbing in his chest that kept reminding him of his connection to this woman, he hated that every encounter with her seemed specifically designed to make him feel off balance.

Striker emerged from the end of the alley, wiping his hands on his vest with a satisfied expression of a job well done.

"All done," he announced. "Shall we go?"

Oneira nodded, but her eyes lingered on Alastor for a moment longer.

"Let's try... to avoid each other when possible. Functionally."

"Agreed." Alastor replied, relieved to have a concrete plan, even if it was a plan to 'pretend the other doesn't exist.'

And that was it.

Oneira turned, walking toward the back of the alley where Striker was probably waiting, her steps silent despite the sound of her heels on the pavement. Alastor watched her go, not moving from his position.

Striker emerged from the shadows just as Oneira approached, his hands now clean of blood but his expression still wary as his eyes moved toward Alastor one last time.

They exchanged brief words that Alastor couldn't hear from his distance.

And then Striker did something interesting.

He positioned himself slightly in front of Oneira as they walked toward the back exit of the alley. Not obviously protective, not in a way that insulted her ability to take care of herself... But definitely territorial. As if she were making it clear that any problem with her employer was his problem too, her eyes, as they passed near where Alastor still stood, conveyed that message with crystal clarity.

"Striker," Oneira said his name in a tone that immediately captured his attention. "Let's go."

"Yes, boss." But her eyes didn't leave Alastor as she spoke. "Is everything... alright?"

"Perfectly fine." She was already turning toward the alley exit, inevitably flashing a smile to confirm her point to the hitman.

Striker didn't seem entirely convinced, but he followed her anyway, walking slightly behind but maintaining a position that would allow him to react if anything happened.

Before disappearing completely onto the main street, she turned one last time.

"Radio-man," she called to him in a tone that was half warning, half curiosity. "See ya."

It didn't sound exactly like a threat, but it definitely didn't sound friendly.

Alastor watched them leave, his smile finally softening into something more genuinely weary. The pulse in his chest gradually slowed as the distance between them increased, and he sighed.

This was going to be considerably more complicated than he had anticipated.

Neutrality was one thing when it simply meant not attacking each other.

Alastor turned, leaving the alley in the opposite direction with steps that had lost their earlier triumphant rhythm… Yet now he had an idea.

Seeing the mare have such a friendly relationship with one of his new employees gave him an outlandish idea, drawing on his mortal memories.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

"What the hell are you doing here?"

It wasn't a question. It was a direct accusation wrapped in barely contained irritation.

Oneira couldn't understand what the hell Alastor was doing in her office. He was supposed to have an evening meeting with a bar owner who wanted to hire him, and instead, he'd ended up with the walking radio station sitting in the chair designated for clients as if he had every right in the world to be there.

Her secretary—that nervous devil who was usually competent—had come in moments before, babbling something about "the gentleman insisted he had an appointment" and "I couldn't stop him" before practically fleeing the office.

And there he was.

Alastor.

Sitting with that relaxed posture that screamed the overconfidence he always carried, his cane resting against the armrest, his perpetual smile fixed at that angle she was already learning to associate with "this is going to be irritating."

What happened to their promise to avoid each other as much as possible?

He inclined his head slightly, as if the question were perfectly reasonable—which, in fact, it is—and deserving of a polite answer.

“Good evening to you too, my dear.” His tone was far too cheerful. “I’ve come to negotiate, of course.”

Oneira stood in the doorway of her own office, processing those words with growing disbelief.

“Negotiate?” she repeated slowly.

“Yes. Negotiate. An exchange of mutually beneficial services. A fairly standard business concept.” He gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of his desk. “Are you going to sit down, or would you prefer to continue this conversation standing up? Because honestly, I can accommodate either, but it looks rather unprofessional.”

She stared at him for exactly five full seconds. Then she closed the door behind her with more force than strictly necessary, walked to her desk, and sat down with precise movements that clearly communicated she was choosing civilization over the considerably more violent alternative.

“You have exactly two minutes to explain what the hell you’re doing here before I call security.”

“You have security?” Alastor sounded genuinely curious. “I didn’t see any on the way here.”

“Striker’s downstairs,” she replied flatly. “And trust me, he’s more than happy to come up if I ask him.”

Something briefly shifted in Alastor’s expression. Not exactly tension, but it was as if he’d just remembered.

Oh yeah. The territorial imposter. That one.

“That won’t be necessary,” he finished with a smile. “As I mentioned, I’m here on legitimate business.”

Oneira leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studied him with a blank expression.

“Speak.”

Alastor shifted in his seat, his posture suggesting this was a conversation he’d carefully considered.

Which, considering she’d literally invaded his office without an appointment, was almost comical.

“I’ve been considering expanding.” “Not necessarily physical territory,” he began, his tone taking on a more professional quality. “But… influence. I need presence, the kind that transcends geographical location.”

“Fascinating.” Oneira didn’t sound fascinated. “And this concerns me because…?”

“Because you’ve already achieved exactly that.” His crimson eyes locked onto her golden ones. “Your coffee is in practically every district of the Pentagon. Demons of all ranks drink it. You’ve built a presence that goes beyond mere business.”

“How flattering. Go on.”

“My medium is different. Radio, broadcasts, the voice that reaches ears without the need for physical location.” He leaned slightly forward. “But it has limitations. It needs people to be listening, to have access to radios, to be in places where the broadcast can reach them.”

Oneira began to see where this was going. And she didn’t like that she could see.

“Your establishments,” Alastor continued, “are perfect. Demons go there regularly. They stay. They eat, they talk, they spend time. If there were radios in each location…”

“You’d have a captive audience,” she finished for him, her voice coming out colder.

“Exactly.” He smiled more broadly. “And you’d have free advertising. Every broadcast would mention Manhattan Café. Every demon listening would associate your brand with my content. We’d have a perfect symbiosis.”

Silence fell over the office as Oneira processed the proposal.

It wasn’t stupid, really. She could see the potential benefit.

Radio and coffee had enjoyed an almost symbiotic relationship in the mortal world for years after her death. Morning programs accompanied by a hot cup, afternoon news with a second cup—the way the two complemented each other, creating routines and habits.

It was a tried-and-tested concept, so there would be no flaw in its execution. In fact, it seemed strange to even think about it until now. Probably because she hadn't been alive when it was even invented.

But it also meant a deeper connection with this demon. Not necessarily contractual, but professional. Something more visible and public.

And after weeks of trying to keep her distance…

“Why?” she finally asked. “Why come to me with this?”

Alastor looked at her with that expression that bordered on genuine.

“Because you’re competent, because you’ve built something impressive. And because…” he hesitated briefly, “…frankly, if we’re going to keep accidentally bumping into each other every damn week, I’d prefer those encounters to be productive rather than just awkward.”

That was brutal honesty, perhaps unexpected, but damn valid.

Oneira felt a headache forming behind her eyes.

"Let me see if I understand correctly," she slowly summarized. "You want to install radios in all my establishments. Broadcast your... content, in exchange for advertising on those broadcasts."

"Correct."

"And who pays for the radios?"

"I do, obviously. They're my investment."

"And the maintenance?"

"Me too. My team will take care of it."

"And what if I don't like the content you broadcast?"

Alastor considered that.

"Reasonable limits can be set, nothing that will scare away customers, nor anything that will cause problems with... higher authorities." He paused. "Although honestly, considering your current clientele, I doubt my content would be particularly impactful compared to conversations you probably hear daily."

He had a point.

Damn it, he had a valid point.

Oneira drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking. The idea had merit. Additional publicity at no cost to her. An improved atmosphere in establishments with music, news, and entertainment that would keep customers longer. And longer stays meant more spending.

But it also meant a public association with Alastor. The demon who had tried to kill her weeks before. The same man who was making considerable waves. Rumors would circulate, speculation about the nature of their professional relationship; some would assume an alliance while others would assume… other things.

“I need to think about this,” she finally said.

“Of course.” Alastor stood, taking his staff. “Take all the time you need. Although…” He smiled with that touch of arrogance she was learning was his default expression, “…we both know it’s a good idea.”

“How presumptuous.”

“How realistic,” he corrected. “But I understand you need to process it. It’s a considerable decision.”

He headed for the door, her hand on the doorknob when she stopped.

“One more thing,” she said this time without turning around. “If you accept, I’ll need regular access to facilities for equipment maintenance. Which means we’ll probably be seeing each other more often.”

“We already see each other irritatingly often,” she replied curtly.

“True. But at least this would be… scheduled. Predictable.” She turned slightly, glancing at her over her shoulder. “Fewer unpleasant surprises in alleyways.”

And with that, he left.

Leaving Oneira sitting in her office, staring at the closed door, processing a proposal that made too much sense to reject immediately but had enough potential complications not to be accepted without serious consideration.

Mara condensed slightly in the shadow near her desk, rippling with something that felt like curiosity mixed with amusement.

“No,” Oneira said loudly, silencing her. “Don’t say anything.”

The shadow rippled again, this time definitely with amusement.

Oneira sighed, massaging her temples.

This was going to be a problem, maybe in the long run. She knew it.

But she also knew that Alastor was right about one thing: it was a good idea from a purely business perspective.

And she hadn't built an empire by ignoring good opportunities just because they came from shady sources.

Shit.

"So he wants to see me more often, but now with my consent?" she analyzed, confused, once a few seconds had passed since the radio demon left.

If Mara could raise her eyebrows, she would right now.

Not even she could create such hallucinations.

Chapter 9: Pragmatism.

"...and remember, sinners, that chaos is just order misinterpreted. Until next time, this has been Alastor, your favorite host on the infernal airwaves!"

That melodious voice drifted through the air with that distorted quality characteristic of radio broadcasts, accompanied by the subtle crackle of static that made each word sound unique to the red demon who summoned it.

"Before I sign off, a special thanks to Manhattan Café, whose exquisite product keeps this humble servant awake and alert to bring you the finest nighttime entertainment. Visit any of their locations in the Pentagon. Say Alastor sent you! Although they probably won't give you a discount."

A brief, almost musical laugh preceded the sign-off.

"Good night, Hell. May your nightmares be entertaining."

The broadcast ended with that characteristic final hum that signaled the end of the program, leaving only the soft murmur of instrumental jazz that filled the space between broadcasts.

The radio—an elegant model in dark wood with gold accents that was clearly not mass-produced but a custom piece—rested on a carved stone shelf in what was clearly a castle. The kind of structure that had survived centuries in the mortal world and had apparently been recreated with even greater detail in Hell.

The walls were made of a dark, almost black stone, with veins of lighter gray that caught the light from the candles strategically placed throughout the room. The ceilings arched high, disappearing into shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The enormous stained-glass windows depicted scenes of ancient battles while simultaneously allowing the perpetual red light from the Pentagon to filter through, tinting everything with that crimson hue from which there was no escape in Hell.

Period furniture—not replicas, but original pieces that had clearly been brought in or recreated with meticulous detail—filled the space with elegance. A long, dark oak table dominated the center of the dining room, large enough to easily accommodate twenty people but set for only two at this moment. Above it, silver candelabras held candles dripping black wax, causing the flickering light to create dancing shadows against the stone walls.

It was Gothic without being excessive. Elegant without being pretentious. The kind of space that clearly conveyed that someone very, very old lived here.

And indeed, the owner of the castle was exactly that.

Zestial sat at the head of the table, his posture simultaneously relaxed and perfectly upright. The oldest known Overlord of the Pentagon sliced ​​his meat with such precision that it spoke of centuries of practice in formal etiquette.

His presence was imposing even seated. Tall and slender, he exuded a restrained strength. His greenish-gray skin seemed to shift in tone with the light, and his multiple eyes—four pairs positioned in a way that would be almost unsettling to anyone with trypophobia—moved independently, some focused on his food, others on his companion, and one seemingly guarding the entrance to the room.

He dressed in a style that blended medieval and Victorian touches: a long, dark green robe embroidered with silver cobwebs. Over it, he wore a black vest with buttons that resembled tiny fossilized spiders. A medallion hung around his neck, depicting a spider extending its legs around and beyond its body. Inside the medallion was a pattern of neon green and red lines, the same pattern as the feather atop his hat.

Her companion, seated to his right, held a position that suggested familiarity rather than strict formality, yet was equally striking in a completely different way.

Oneira dressed with an elegance that favored functionality over ostentation, opting for a black vest with gold stitching details, perfectly tailored to her figure. Underneath, she wore a long-sleeved shirt in a dark gray tone that subtly contrasted with her grayish skin, slightly lighter than Zestial's. She wore black trousers that allowed for easy movement but were clearly of superior quality, along with elbow-length gloves of the type she usually wore.

Her black hair was loose, as it was on this night and most nights, falling naturally straight over her shoulders, catching the candlelight. Her mare-like ears twitched occasionally, responding to sounds only she could clearly perceive. Her tail rested elegantly beside her saddle, motionless, in keeping with her tranquil demeanor.

Her golden eyes—those distinctive, unforgettable ones—were fixed on his wine glass as he processed what they had just heard.

There was a brief pause after the broadcast ended.

Zestial took a sip from his own glass, his multiple eyes momentarily converging on Oneira with an expression impossible to fully decipher but definitely containing curiosity.

One of his eyes—the upper left—lifted slightly. The equivalent of raising an eyebrow for someone with his particular anatomy.

Oneira noticed... Of course she noticed, because she sighed softly, placing her glass on the table with deliberate care.

"Before you ask..."

"I wasn't going to ask anything." Zestial interrupted, his voice deep and resonant, with that accent Oneira had never quite placed because it was probably a mixture of several dead languages... Though she found it pleasant. "I just find him... interesting. That young demon, the one on the radio. His rise has been remarkable."

"It has been," Oneira agreed neutrally.

"Eight Overlords in less than two months. Impressive by any standard." Zestial cut another piece of meat. "And now he apparently has a business deal with you."

"It's just business." Oneira picked up her fork, spearing a piece of what was probably some hellish vegetable that tasted considerably better than it looked. "It's mutually beneficial. He gets a captive audience at my establishments, and I get free advertising on his broadcasts."

"Hmm." Zestial chewed thoughtfully. "Strategically solid. Radio and coffee have had a symbiotic relationship for decades in the mortal world. Makes sense to replicate it here."

"That's exactly what I thought."

"Although..." Another of his eyes shifted to her, "...wasn't this the same young man who tried to eliminate you a few weeks ago?"

Oneira didn't hesitate to answer.

"He was. Miscalculation on his part. I neutralized him, we reached an understanding. Now we're doing business."

"How pragmatic."

"Hell runs on pragmatism, Zestial. You taught me that."

He nodded in acknowledgment.

"True. Though I wonder if other Overlords will view this agreement through the same pragmatic lens, or if they'll start speculating about... other kinds of partnerships."

Oneira looked directly at him.

"Let them speculate all they want. The facts are simple: it's a business transaction. Nothing more."

"Of course." Zestial didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't press the point either. "And how's your installation going? Are the systems functioning properly?"

"No problems so far. Your team has been professional with maintenance, showing up on schedule, doing their job, and leaving. They're efficient."

"Your team, or him personally?"

Oneira took a sip of wine before answering.

"Both." She personally oversees the facilities at main locations, delegating the smaller branches.

"So you see him regularly."

"As contractually agreed, yes."

Another of Zestial's eyes shifted, studying her with renewed intensity.

"And these interactions are...?"

"They're professional, brief. Sometimes awkward because neither of us is particularly skilled at small talk, but they're functional, which is what matters."

That elicited something akin to a chuckle from Zestial. A deep sound that resonated in her chest before emerging as something between amusement and approval.

"I can picture the scene. The impulsive young demon who talks constantly and the ancient one who prefers efficient silence. Must be... entertaining."

"It is, somewhat." Oneira allowed a small smile to touch her lips. "Though I must admit it's considerably less irritating when he comes for scheduled reasons rather than showing up unexpectedly in alleyways."

"Did that happen?"

"More than once. The Pentagon apparently isn't as big as we'd like to think."

"Or maybe..." Zestial trailed off suggestively.

"No." Oneira cut him off firmly. "It's just a geographical coincidence multiplied by the fact that we both operate in multiple districts. Part of the equation, nothing more."

"If you say so."

They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes. The kind of silence that only exists between people who know each other well enough not to feel obligated to fill every second with conversation.

Finally, Zestial spoke again.

"Speaking of promising youngsters... Carmilla has been progressing admirably."

Oneira looked up, grateful for the change of subject.

"Oh, really? I heard she expanded her distribution network into the eastern district."

"She did. With considerable success." A certain genuine pride tinged Zestial's voice. "She has an eye for logistics that I rarely see in demons of her... seniority. Or the lack thereof."

"How long has she been under your mentorship now?"

"Approximately two years. She arrived in Hell with pre-established connections in the arms trade, which is unusual. Most have to build from scratch, but she… she brought mortal experience that translated well.”

"Smart of you to recognize potential early."

"She reminded me of someone." Several of Zestial’s eyes focused on Oneira with clear meaning.

She almost laughed.

"I didn’t come with pre-established connections. I had to build everything from literally nothing."

"No. But you came with something more valuable: patience. The long-term strategy, that understanding that sustainable power isn’t built overnight." Zestial took another sip of wine. "Carmilla has that, too. It’s refreshing in an age where so many youngsters like the radio demon believe that speed equals sustainable success."

"To be fair to Alastor…" Oneira surprised herself by defending him, "…his speed has been effective so far. Eight Overlords is no small feat."

"It isn't, but it's not sustainable either. Eventually, he'll find someone he can't eliminate with brute force and Southern charm." Zestial looked at her meaningfully. "Like he already did."

"I don't count. He caught me off guard, it won't happen again."

"Are you sure about that?"

The question hung in the air.

Oneira frowned slightly.

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing in particular. I'm just observing that this young man is... adaptable. When direct force failed with you, he switched to a business strategy. When conflict didn't work, he proposed cooperation. He's smarter than his initial impulsiveness would suggest."

"Which makes him more dangerous."

"Or more valuable as an associate." Zestial inclined his head. "Depending on how you look at it."

Oneira considered that as she finished her glass of wine.

He had a point. Alastor had demonstrated a flexibility that many new Overlords lacked. Most would have continued trying to attack her out of sheer pride. He had... pivoted. Found a different angle.

It was irritating how adaptable he was.

But it was also, admittedly, impressive.

"And what about your other projects?" Zestial changed the subject again. "I heard you hired a new assassin. An imp, correct?"

"Striker." Oneira nodded. "He's been... excellent, honestly. Efficient, loyal, competent. Exactly what I needed."

"And how does he feel about your association with the radio demon?"

Oneira nearly choked on her wine.

"Excuse me?"

"Striker," Zestial repeated with exaggerated patience. "That territorial employee who has apparently decided that protecting you is part of his unwritten job description. How does he feel about the fact that you now regularly see the demon who tried to kill you?"

"He doesn't like it," Oneira admitted. "Though he's professional about it. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"He makes occasional comments. Subtle questions about whether I 'need company' when Alastor comes to oversee facilities. That sort of thing."

"Sounds charming."

"He's protective. I appreciate it, honestly." Oneira leaned back in her chair. "Though he's a little... over the top sometimes."

"Genuine loyalty often is," Zestial observed. "It's rare in Hell. When you find it, it's worth cultivating."

"I know. That's why I tolerate him when he acts like he's my personal bodyguard instead of my employee."

"And how does Alastor react to that?"

"He can barely contain his irritation." A small smile touched Oneira's lips. "I don't think he's used to being visually challenged by imps. It's... entertaining to watch."

"I bet it is."

They finished their main course as the conversation drifted to more mundane topics. Things like updates on territories, shifts in power dynamics in specific districts, rumors about other Overlords they'd both heard but neither could fully confirm, at least not from their seats.

The kind of conversation that only occurred between individuals who had navigated Hell's politics long enough to understand its nuances.

Eventually, a server appeared—a silent demon in immaculate uniform—to clear plates and bring dessert. Something that looked like chocolate cake but probably contained ingredients Oneira preferred not to dwell on.

Not that she particularly cared. Decades in Hell had eroded any apprehension about consuming things of questionable origin.

Zestial waited until the server left before speaking again.

"There's something else I wanted to discuss with you. Something more... personal than the usual business matters."

Oneira looked up in surprise. Zestial rarely initiated personal conversations. Not because he was cold or distant, but simply because he respected other people's privacy as much as he valued his own.

That he was initiating this kind of dialogue was... unusual.

"Yes?"

"Your other half," he said directly. "Mara. She's been... particularly active lately."

Oneira felt an immediate tension settle in her shoulders.

"How do you know?"

"I have eyes in many places, my dear. Literally." He gestured vaguely toward his multiple pairs of eyes. "And several of my contacts have mentioned particularly mischievous shadow sightings causing... minor incidents all over the Pentagon."

"Minor incidents," Oneira repeated flatly. "What kind of incidents?"

"Nothing catastrophic. Mostly... annoyances. One minor demon ended up being chased by his own shadows for three hours. Another woke up to find all his furniture had been rearranged overnight. That sort of thing."

Oneira closed her eyes briefly, massaging the bridge of her nose.

"Of course."

"Aren't you monitoring their activities?"

"I monitor her when I can. But she has… considerable autonomy when I’m busy with other things." She sighed. "Did any of these incidents involve the radio demon?"

Something in Zestial’s expression shifted. Several of his eyes focused on her with renewed interest.

"Why do you ask that specifically?"

"Because…" Oneira hesitated. "…she’s been somewhat obsessed with him lately."

And so, silence fell over the table.

Zestial studied her with an intensity that would have made most demons squirm uncomfortably.

She maintained her composure, accustomed after decades to his particular scrutiny.

Finally, he spoke.

"Obsessed? What an interesting term. Elaborate."

"She visits him in her dreams. Constantly. She psychologically tortured him for fun. She’s developed… an interest in him that goes beyond mere casual entertainment.” Oneira picked up her fork, pushing a piece of cake around her plate without really eating it. “I think she likes it."

One of Zestial’s eyes lifted again.

"She likes it?"

"She likes teasing him, she likes studying him, she likes…" Oneira searched for the right words, "…the way he reacts to her. It’s like a personal project for her at this point."

"Fascinating.” Zestial leaned back in his chair. “And you? How do you feel about this… project of hers?"

"Mostly irritated. It complicated our initial neutrality. Alastor thought I was responsible for the dreams when it was actually completely Mara acting independently."

"Hmm.” Zestial picked up his glass, swirling it thoughtfully. “But Mara is part of you, isn’t she? Her actions, though autonomous, still reflect something of your underlying psyche."

Oneira tensed.

"What are you implying?"

"I’m just wondering…" Her tone was deliberately casual. "…if perhaps her actions reveal inner desires that you yourself haven’t fully acknowledged."

The ensuing silence was heavy, and Oneira stared at him.

"You’re joking."

"I rarely joke about psychology, dear. You know this."

"Mara doesn’t work that way." Oneira put down her fork more forcefully than necessary. "She’s not… a symbolic manifestation of my repressed desires. She’s a complete second personality that developed due to specific traumas. She has her own consciousness, her own goals, her own preferences…"

"Completely separate from yours?"

"Of course."

"Even in Hell, where the line between psychological separation and physical manifestation is… blurred?"

Oneira opened her mouth to reply, then closed it.

Damn Zestial and his knack for asking awkward questions.

"It’s complicated," she finally admitted. "In life, Mara was... a part of me that emerged under extreme stress. A true second personality in the clinical sense. But here, in Hell, she manifested physically as a separate entity, like a shadow with its own consciousness."

"But she's still connected to you."

"Yes. We share space, existence. But her thoughts are her own, her actions are her own. I don't... I don't have direct control over what she does when she decides to act independently."

Zestial considered this as he took a bite of his pastry.

"And when exactly did she develop? In life, I mean."

Oneira hesitated.

Talking about her mortal past wasn't something she did often. Not because she was particularly secretive, but simply because... it was awkward. Even after centuries.

But this was Zestial. If there was anyone in Hell she could be honest with about these things, it was him.

"Gradually," she said finally. "It started during my marriage. My husband was..." she searched for the right word "...difficult. Abusive in both physical and psychological ways. And I had no way out. No family to help me, no resources of my own, no realistic legal options at that time."

Her fingers tightened around her glass.

"So Mara emerged. At first, she was just like… a voice in my head, telling me things I would never allow myself to think. Suggesting solutions my conscience immediately rejected. But over time, she grew stronger, more present. Until eventually… there were times when I wasn’t me. I was her. Acting, speaking, doing things I would never do."

"Like killing your brothers."

Oneira glared at him.

"How…?"

"I have good investigators." Zestial said simply. "And we’ve been partners for a long time. It was inevitable that certain details of your past would eventually surface."

"They deserved it." Her words came out cold. "Years of torture, humiliation, making my life miserable for their own amusement while my parents looked the other way."

"I’m not judging." Zestial raised a hand. "Just confirming what I already suspected. Mara was born out of necessity. Out of self-preservation when all other options had been exhausted."

"Exactly."

"And then, after your husband... died in an accident?"

"The accident only hastened the inevitable." Oneira took a long sip of wine. "I opened a coffee shop with what was left of his money. It was ironic, honestly. He was a coffee addict. He'd forced me to learn everything about brewing, blends, different styles, and then I used that knowledge to build a business on his grave."

"And the customers you poisoned?"

"They were... experiments. Practice. Perfecting blends that killed slowly, in ways that looked like natural causes." Her eyes focused on some distant point. "Mara chose most of them. I just... carried out the orders."

"And her stepson?"

"He was my age. He was the spitting image of his father. His constant presence was like a youthful memory of my ex-husband…" her voice softened as she looked away. "I personally took care of him that time.

Zestial nodded slowly, processing all this information with the calm of someone who had spent centuries observing the worst atrocities that humanity and Hell had to offer.

"So she is… the product of your trauma. It was a survival mechanism that became something more.”

"Yes. And here, in Hell, that ‘something more’ has a physical form, and real autonomy.” Oneira looked directly at him. "So no, Zestial, when she decides to stalk the radio demon, it’s not because I secretly want her to. It’s because she finds it entertaining and has free will to act on it.”

"Are you absolutely sure about that?”

"Yes."

"Even considering that her obsession with him began before your business agreement? And after you started seeing him regularly?"

Oneira opened her mouth. Then she closed it.

She carefully processed the timeline.

Shit.

He had a point.

"It's a coincidence." she said without much conviction.

"Of course." Zestial didn't sound convinced at all. "Just like it's a coincidence that you defend his strategic decisions in casual conversation. And that you find it entertaining when your employee challenges him. And that you agreed to a business partnership with him despite having every reason to reject it on principle."

"That's just... business pragmatism." Oneira insisted. "Nothing more. Besides, his idea was very good."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Then there's no reason for you to be upset when I ask: Is she obsessed with him, or are you developing an interest that you're projecting onto her?"

His question landed like a stone in still water, so much so that she stared at him in disbelief and something bordering on genuine offense.

"You're... you're really suggesting that..."

"I'm just asking." Zestial raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Like a friend who's known you for a long time and has seen certain patterns before."

"There are no patterns. There's no ulterior motive. He's an irritating demon with whom I have a mutually beneficial business arrangement. That's all."

"Hmm."

"Don't 'hmm' me!" Oneira pointed her fork at him accusingly. "I know that tone. That's your 'I don't believe you, but I'm not going to push because I want you to come to your own conclusion' tone."

"I have a tone for that?"

"Yes. You've used it on me for decades. It doesn't work."

"Apparently it works well enough for you to recognize the tone." One of his eyes flashed with barely contained amusement.

Oneira glared at him in exasperation.

"You're impossible."

"I'm observant. There's a difference."

"Not when your observations are completely wrong."

"Are they?"

"Yes!"

"Then, just to be clear..." Zestial leaned forward slightly, "...you feel absolutely nothing unusual toward the young radio demon. No particular curiosity, no growing interest, no...attraction."

"Absolutely nothing," Oneira said firmly. "He's a business associate. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And Mara is simply harassing him because she finds it personally entertaining."

"Correct."

"Without any connection to your own potential feelings."

"Correct!

"Perfect." Zestial leaned back, smiling with several of his eyes. "Then there's no problem."

Oneira looked at him suspiciously.

"Why do I feel like you just manipulated me for something?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The spider acted overly innocent. "I'm simply clarifying the situation for my own understanding."

"Mmm-hmm."

They ate dessert in silence for several moments.

Eventually, Oneira sighed.

"Do you really think...?"

"I'm not thinking anything at all." Zestial interrupted her gently. "I'm just observing that the situation is...interesting. And that perhaps it's worth considering why exactly it bothers you so much when I suggest the possibility of personal interest."

"It bothers me because it's ridiculous."

"Or is it because it touches something you'd rather not examine?"

Oneira didn't answer, preferring to finish her dessert in silence, processing the conversation that had taken a completely unexpected turn.

Damn Zestial and his knack for asking questions that lingered, even hours later, when the mare sat cross-legged in her office, questioning the very nature of her alter ego.

I mean, Zestial wasn't so wrong. Her second personality, while distinct in character, was part of her, but at the same time, she was practically another person. If she knew better than anyone that she was practically another person, why doubt?

Well, she was another person with the same body and the same memories. Isn't that like a clone? But she possessed another personality, a character different from her own... She probably should take it differently, more as a warning. Because if Mara was attracted to that individual, she would probably see him the same way sooner or later.

And that wasn't even her concern; she wasn't afraid of developing romantic feelings for Alastor, because she knew it was foolish. But not foolish because of weakness or other traits that demons boast of not possessing. Her problem, to emphasize the point, wasn't the attraction she might feel for him.

In reality, the problem was the obsession she would develop over time.

Just like with her ex-husband.

The reason she never divorced him, despite the mistreatment and abuse she suffered at his hands, was simply because she had become obsessed with him. The pain and adrenaline he provided had caused her to feel far more emotions than she would have felt in a more stable marriage.

There were many factors that would make her become attached to someone as volatile as the radio-man. Loving someone amidst chaos, crises, abuse, and reconciliations was a constant adrenaline rush that became addictive the more it was experienced. Habit became fundamental in keeping the victim, who often wasn't even a complete victim, because who else could endure everything the perpetrator had caused?

There was no better relationship than one that sacrifices blood for love.

Her dark ears drooped along with the yawn Oneira gave as she stretched in her chair. She was dwelling on the matter more than it was worth; she would simply remain cautious and only approach the other person if absolutely necessary.

Her faithful, following shadow watched her with amusement, knowing what swirled through her mind like a tornado. Then, she vanished without a word, followed by a couple of knocks on the door.

"It's very late to keep working. You should close up the shop." She turned to her assistant, who was the only non-person who could possibly knock on her door at this hour.

And her assumptions were correct when she heard nothing from the other side, only footsteps receding.

"I respect your privacy as a woman by knocking, but I reaffirm my authority as your business partner by entering anyway!"

"What the—"

Your damn door flew across the office as, for some strange, stupid, and miserable reason, the hideous and disgusting RADIO DEMON interrupted your damn non-peace in your sacred space.

A violent whinny escaped the mare's nose, and she swore smoke was billowing from her head from the rage that was beginning to rise inside her.

"What the hell are you doing here, Alastor?" Oneira covered her face with both hands.

She definitely should have thought twice about signing that contract with him.

Alastor stood there in the middle of the office, the remains of the door still smoldering behind him, that perpetual grin that seemed wider than usual.

As if he had just done something perfectly reasonable.

As if violently bursting into someone's private office after ten o'clock at night was acceptable behavior between business associates.

"Good evening, my dear!" His tone was too cheerful, too energetic for someone who had just destroyed someone else's property. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Oneira stared at him through her fingers, her right eye twitching in a way that was probably visible even in the dim lighting of her office.

"My door." She reminded him in a dangerously calm voice. "You just smashed. My door."

"Oh, yes! About that…" Alastor gestured vaguely toward the wreckage "…I'm terribly sorry. I really thought I pushed it with reasonable force, but apparently I was a little… excited. I'll send you a replacement tomorrow. Something sturdier, perhaps. Oak reinforced with hell-iron. Very elegant."

"Alastor."

"Yes?"

"What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

He blinked, as if the question was odd.

"Oh, wasn't it obvious? I came to invite you to something."

Silently, Oneira slowly lowered her hands, revealing an expression that shifted between disbelief and barely contained fury.

"You came to... invite me?"

"Exactly!"

"By smashing my door?"

"Well, that part was an accident," he admitted, his tone suggesting he didn't consider it particularly serious. "But yes, I came to invite you. Do you have plans tonight?"

"I was planning to go to sleep, like a normal person would at this hour."

"Perfect! Then you're free." Alastor approached her desk with confident strides, his staff tapping the floor with a rhythm she found irritating, as she was learning to associate it with his presence. "You see, I recently acquired an establishment. A bar, to be specific. And I've been working on... renovating it. Giving it a proper atmosphere."

"And this concerns me because...?"

"Because I need your professional opinion, of course." He stopped in front of her desk, leaning slightly forward. "You’re an expert at managing establishments that serve drinks. You have an eye for ambiance, decor, that sort of thing. And…" Her smile widened. "…I also need to discuss the possible addition of your coffee to my bar offerings."

Oneira processed those words slowly.

"You want to… add coffee to alcoholic drinks."

"Yes! Coffee cocktails, specialty drinks, that sort of thing. It’s quite popular in certain circles. I thought it might be… synergistic.” He gestured with her hands in a way he probably thought was convincing. “Your products in my bar, cross-promotion, shared customers. It’s perfect!”

"It’s midnight."

"So?"

"And you just wrecked my door."

"I already apologized for that!"

"And you’re asking me to come inspect a bar. Now. At midnight."

"Exactly!" Alastor sounded genuinely pleased that she finally understood. "The bar is at its most… authentic at this hour. Nighttime clientele, a real atmosphere. It would be a real waste to inspect it during the day when, surprise, surprise, it’s empty."

Oneira stared at him, processing, trying to find a flaw in his logic that she could articulate without simply shouting.

Because technically... technically, he had a point. Bars were different at night. The ambiance, the flow of customers, the way the light and sound interacted... If she really wanted to assess whether his café would work in that space, seeing it operating would be more useful than seeing it empty.

But it was also midnight.

And he had smashed his door.

"No." she said finally.

"No?"

"No. I'm going home. You're going to pay for my door, and tomorrow, at a reasonable hour, we can discuss this civilly."

"But..." Alastor made what was probably meant as a plea, "...I'm already here. You're awake. The bar is operating. Why wait until tomorrow when we could resolve this now?"

"Because it's midnight, and I have reasonable limits of patience that you've completely exhausted."

"Completely?" He bowed his head. "Or is there still a small reserve that could convince you with a sufficiently persuasive argument?"

Oneira opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked at him with an expression that clearly and pitifully conveyed that she was seriously considering how much that clause in the contract about not harming each other meant to her.

Alastor seemed to notice the mental calculation taking place because his smile tightened slightly, and he took a cautious step back.

"Or..." he offered, his tone slightly less confident, "...I could sweeten the deal. We can do a quick inspection, thirty minutes maximum. And..." He hesitated briefly, considering what might be tempting enough for the mare, "...I'll give you a percentage of any sales involving your products. Ten percent."

"Twenty."

"Excuse me?"

"If I'm going to have to leave my comfortable office at midnight because some crazy demon destroyed my door, I want twenty percent of sales involving my products." Oneira leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "And you want my opinion on interior design? That's consulting. I charge for that, too."

Alastor blinked.

Then he smiled more broadly, pleased with his performance in the percentage auction.

"Fifteen percent and a free consultation, this time with the understanding that future consultations will have an agreed-upon fee."

"Eighteen percent."

"Seventeen, and I'll buy you dinner afterward."

"I already ate."

"Breakfast then. Tomorrow. Wherever you like."

Oneira studied him for a long moment.

She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She should simply say no, fire him, make him come back tomorrow as she would with any other civilized person.

But...

Seventeen percent of sales was a decent percentage. And the idea of ​​coffee in alcoholic cocktails was something she had considered before, but she had never found a suitable partner to execute it so efficiently, since most merchants simply bought the coffee and decided for themselves where to use it.

Besides, a small, nagging part of her brain—which sounded suspiciously like Zestial—whispered that maybe she was just looking for excuses to say yes.

And damn it.

"Seventeen percent, a paid consultation after this first time, breakfast tomorrow, and you replace my door with something considerably more durable AND more elegant,” she finished finally. “And if your bar is a complete disaster, I reserve the right to refuse to associate my products with it.”

"Deal!" Alastor immediately extended his hand, as if he feared she might change her mind at any moment.

Not far from his fears, Oneira eyed her with great suspicion before briefly shaking her hand, both of them removing their gloves before signing yet another agreement. To her surprise, his skin was surprisingly warm. She had expected… she wasn’t really sure what she had expected. Something colder, maybe. More cadaverous.

But no. Just the normal warmth of an average undead demon.

She quickly withdrew her hand, rising from her chair and grabbing her vest, which she had left hanging over the back.

"Thirty minutes." she reiterated as she put it on. "Not a second more."

"Of course, of course." Alastor was already moving toward where the door used to be. "It's a relatively short walk from here, thankfully. It's in the business district, near the border with the residential area."

"The bar?" Oneira guessed, recalling rumors she'd heard about Alastor's recent acquisition.

"Exactly! I see you're well-informed."

"Part of my job is to stay informed about changes in the local business landscape." Oneira followed him, passing the remains of her door with a look that promised future revenge. "Especially when they involve potential competition."

"Oh, hardly competition, sweetheart. Your café and my bar cater to different niches." Alastor waited for her to leave first before following her. "Although I suppose that with this new collaboration, the lines will blur a little."

They walked down the building's corridor, descending the stairs to the ground floor where Manhattan Café's main location still had a few late-night customers enjoying their evening drinks.

Striker stood there, leaning against the counter, his expression immediately turning alert when he saw Oneira descend with Alastor behind her.

"Boss," he straightened. "Everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine," Oneira replied before Alastor could say anything. "I'm just checking out one location. I'll be back in an hour."

Striker's golden eyes shifted to Alastor, assessing him with an expression that clearly conveyed his thoughts on the situation.

"Would you like company?"

"It's not necessary." Oneira grabbed her coat from the rack near the exit. "Though I appreciate the offer."

"I could insist."

"You could." She turned, looking at him with an expression that was both kind and firm. "But you won't. Right?"

Striker clenched his jaw briefly, his eyes shifting once more to Alastor with that territorial glint that was becoming all too familiar.

Finally, he nodded, reluctant but obedient.

"Right, boss."

"Good. Close up when the last customers are gone. See you tomorrow."

Oneira slipped on her coat with precise movements, adjusting the collar while carefully avoiding looking in the direction Alastor waited, that contained energy that seemed to vibrate around him.

On the periphery of her consciousness, she could feel Mara twitching with barely contained amusement. Of course, she deliberately ignored her other half.

"Ready when you're ready," Alastor said from his position near the door, his cane resting casually against his shoulder.

Oneira finished adjusting her coat and walked toward the exit, passing Striker, who watched her with concern and something akin to resignation.

"One hour," she reiterated, for the benefit of the imp. Maximo.

"Understood, boss."

Alastor opened the door in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion. The Pentagon's night air seeped in, carrying that perpetual heat that never truly cooled but was at least different from the recycled air of the establishment.

Oneira stepped out first, hearing the door close behind them as Alastor positioned himself beside her, clearly ready to guide her to her destination.

And as they began walking, away from the familiar glow of their own establishment and into the uncertainty of whatever Alastor had created...

Oneira couldn't help but think of that specific clause in the contract.

The one they had signed weeks ago.

The one that stipulated neutrality, that specifically included terms about not harming each other.

And she so deeply regretted having agreed to it.

Because right now, with Alastor practically bouncing with excitement beside her as he guided her toward who-knows-what impulsive project she'd undertaken without proper supervision...

She really, really wanted to punch him.

Notes:

I hope everything is translated as well as possible because when I was finishing it, everything got deleted and I was too lazy to edit it properly from the beginning.

Aside from that, I kind of like how the relationship between the mare and the deer is developing. Sometimes I end up writing things I hadn't originally planned for the chapter, but that I still enjoy adding.

Chapter 10: Jazz.

Notes:

A small glossary in case you don't know:

¹ Speakeasy: A speakeasy is a clandestine, hidden, and secret bar that emerged in the U.S. during Prohibition (1920-1933) to sell alcohol illegally. It is characterized by concealed entrances (behind shops, barbershops) and the requirement of a password to enter, creating an exclusive experience that has been reborn today in modern bars that imitate this historic and mysterious style.

² Branding: Branding is the strategic process of building, designing, and managing a brand's identity to make it recognizable, valuable, and desirable, creating an emotional connection with the public beyond the product, through visual elements (logo, colors) and non-visual elements (purpose, values, tone of voice, customer experience) to influence purchasing decisions and generate long-term loyalty.

³ Sclera: Simply put, the white part of the eye.

⁴ Prohibition: Refers to Prohibition in the United States (1920-1933), which banned the manufacture, sale, transport and importation of alcoholic beverages, fostering organized crime, speakeasies and alcohol smuggling, despite not prohibiting its private consumption.

His broadcast had ended cleanly.

Alastor pressed the cutoff button with the satisfaction that comes from knowing he'd delivered a solidly successful show. Nothing spectacular tonight—no screams from recent victims to share, no dramatic revelations about the downfall of some overlord—but it had been entertaining nonetheless. Hellish gossip, rumors about territorial moves, some jazz interspersed between spoken segments, and of course, his now-customary thanks to Manhattan Café.

That last bit had become a regular part of his closings. Not because he had to—the contract didn't specify an exact frequency of mentions—but because… well. It was good coffee. And the arrangement was working considerably better than he'd anticipated.

His radios were in virtually every Manhattan location now, maintaining a captivated audience exactly as he'd projected, and coffee sales had apparently increased in establishments where his broadcasts were most popular.

Their symbiosis was indeed working.

He leaned back in his chair as the private studio he inhabited fell silent, save for the soft hum of the equipment that was beginning to cool down after hours of use.

The space was... functional. It wasn't luxurious, nor particularly large, but it served its purpose quite well. It was located in an anonymous building in a district that wasn't important enough to attract attention, but also not so deplorable as to pose a security risk. He settled into a small room with walls lined with sound-absorbing material and a combination of appropriate panels; when those weren't enough, he used tapestries stolen from who-knows-where. His broadcasting equipment took up most of the space: a vintage microphone he'd "acquired" from some fallen collector's collection, a mixer that had cost more than it was worth, and a recorder for when he needed to pre-record segments.

Add a chair, a desk, and a lamp that cast a warm light on his notes.

That was all he needed.

Alastor drummed his fingers on the desk, his mind already moving on to the next task as his eyes skimmed over the scattered papers in front of him. The documents about his latest acquisition.

The bar.

That dive—though that name was temporary—which he'd decided to transform into something more... fitting. More personal. And he was still weighing options.

He'd spent the last two weeks transforming that disastrous establishment into something worth owning, first giving it a thorough cleaning—the floor alone had required three full days of work to remove decades of accumulated grime—then focusing on structural repairs like reinforcing the walls, replacing sections of the ceiling that threatened to collapse at any moment, installing lighting that didn't flicker epileptically...

And finally, the part that had really mattered to him: the decor.

He'd had a specific vision from the moment he decided to keep the place. He didn't want a generic, hellish bar, not another place where demons got drunk and fought and caused pointless destruction.

He wanted... something more. Something he would remember.

Something like New Orleans.

Not the entire city—that would have been impossible and frankly unnecessary—but something that captured the essence of the specific establishments he'd frequented so often in life. Those hidden speakeasies where jazz flowed as freely as bootleg liquor and where the atmosphere was intimate, stifling in the best way, thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and music that made even the stiffest feet tap.

Places where he'd undoubtedly spent some of his best mortal nights.

This had been a personal project in a way that few things truly were. Every detail was carefully selected by his judgment and what remained of his mortal memory. Every piece of decor was specifically chosen because it evoked a particular memory or feeling.

And now it was almost finished.

Almost.

Just a few final touches. And one of those details—one he'd been considering for days—involved a certain hot beverage with which he'd developed a complicated association.

Coffee.

Specifically, coffee integrated into the cocktail menu.

The idea had come gradually. It was first a passing thought while tasting whiskey one night and noticing how the lingering taste of coffee in his mouth—the damned taste that never quite went away—actually complemented the alcohol in an interesting way.

Then he considered it more seriously when he recalled certain drinks from his mortal life. Perhaps Irish coffee served in heavy cups, but the way the caffeine and alcohol balanced each other, one energizing while the other relaxing, was something he definitely needed in his new establishment.

And it became part of his concrete plan.

If he was going to have a bar that captured the essence of the best of his mortal life, he needed to include all the appropriate elements. And coffee—complicated as it was by his association with a certain businesswoman—was an integral part of that experience.

Which brought us to the current problem.

He needed her coffee.

Not generic coffee. Not the cheap swill most bars served. He needed a quality he sadly knew Manhattan Café would provide, because if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

And that meant… involving her.

Alastor frowned slightly, feeling his fingers stop in their drumming.

Recalling, Oneira had been the woman he'd tried to kill weeks before. The woman who had humiliated him, scarred him, and seemingly lived in his head—rent-free, no less—thanks to that damned, constant pulse.

She was also the woman with whom he now had a working business relationship. She was the one who had allowed him to install her radios in all his establishments, the one who was seemingly competent, professional, and—most importantly for this specific situation—an expert in exactly the kind of integration he needed to implement.

He overthought the advantages of inviting her to inspect the bar:

First, genuine experience. She knew how establishments that served drinks operated. She could identify problems he might overlook.

In life, he'd been a radio host, not an entrepreneur. It was only natural that he needed... advice.

Second, if she approved the integration of his products, the implementation process would be considerably smoother.

Third, the contract they had signed included a non-injury clause. Which meant he could be relatively certain that she wouldn't try to poison him with his own coffee as a creative act of revenge.

Fourth, the radio stations. The agreement had resulted in a significant expansion of their reach. That deserved… not exactly gratitude, but at least some acknowledgment of that mutual benefit.

Now, the potential consequences of inviting her.

One, it was her.

Two, every interaction so far had had some level of awkwardness, even the professional ones.

Three, his employee would probably give him that "I'll annihilate you any minute" look throughout the entire process. Though he didn't mind that much. He could teach her that comparing herself to him was a mistake.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, considering.

The practical decision was obvious, as the pros significantly outweighed the cons. He needed her expertise, he needed her approval to use his products, and the timing was right now that the renovations were nearly complete.

The personal awkwardness was… manageable. He could be professional for one night. He had handled considerably more awkward situations with sufficient grace.

And besides…

Alastor paused on that thought, examining it with a wariness that made him unsure of its source.

There was a small part of him—very small, easily ignored if he chose to—that was genuinely curious about what she would think of the space he had created.

Not because he particularly valued her opinion or sought its validation. But because… she was old, considerably older than he was. She had likely witnessed the evolution of various drinking establishments over the centuries and, with that knowledge, had successfully operated her own empire for decades.

And the bar he had created was personal in ways few things could be.

If anyone could properly appreciate it—understand not only the technical execution but also the emotional weight behind certain choices—it would be someone with that historical perspective.

…Which was a foolish, sentimental thought that had no place in his business decision.

Alastor stood abruptly, gripping the cane that had been resting against the desk.

He had had enough deliberation.

The practical decision was clear. He needed her expertise, he had a legitimate reason to ask for it, and the worst-case scenario was enduring some awkward hours before he never had to do this again.

The potential benefit outweighed the minimal risk.

Simple.

He left the studio, closing the door behind him with the final click that echoed in the empty hallway.

The building was quiet at this hour. Most occupants had likely already retired or were busy with their own affairs behind closed doors.

It was perfect. Fewer witnesses to his departure.

The streets of the Pentagon were in their usual nighttime state when he emerged from the building. That perpetual red glow that never truly went dark but somehow felt different after what passed for "day" was over, demons moving about for various purposes, some toward entertainment, some toward night jobs, and still others simply wandering because sleep was optional in Hell.

Alastor walked with purposeful steps toward the district where Manhattan Café had its main location.

The journey took approximately twenty minutes, navigating streets that gradually became more refined and organized. From the chaos of neutral zones to the relative order of his well-maintained territory.

The Manhattan Café building appeared ahead, its windows still illuminated with late-night customers visible through the glass.

Alastor paused briefly, adjusting his suit with unnecessary precision, ensuring his smile was properly fixed, and he wouldn't even admit it was a little wider than usual.

Probably.

With renewed determination, Alastor bypassed the establishment's door and entered through the top, slipping through its shadows.

Time to see if his calculations were correct or if he had just made a mistake he would regret for weeks.

And given his recent history with this particular woman, the odds seemed uncomfortably balanced.

The fact that he had destroyed her door in the process of extending the invitation was... unfortunate. But manageable.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The walk was... less awkward than Alastor had anticipated.

Oneira didn't fill the silence with unnecessary conversation, which he actually appreciated. She simply walked beside him with a relaxedly alert posture. Her eyes occasionally scanned the surroundings with the kind of awareness that came from decades of navigating Hell.

Her coat moved slightly with each step, and Alastor noticed—because apparently his brain had decided to turn him into an observer of irrelevant details tonight—that it coordinated perfectly with the rest of her outfit. Black on black on black, with only those gold details on her waistcoat providing contrast with the occasional patch of white.

It was certainly cohesive and deliberate. Like everything else about her, he supposed.

"How far is it?" she asked after about five minutes of silence.

"Another five minutes." Alastor adjusted his grip on his cane. "The commercial district borders the more... residential area. It was a good location, honestly. Close enough to high-traffic areas but not so saturated that competition would be unsustainable."

"Hmm," she considered that. "What's your target clientele?"

"Mid-range demons. Not necessarily overlords, though they'd certainly be welcome. But mainly those with enough resources to afford something of quality, but not so established that they only frequent exclusive establishments."

"It's a... reasonable niche. Less saturated than the high or low ends."

"That's exactly what I thought."

They both fell into another silence after that. It wasn't entirely comfortable, but it wasn't particularly tense either.

The bar eventually appeared on the corner where the commercial district began its gradual transition into the more residential area. The building was two stories, a structure that had probably been built decades ago and had seen several owners before Alastor claimed it.

But now...

The exterior had been transformed.

It was no longer a deplorable facade with a pathetic sign like before. Alastor had invested considerable time, ensuring the first impression was appropriate. Wasn't it the most important, after all?

The front wall had been repainted a deep black that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Above the entrance, instead of the old neon sign, there was now an elegant marquee with gold lettering that spelled out the new name:

Speakeasy & Lounge.

Warm lights framed the entrance, projecting an amber glow that was inviting without being overly bright. A small red velvet train—because Alastor had decided that if he was going to do this, he would do it properly—marked the entrance where a demon in a dark suit checked… well, nothing really, since there was no guest list, but the illusion of exclusivity was part of the effect.

Oneira paused, studying the exterior with an expression that… well, didn't reveal much.

"Speakeasy & Lounge." she repeated the name. "How direct."

“I prefer clarity in branding.” Alastor gestured toward the entrance. “Shall we go in?”

She nodded, following him to the door where the security demon—one of the few employees Alastor had hired specifically for this project—saw them approaching and immediately straightened up.

“Sir.” She bowed her head respectfully. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you.” Alastor didn’t stop, confidently pushing the door open as Oneira followed.

And then they went inside.

The change in atmosphere was immediate and dramatic.

Outside, the streets of the Pentagon were dominated by perpetual heat and constant red light. Inside…

Inside was a completely different world.

The entrance opened onto a descending staircase, its steps covered with a dark red carpet that absorbed the sound of footsteps. The walls were lined with wallpaper in a black and gold damask pattern, illuminated by wall lamps that cast a warm, dim light.

They descended, and with each step, the sound grew clearer.

Jazz.

Not recorded. Not played through speakers.

Live.

The main bar space stretched out before them at the foot of the stairs, and Alastor watched with barely concealed satisfaction as Oneira's eyes widened slightly.

The ceiling was low—deliberately low—creating a sense of intimacy that made the space feel fuller than it actually was. Dark wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, from which hung art deco lamps that cast an amber-gold light, making the whole place glow with a warmth that was rare in Hell.

The bar itself dominated the left wall of the space with a long wooden counter that gleamed under the carefully positioned lighting. Behind him, shelves lined the wall to the ceiling, artistically displaying bottles. It wasn't just cheap alcohol anymore, but a curated selection that included imported spirits, aged whiskeys, and several bottles Alastor had "acquired."

Small, round tables filled the rest of the space, each covered with a black tablecloth and accompanied by comfortable, yet not overly so, chairs, each with a candle providing additional light.

But what truly captivated the eye was the stage.

Small, raised only slightly off the floor, positioned in the back corner where the acoustics were best. And on it, a quartet of demons played.

Piano, upright bass, drums, saxophone...

The pianist—a thin demon with long fingers, who knows where he'd been forced to play—was playing a melody Alastor vaguely recognized as Stardust, by Hoagy Carmichael.

The place was half full. Demons were scattered among the tables, some conversing in hushed tones, others simply listening to the music with expressions ranging from appreciation to nostalgia, or even absolutely nothing. Cigarette smoke drifted in the air, creating that characteristic haze Alastor remembered from similar establishments in his lifetime.

And the aroma…

Alastor allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction as he surveyed the space he had created. It was perfect. As close to a recreation of those places in his memory as was possible in Hell.

Oneira remained by his side, and when Alastor finally turned to observe her reaction, he found her studying the space with an intensity unlike her usual professional assessment.

There was something else in her expression. Something bordering on...

"This is..." she began, but was interrupted.

"ALASTOR!"

The voice came from a certain direction in the bar, feminine and shrill in a way that was simultaneously irritating and strangely charming.

Alastor turned just in time to see that small but voluptuous figure emerging from behind the counter, navigating between tables with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years in this type of establishment.

Mimzy.

Her demonic form was... exactly what one would expect. Petite, curvaceous, wearing a red sequined dress that shimmered under the lights from every angle. Her blonde hair was styled in waves, adorned with a feathered headband that matched her dress. Her eyes—large, expressive, and with black sclera—were dramatically made up in the style that had been popular in her era.

She wore a wide, genuine smile, the kind that lit up entire rooms.

"Darling!" she called, approaching him, her arms outstretched in a gesture Alastor knew from experience would end in a hug tighter than her size suggested. "You didn't tell me you were coming tonight! I would have prepared something special!"

Alastor allowed the embrace briefly before gracefully pulling away.

"Mimzy, dear. Everything looks splendid as always."

"Of course it does, darling." She took a step back as her eyes scanned him approvingly. “This place is running like a dream. Customers keep coming, the music is perfect, and…” Her eyes shifted to Oneira, widening with immediate interest. “…and who is this beauty?”

To her credit, the dark-haired woman remained unfazed by the sudden scrutiny. She simply maintained her relaxed posture, observing Mimzy with that neutral expression she wore when assessing new people… or rather, the one she wore for everything.

“Oneira,” she introduced herself before Alastor could. “Business partner of Mr. Alastor.”

“Business partner?” Mimzy repeated the words with a tone that suggested she didn’t believe too much. “How fascinating! Alastor, darling, you didn’t tell me you had such elegant partners.”

“It’s recent.” Alastor gestured vaguely. “Oneira operates Manhattan Café. I'm considering adding your products to our drinks menu.”

The change in Mimzy's expression was immediate.

"Oh?" Her tone became considerably more respectful. "Oh, darling, your establishments are absolutely divine. I've been to the one in the central district several times. The ambiance, the quality... it's impeccable."

"Thank you." Oneira bowed her head slightly. "I appreciate the compliment."

"It's not a compliment if it's true, my dear." Mimzy turned to Alastor. "So you brought the lady here to show her around? To get her blessing to use your products?"

"Something like that." Alastor confirmed. "I thought a personal inspection would be appropriate."

"Well, then let me make sure you have the best experience!" Mimzy was practically bouncing with excitement. "Would you like a table? Drinks? Something to eat? We have some new appetizers the chef has been experimenting with..."

"Perhaps later." Alastor raised a hand, gentle but firm. “First, I’d like to give you a proper tour of the place.”

“Of course, of course.” Mimzy stepped back. “I don’t want to interfere with business. But Alastor…” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “…you know where to find me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

The emphasis on “anything at all” was as subtle as a hammer blow, and Alastor felt his right eye twitch slightly.

“Thank you, Mimzy.”

She swayed away with that undulation of hips, pure performance, heading back toward the bar where she'd apparently been overseeing operations before noticing his arrival.

Alastor turned to Oneira, half expecting some expression of judgment or perhaps irritation at Mimzy's display. Instead, he found something closer to attentive curiosity. Analytical, most likely, considering we were talking about the mare.

"She's... energetic," Oneira observed.

"She's Mimzy." Alastor said, as if that explained everything. Which, honestly, it did. "I knew her when she was alive. She operated speakeasies in New Orleans during Prohibition. When she arrived in Hell..." he gestured around, "...it made sense to collaborate again."

"Does she work for you?"

"Something like that. She handles day-to-day operations; I provide resources and overall direction. She has experience that would be foolish to waste."

Oneira nodded slowly, her eyes shifting back to the wider space.

“And all this?” She gestured, encompassing the entire bar. “Is it a recreation of something specific?”

Alastor hesitated briefly.

This was where it got… personal.

“Come,” he said finally, starting to walk toward one of the empty tables near the stage and carelessly grasping her wrist. “Let me show you properly.”

She followed him… though she had no choice. As he led her through the space, Alastor allowed himself a moment of nervous anticipation he rarely experienced. They settled at a table near the stage, far enough away to allow for a conversation about the music without shouting, but close enough to fully appreciate the musicians’ skill.

Alastor didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he stood with his cane in hand, gesturing to different elements of the space with an enthusiasm he rarely allowed others to see. It wasn't that he was specifically trying to impress her, though there was a nervous anticipation at the base of his stomach that he preferred not to examine too closely. It was more pride in what was his. The space he'd created mattered in ways few things did, and explaining it required a vulnerability he usually avoided like the plague.

But here they were. And he had asked.

"See those photographs?" He pointed to the nearest wall, where black-and-white images captured moments frozen in time. "That's Storyville. The red-light district of New Orleans before it was shut down in 1917. That's where jazz was really born. Not in fancy salons or respectable theaters, but in brothels and seedy bars where Black and Creole people mixed blues with ragtime and created something entirely new."

She just followed his gaze, studying the photographs with genuine attention rather than politeness. She didn't interrupt him, simply allowing him to continue, and something about that made the words flow more easily than he'd anticipated.

"My mother..." The word came out with an unplanned softness, "...used to take me to places like this when I was young. Not these exactly, of course. She would never have taken me to Storyville proper. But there were other establishments. Speakeasies during Prohibition where the music flowed as freely as the bootleg liquor." His smile became more genuine. "Places where you could hear musicians who would never have a chance to play in 'respectable' venues simply because of the color of their skin."

He moved toward the bar, his steps following a route she'd clearly taken several times before. She followed without comment. Her eyes continually scanned the details as he spoke, and the piano music in the background had shifted to a new tune, something more upbeat but just as hypnotic as Billie Holiday's "Blue Moon."

“This kind of establishment…” he continued, gesturing broadly with his cane to the space, “…was where real people went. Not high society pretending to be sophisticated. But workers, artists, criminals, people who lived authentic lives instead of acting them.” He paused in front of the bar, his fingers tracing the edge of the polished counter. “There was honesty in these places. Violence sometimes, yes. But also genuine joy. Music that made even the most cynical feel something.”

Alastor turned to face her directly, and for a moment allowed his smile to soften into something closer to a genuine expression. Not completely vulnerable, never completely vulnerable, but at least not a complete mask either.

"When I died and came here..." His eyes moved around the space he had created. "...one of the first things I missed wasn't my home, my possessions, or even my mortal freedom. It was this." He tapped his cane softly against the floor. "The feeling of being in a place where music mattered more than appearances. Where you could be a monster and no one batted an eye because, what does it matter? Everyone else was, too."

There was a pause as the pianist finished his piece with particularly elaborate flourish. Scattered applause echoed from some of the tables, and the quartet began a new melody almost immediately. This one was slower, more melancholic, the kind that made the atmosphere of the place feel even more intimate.

“So when I acquired this space…” Alastor continued, his voice lowering slightly as if sharing a secret, “…I didn’t want just another generic hellhole bar. I wanted to recreate something. Not perfectly—that would be impossible. But to capture the essence of those places that made life worth living in their best days.”

Finally, he sat down, settling into the chair with practiced grace as his staff rested against the table. The mare took the opposite seat, her movements equally fluid but with a different quality. Where he was theatrical even at rest, she was simply… efficient. As if every gesture had been calculated to serve a specific purpose without waste.

“The lighting,” he gestured toward the lamps hanging above them, “is deliberately dim. Originally, it was because electricity was expensive or because they wanted to conceal illegal activities. Here…” He smiled with a touch of irony, “…it’s because it makes everyone look their best and because it creates an atmosphere that allows people to relax. Let their guard down.”

His fingers drummed against the table, continuing the nervous rhythm he'd started earlier.

"Even things like small tables had their own significance, and that was standard in places like this because it facilitated private conversations, discreet business deals, clandestine romances..." His eyes met hers briefly before he moved. "And of course, live jazz. No recording can fully capture the experience of hearing real musicians responding to the atmosphere of the space, to the energy of the audience."

Oneira had remained silent throughout his explanation, even in that professional neutrality she wore by default. Yet her eyes... her eyes had followed his every move, studied every detail he pointed out, and there was something about the way she was watching him now that suggested she had indeed heard him.

"It's..." she began finally, feeling her voice come out softer than usual, "...quite personal, that."

It was his observation, his conclusion, and the way he said it suggested he understood the weight of what he'd just shared, even if he didn't articulate it directly.

Alastor felt something tighten in his chest. Not discomfort exactly, but a certain vulnerability he hadn't anticipated feeling. He'd revealed more than he'd planned. But he could benefit from it.

"It is," he admitted, because denying the obvious would have been insulting to both of them. "Which is precisely why your opinion on integrating coffee matters. If I'm going to incorporate anything else into this space, it needs to be high-quality and not compromise what I've built."

That was true. It was also a convenient shift into more professional territory, and they both knew it, but Oneira allowed the change without comment, clasping her hands on the table as she considered it.

"Coffee in cocktails can work well," she thought aloud after a pause. "Even original drinks you create specifically for this place." Her eyes moved toward the bar. "Do you have any trained bartenders?"

“Mimzy is, along with two others I hired specifically for their cocktail expertise.” Alastor leaned back in his chair, grateful for the return to more practical conversation. “But she would need specific training to properly prepare drinks with your products.”

“That’s manageable. I can provide training sessions.” She nodded in agreement. “And in terms of supply, depending on the volume you anticipate, we could set up regular deliveries or…”

She stopped her monologue abruptly, and Alastor noticed the change. The way her eyes had focused on something behind him, the slight tension that had crept into her posture. He turned to follow her gaze and found… Nothing particularly remarkable. Just the space they had been through earlier; tables with customers enjoying their drinks, the stage where the musicians were still playing, even Mimzy moving between tables with that effervescent energy that was genuinely charming.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Oneira hesitated. For the first time since entering the establishment, she seemed...uncomfortable. Not obviously, not in a way most people would notice, but Alastor had spent enough time observing her recently to recognize subtle signs.

"I..." she began, then stopped again, as if struggling to admit something. "I've never been to places like this before."

Alastor blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"A bar. A speakeasy. This kind of..." She gestured vaguely into the space, "...establishment with live music and a social atmosphere." Her fingers tightened slightly where they were interlaced. "It's not something I've experienced. Not in life, not in death."

The silence that followed was thick as Alastor processed those words.

This couldn't be serious.

She'd been in Hell for... how long? Decades? And she'd run drinking establishments successfully for decades. How could she have never...?

"But your cafes..." she said slowly, trying to reconcile the information, "...have a social atmosphere. Music sometimes. People gathering and..."

"It's different," she interrupted, her tone firm but not defensive. "My establishments are designed for functionality, with the specific purpose of maintaining a loyal and productive clientele. Not for..." She glanced around, "...this. Whatever this is."

"It's different." Alastor stared at her.

Then he looked around the space he had so carefully created.

Then back at her.

"Are you telling me..." he began, his voice coming out louder than intended, "...that you've existed for decades, run successful businesses, navigated hellish politics, and never... not once... have you gone somewhere simply to enjoy music and company?"

"That's right."

"And dancing?" he continued, disbelief and genuine indignation rising in his chest. "Have you ever danced? Even once?"

Oneira looked at him as if she clearly considered the question absurd.

"No. Why would I?"

"Why...?" Alastor felt his eye begin to twitch, repeating it. "Why would you?"

It was personally offensive in ways he could barely articulate.

"Oneira." He spoke her name with a weight he usually reserved for considerably more serious moments. “Look at me.”

She did, her golden eyes finding his in a confused way.

“Are you upset about… that?”

“I’m not upset,” he lied shamelessly. “I’m horrified. Outraged. Frankly insulted in the name of every musician who ever lived.”

“That seems excessive.”

“Excessive?” Alastor gestured broadly toward the stage where the quartet continued playing, completely oblivious to the unfolding drama. “Do you see that music? Do you hear that rhythm? It exists to be experienced. To be felt. Not just…” He gestured vaguely with his hand toward her, “…to be observed from some safe distance.”

Oneira opened her mouth, probably to argue or perhaps simply to point out that he was being ridiculous, but Alastor had already made up his mind.

Because this wasn't going to work.

She turned, her eyes quickly scanning the space until they located Mimzy, who was near the bar talking to one of the bartenders. She caught her attention with a simple gesture, and Mimzy immediately understood what she needed, moving toward the stage with a new purpose as Alastor turned back to Oneira, frowning.

"Stand up." It wasn't a request.

"What?"

"Stand up." he repeated, extending his hand toward her in a gesture somewhere between an invitation and a command. "If you've existed for decades without experiencing this, then I've clearly failed in my mission to properly recreate the essence of these establishments."

Oneira eyed his outstretched hand with suspicion that, after a few seconds, turned to apprehension.

"Alastor, I don't think..."

"I'm not asking your opinion on whether you think it's a good idea," he interrupted. "I'm informing you of what's going to happen. You're going to stand up. You're going to come with me to that open space near the stage. And you're going to learn exactly why jazz exists."

... But Alastor was going to make it functional.

 

Because he hadn't made the effort to convince her, even offering a percentage of his profits, only to end up abandoning everything simply because he lacked a complete vision. At the same time, he wouldn't allow mistakes based on ignorance, much less in the space he had worked so hard on.

"That sounds like a demand."

"Oh, my dear, it's because it is a demand."

She raised both eyebrows. "I don't accept demands."

"This one will."

As the stag and the mare engaged in a visual struggle for dominance, the music gradually shifted, becoming slower. More deliberate. The kind of piece that invited movement rather than passive appreciation.

Smiling proudly at the ideal change, Alastor kept his hand extended toward the woman.

"This is your last chance to accept."

Sighing in surrender, and before she could even make a move, the shadow behind her deliberately shifted, giving her a little nudge. Small but strong enough to completely shatter Oneira's already compromised balance from being half-upright.

She fell forward.

And because the universe—or more specifically, Mara—had a particularly cruel sense of humor, she landed directly in Alastor's direction.

He reacted instinctively, moving his hands to catch her before they both ended up in a mess on the floor. His staff hit the table as his arms wrapped around her, stabilizing her against his chest in what definitely hadn't been a planned position.

For a moment, they remained exactly like that.

Her face was pressed against his jacket. Her hands had found their way to his shoulders, gripping for balance. Her tail had thumped against his leg in the process, sending a small shock of surprise through his system, and Alastor, because apparently his brain had decided that now was the perfect time to make a comment, heard the words leave her mouth before he could stop them... or even think them.

"Oh!" His laugh came out more nervously than intended "...you didn't have to fall into my arms, my dear. Though I appreciate the enthusiasm."

Oneira pulled back enough to look him directly in the eye.

And the expression on her face...

Oh.

That was pure, simmering fury.

Her golden eyes gleamed with something that promised certain future revenge. Her jaw was clenched, and if looks could kill, Alastor would have been instantly incinerated.

"That," she began, dangerously calm. "It wasn't. My. Fault."

"Technically..." Alastor began.

"Your shadow and mine have apparently decided to collaborate in humiliating me," the words escaped her lips, ignoring his attempt at a comment.

"In my defense, I didn't plan..."

"I don't care."

She stepped away from him completely, adjusting her vest with movements that were perhaps more forceful than strictly necessary. Her cheeks—if Alastor wasn't mistaken—had the slightest hint of color that suggested shame as well as anger.

Which was… unexpectedly charming, honestly. Which he wouldn’t admit aloud. He valued his life, or rather the absence of the feeling of a second death. Or perhaps a third, depending on how many times the woman’s vengeful appetite was satisfied.

The music continued to play. The musicians, professionals to the end, had maintained a steady melody throughout the entire exchange as if this kind of drama were a regular occurrence.

Alastor retrieved his cane, his own composure returning with years of practice perfecting his public persona.

“Well,” he reiterated with slightly forced cheerfulness. “Since we’re both standing…”

He extended his hand again. Though this time not as a request or a demand, but as a gentle and simple invitation.

Oneira looked at him, seriously considering simply leaving, calling Striker, returning to the safety of her office where things made sense and where there certainly weren’t any radio demons insisting on unsolicited dance lessons.

…But she didn’t.

Instead, after a moment that felt considerably longer than it probably was, he took her hand.

His fingers were warm where they met hers. Not exactly soft—there were calluses there that spoke of work he had done in life and continued to do in death—but they weren't particularly unpleasant.

Just... real.

Alastor guided her toward an open space near the stage, aware in a way he rarely was of every point where their bodies touched. His hand in hers, his other hand moving to rest lightly on her waist once they reached the appropriate position.

Her posture was rigid. Tense in a way that clearly communicated she would rather be literally anywhere else.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice dropping to a volume only she could hear over the music. "I'm not going to torture you. It's just a dance."

"I can't dance," she replied, equally soft. "I already told you that."

“I know. That’s why I’m teaching you.” His feet began to move in a simple, basic pattern, the kind he’d learned as a young man and that his body knew so well it didn’t require conscious effort. “Just follow my lead, don’t overthink it.”

“Not thinking is literally contrary to my very nature.”

“Then this will be an exercise in expanding your horizons.”

And so they began to move. Clumsily at first, Oneira clearly lacked experience, and her attempts to follow his lead resulted in steps that were more determined stomps than fluid movements. Yet Alastor was patient in ways he rarely was.

Because this mattered.

Perhaps under the guise of wanting the coffee treaty to happen for the sake of the bar's future, or under the idea that having existed for centuries without experiencing music in this way was fundamentally wrong.

"Don't look at your feet," he instructed when she noticed her gaze dropping. "Look at me. Trust me, your feet will follow if you let them."

"That sounds like a perfect excuse to step on your toes."

Alastor snorted. "You've done worse to me."

That elicited something that might almost have been laughter from her. A small, amused sound that escaped before she could stop it. They continued moving, and gradually—so gradually that Alastor wasn't sure exactly when it happened—Oneira began to relax.

Her shoulders dropped. Her movements became less mechanical. And while she certainly wasn't an experienced dancer, there was a natural grace in the way she finally allowed her body to respond to the rhythm.

The first song melted into a second. And the second into a third. At some point, Alastor realized he was no longer thinking about teaching or correcting or maintaining conversation to fill potentially awkward silences.

He was just... dancing.

With her.

In that space he had created specifically and ironically to capture moments like this.

And it was...

It was good. Considerably better than good, if he was honest with himself.

Which he would have chosen, were it not for the fact that honesty about certain matters led down paths he preferred not to explore.

Notes:

Although I didn't like it at first, I ended up quite enjoying the ending of the episode. I hope Alastor didn't feel too out of character, because despite everything, he knows that to approach the lions he has to offer them food first.

Or rather, he tries to believe that.

Personally, I think that for Alastor, or at least this version of him, the jazz was very important. He's not as confident or dangerous as the one from Hazbin Season 1 because he's considerably younger and knows that being intimidating with Oneira won't get him what he wants.

Furthermore, in my little Oneira's time, music was something reserved for the upper class, and instead of making it themselves, they dedicated themselves more to watching opera and theater. In that sense, their establishments are rather simple. The radio provided a better atmosphere in their establishments.

I spent hours writing and editing this with 1920s jazz playing in the background. I hope you like it at least as much as I did. (๑'ᵕ'๑)⸝*

Chapter 11: Breakfast.

Oneira dropped into the chair with less grace than she normally exhibited, and that small detail was the first thing Alastor noticed when he followed her back to the table.

She didn't exactly collapse, that would have been too dramatic and too out of character, much more considering who we were talking about, but she definitely sat with an urgency that communicated that physical need to no longer be on her feet. Her hands went immediately to her hair, trying to tame the strands that had escaped her usual style during the dance.

It didn't work particularly well. Several black strands still hung in a disordered way around her face, one even falling partially over her right eye in a way that would have been almost comical if it weren't for the fact that it gave her a certain... softness. A disarray that made her look considerably more accessible than her usual self-control.

Alastor allowed himself a moment of observation before taking his own seat. Although admittedly there was a certain attraction in seeing someone usually so composed in that level, though light, of disorder. It was more pure curiosity about how she would process what they had just experienced.

On his side, he settled into the opposite chair recovering his staff, the one he had left resting against the table before the dance. His fingers found the handle with that familiarity that was comforting, anchoring him to the present instead of allowing his mind to wander too much on something unnecessary.

“Drinks,” he declared, raising a hand to call the attention of some nearby server. “We definitely need drinks.”

Oneira looked at him from behind the partial curtain of her disheveled hair while tacitly communicating a thank you... And exasperation.

“Are you always so... intense with your hobbies?”

“Only the ones that matter to me, peach.” he responded without thinking at his guest's tiredness.

The previously called server arrived—at first glance, a young demon that Alastor had hired specifically for his ability to be invisible until you needed him—and took their orders with a flattering silent efficiency. Whisky for him, red wine for her after a moment of consideration, which was an interesting choice that Alastor noted but preferred not to comment on.

When the server withdrew the silence returned to the table, allowing to notice the fact that the music had resumed its melody, since the musicians had taken a brief break and now played something new. Softer this time, the type of melody designed to facilitate conversation instead of demanding full attention to the track.

Alastor's fingers tapped delicately against the table following the rhythm of the current song, observing how Oneira had finally abandoned her attempts to fix her hair and simply let it fall where it wanted. Her hands now rested in her lap, her fingers intertwined in a way that communicated that she was processing something internally.

“So,” he started, because clearly someone had to break the silence and she seemed content letting him do it. “What do you think? Of the place, I mean. Not just the dance but the...” his hands accompanied his voice, encompassing the space in a gesture “...all.”

Oneira raised her gaze, her golden eyes met his in a way considerably more open than it had been at the beginning of the night. As if dancing had eroded some of her usual defenses, leaving her in a state where being honest required less effort than required.

“It’s...” she paused, clearly choosing her words with care “...exceptional. Not only in terms of execution quality, although that is undeniable, but in... atmosphere. In the sensation it evokes.”

Her fingers moved to adjust her vest in a small nervous gesture.

“It’s different,” she continued. “From any establishment I have operated or frequented.”

Oneira let the word hang one second longer in the air, her gaze lost toward the musicians who kept playing without flinching, as if she needed a few moments to accept that this place was different from any of hers. The Radio Demon leaned slightly forward, his red eyes shining with that same spark as always, waiting.

The waiter appeared and vanished in silence, having brought with him whisky for him and a deep red wine for her. Alastor barely raised his glass, took a short sip and looked at her again.

“Exceptional.” he repeated, savoring the word with satisfaction. “From your mouth it sounds almost like a miracle, dear.”

She smiled sideways and took her own glass, letting the wine burn her tongue before swallowing.

“And different,” he continued, turning the whisky between his fingers with slowness. “Exactly what I intended.”

He made a brief pause, the just and necessary one.

“So, we return to the matter. You've seen it all, you've danced it, you've felt it. Training for Mimzy and the rest, exclusive shipments, blends that work with my menu without stepping on each other... What do you say, dear?”

Oneira observed him over the edge of the glass, took another slower sip and mentally reviewed the dance, the firm hand on her waist, the confession barely whispered about those mortal cafés that no longer existed along with the instant in which he had let a small crack of his show, but real. And she valued the real.

“Very well,” she concluded at last, leaving the glass on the table with a light tinkle. “I accept your terms. I myself will supervise the training of your staff, starting with Mimzy, who learns fast and has potential. There will be regular shipments of our best blends, adapted specifically to your menu so that they complement each other and do not compete. And if the collaboration turns out as... productive as this night, we'll talk about exclusive creations just for this place.”

He let out a low laugh, loaded with static and contained triumph.

“I expected no less from you.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused despite herself.

“You convinced me,” she admitted, and the phrase came out softer than she intended. “Not only with the place, but with that small confession about what it means to you. Authenticity isn't found every day down here.”

He tilted his head, accepting the compliment without saying anything else. The silence that remained was calm, almost with a danger of those that both knew how to handle.

The music lowered in rhythm, becoming slower, more intimate. Oneira looked at the wall clock discreetly. The granted time had ended a while ago, although in reality she had doubled it on purpose, and she didn't regret a second.

Some firm and heavy steps approached from behind. Striker stopped at a respectful distance, with the hat between his hands and straight posture.

“Madam,” he said simply, with grave voice and without inflections. “The transport is ready.”

She let out a short sigh, more theatrical than necessary, and stood up, smoothing her vest with a quick gesture. The Radio Demon stood up too, with staff in hand and a smile wider than usual.

“I have to go,” she said, turning toward him one last time. “Your time is up.”

She smiled for real, barely a second.

“But I still expect that promised breakfast, Radio Demon. Tomorrow, no delays.”

“Count on it!” he responded with his eyes narrowed with amusement.

Striker offered his arm. She took it, and before turning around added over her shoulder:

“No excuses.”

The main door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed more than it should.

Alastor stayed looking at the empty space where she had been, much longer than strictly necessary, with narrowed eyes and the smile intact, but certainly tense at the corners. The aroma of toasted coffee and jasmine remained floating, stubborn to her departure.

Mimzy appeared then at his side, fanning herself with exaggeration.

“Wow, wow... what a nice woman.”

She gave him a playful tap on the arm with the closed fan.

“Too much your style, don't you think, Al?”

He took a long second to answer. His fingers played once against the staff's handle.

Afterwards, very low, he admitted:

“You might be right.”

And the smile he possessed stretched a little more. Only a little.

But enough.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The conversation had flowed with an ease surprising during most of the breakfast; mostly about comments on the food, casual observations about other customers, small anecdotes about absurd situations that both had witnessed in their respective establishments. The kind of exchange that didn't require a conscious effort, that simply existed in that comfortable space between professional and personal without the need to define exactly where it fell.

Alastor had finished his French toast with genuine satisfaction, cleaning the last remnants of syrup with his fork in a way that his mother would probably have found slightly rude but that he couldn't avoid when the food was particularly good. Oneira, on the other hand, had progressed more slowly through her omelette, taking measured bites between sips of coffee that she had declared "acceptable, although not exceptional" with that tone that suggested that was a considerable compliment coming from her.

Laurent had passed twice to check if they needed something more like refilling the coffee or ensuring that everything met their standards. The kind of attention that was professional without being intrusive, exactly what would be expected from someone who had operated in a successful establishment for decades.

And now, with their plates mostly empty and the coffee cups in various stages of consumption, the conversation had found that particular rhythm that happened when the food no longer provided the convenient distraction and the silence needed to be filled with something more substantial than superficial observations.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing into something that was considerably less performative than he normally allowed in company. His fingers played with the edge of his coffee cup, tracing the circle repeatedly in a way that was almost meditative. His eyes moved occasionally to the window, observing demons passing on the street outside, but mostly they remained on Oneira with an interest that had been growing steadily during the last weeks.

Because it was interesting, this development. This evolution from "person I tried to kill" to "business partner" to "someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with". And beyond enjoyment, there was utility. Potential that Alastor had started to recognize with increasing clarity during the last days.

Oneira was powerful. Established. Respected among Overlords in ways that he was still working to achieve. She had resources, connections, experience that he simply did not possess due to his relative youth in infernal terms. And more important than all that, she had shown that she could hold her own position against him. That she didn't intimidate easily. That she was smart enough to see through his bullshit but pragmatic enough to work with him anyway.

Exactly the kind of person who would be invaluable to have in his corner. As an ally. As... something more than just occasional business partner.

It wasn't romanticism what he felt. Alastor had spent enough time examining his own feelings during the last days to be reasonably sure of that. It was more pragmatic, something more calculated. The recognition of having her close and interested was ensuring that she would continue to see value in their association... all that served his interests in ways that went beyond simple access to her network of cafés.

Although it had to be admitted that the time spent with her was not exactly unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was a certain... spark in their interactions that made even mundane conversations feel more interesting than they had right to be.

Which only made his plan easier to execute. Because he didn't have to completely fake enjoying her company when he genuinely did.

“What are you thinking?” Oneira's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Alastor blinked, realizing that he had been staring at her for probably longer than acceptable.

“Curiosity,” He responded with honesty that was only partial. “I was thinking about how you look now versus how you probably looked in life. It's fascinating how Hell transforms appearances based on... What exactly? Sins? True nature? Twisted self-perception?”

Oneira arched an eyebrow at that, her expression communicating that she hadn't anticipated that turn in the conversation but that it wasn't completely rejected.

“A morning philosophy, how ambitious of you.”

“I prefer to think of it as genuine curiosity.” Alastor leaned slightly forward, his fingers finally stopping their game with the coffee cup. “Because look, me for example,” he gestured vaguely toward himself. “Deer. Which apparently was the universe's decision based on my bad luck.”

“Maybe you just look good with antlers,” Oneira commented with perfectly dry tone.

Alastor laughed at that, a genuine laugh that came out before he could contain it.

“How generous of you to notice it. But seriously, How did you look? Before all this. Before Hell decided that mare ears and tail were appropriate additions to your aesthetic.”

Oneira considered the question for a moment, her fingers moving to adjust her vest in a gesture that Alastor was learning to recognize as a sign that she was processing how to respond. Not nervous exactly, but deliberative. Seeing what words to choose carefully about the information revealed.

“Not so different, honestly,” she said finally. “Less height according to my humanity but maintaining the same structure. Black hair, eyes that were darker then... Without the ears obviously, without the tail. Ordinary in the most human way possible.”

Alastor nodded, processing that information while building a mental image of how she would have looked walking through the streets of Paris. It was strangely easy to visualize once you removed the demonic elements. Just a woman in period attire, moving through that world that probably hadn't been particularly kind to her.

“And you?” Oneira returned the question, her eyes studying him with renewed interest. “How did the famous radio demon look when he still had to worry about mundane things like socially acceptable appearances?”

“Similar too,” Alastor made a vague gesture toward his face. “Same basic structure, but less tall too, since Hell makes us all taller or shorter it seems. More rebellious hair, wavy. Without the antlers, without the triangle-shaped teeth, skin worthy of... A creole of the era.”

He paused, considering what else to add.

“More presentable I suppose, I had to be for my radio work. Appearances mattered even if most of my audience never saw me directly. But there was a certain... standard to maintain. Especially as a black man in New Orleans. You had to look twice as respectable to receive half the respect.”

Something changed in Oneira's expression at those last words. Not dramatically, but Alastor noticed it anyway. Small narrowing of eyes, slight tilt of head that suggested she was processing something specific.

“That surprises me,” her tone took on a more thoughtful quality. “What you achieved in life, I mean. Your position in radio, your apparent success. Considering the era... it shouldn't have been possible. Or at least, considerably more difficult than you had right to expect.”

“It was,” Alastor confirmed with a tone that was sharper than he had planned. “Every step required double the effort for half the recognition, every achievement was questioned and every error was amplified. The kind of shit that teaches you quickly to be better than everyone else just to be considered equal.”

Oneira nodded slowly, her fingers drumming against the table in a pattern that was analytical rather than nervous.

The topic must generate an emotion in Alastor strong enough for him to say a swear word.

“My era was different but completely in certain aspects. Pre-revolutionary France. Classes were much more rigidly defined, your skin color mattered but also your lineage, your position, a thousand other factors that determined exactly how much you were worth in society's eyes.”

She took a sip of her coffee before continuing, somewhat distant due to the remembrance of things she would prefer not to remember but that were relevant to the conversation.

“My family was... accommodated and aristocratic. Not in the nobility exactly but sufficiently established to have lands, property, resources... Oh! We even had some slaves.”

Alastor stopped the spoon halfway.

“Excuse me?”

“Ah, yes. Many were well-behaved, dad didn't have to slap them much to do their job,” Oneira seemed to travel in time while a small smile settled on her face. “Dad was from the last generation, probably. How I miss them. They didn't complain, didn't ask for money, nothing. And they were happy...”

“Uh? Well, happy no, no, I don't think that...”

“Yeees, they were!” the mare insisted as if she had been the enslaved one. “Our favorite game was a type of hide and seek, but if we found them, we gave them with a whip on the hand so they scream. Haha...”

Alastor observed her with both eyebrows raised, feeling in a strange way how for some strange reason a certain heat settled on his face... But curious for more.

“And what happened with them?”

“In fact, something happened that my child self found funny at the time. That time other slaves had arrived, only these were dark-skinned and spoke a language that to this day I still don't know which one it is, I think South American... And what do you think?” the deer demon tensed, but preferred not to say anything. “Our slaves, enslaved them!”

Before Alastor could even think of something, Oneira continued.

“It wasn't because they had been ordered to do it, no one told them to treat the newcomers as inferiors. They simply... did it. Because finally there was someone below them in hierarchy. Finally they could exercise power over others who were in an even worse position. And they did it with an enthusiasm that was... revealing. About human nature. About how even victims become perpetrators when given the opportunity.”

The silence that followed was dense. Alastor took a slow sip of his coffee, using the time to process her words and decide how to respond in a... appropriate way.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out controlled. Too controlled. The kind of calm that preceded violence or that contained it with considerable effort.

“What a fascinating anthropological observation,” the words dripped with sarcasm that was sharper than any direct insult. “The cycle of abuse perpetuating itself. Victims becoming victimizers. A valuable lesson about human nature that I'm sure had absolutely no personal cost for those involved.”

Oneira raised her gaze at his tone, allowing both pairs of eyes to meet each other, observing him with a barrier... Not defensive exactly, but neither completely unaffected by his response.

“What made me realize from a very young age that the entire system was... monstrous. In a way that went beyond simply individual owners being cruel. Who would think that instead of supporting each other, they would discriminate against each other just for their skin color?”

It took the radio demon another couple of seconds to realize the situation.

Well, at least she wasn't racist. That was a plus.

“How progressive of you to recognize it,” Alastor couldn't help expressing a certain satisfaction. “I'm sure that recognition was great consolation for those who suffered while you observed from a position of safety.”

“It wasn't,” she responded with simplicity.

She paused a moment, feeling her fingers loosening slightly around her cup.

“Eventually I left my family. And never, in all my mortal life after that, did I have a slave under my property.”

Alastor studied her for a long moment, narrowing his eyes while processing her words and deciding what to believe. Because it was easy to say things. It was easy to claim moral positions retrospectively when you were already dead and the consequences of your mortal actions were mostly irrelevant.

But she looked honest, at least as honest as someone could be about events that had occurred centuries ago and that probably had been distorted by time and memory and all the rest of the shit that complicated personal narratives.

“At least Hell is democratic in its cruelty,” he finished for her her charming introspection. “We are all equally miserable here. Regardless of what class or color or position we had up there. Down here only power matters and how you use it.”

“True,” Oneira agreed, a small smile touching her lips at the observation. “Although I could argue that this simply replaces one type of arbitrary hierarchy with another.”

“Maybe. But at least this one is honest about what it is.”

Alastor took another sip of his coffee, considering whether to push the conversation in a completely different direction or allow it to continue in this personal-historical territory they had been exploring.

He decided on a middle point.

“Do you miss something?” the radio demon inquired while settling in his chair. “From your mortal life. Something specific that Hell cannot replicate no matter how much power you accumulate.”

Oneira considered the question for a moment that extended enough for Alastor to wonder if she was going to answer at all.

“No,” she finalized with simplicity. “There is nothing from that life that I miss enough to regret its absence. Which probably says something about the quality of that existence, but that's a separate analysis.”

Alastor blinked at that response, genuinely surprised for the second time in the conversation.

“Nothing? Not even... I don't know, some particular flavor of some food that no longer exists? A specific view? A certain special person?”

“Nothing,” she repeated. “Everything that was worth it from that life I have replicated or improved here. The rest...” she gestured vaguely in another direction “...is better forgotten.”

There was something almost sad in that admission. Not because she seemed sad saying it but because the complete absence of nostalgia, of attachment to her mortal past, suggested perhaps a level of trauma or disillusionment that went beyond simply having a bad life.

It suggested that her life had been so fundamentally miserable that death and eternal damnation were genuinely preferable. Which caused a vibration on the verge of emerging from Alastor's background.

It was similar to him.

“That's...” Alastor searched for the appropriate word “...depressing.”

“Pragmatic,” Oneira corrected him, and he mentally noted her favorite word. “Why cling to memories of existences that were fundamentally inferior to my current situation? It would be emotionally inefficient.”

“Because humans are not emotionally efficient, sweetness. Even when we are dead.”

“Maybe you are not,” a small smile played on her lips. “I have had centuries to perfect the art.”

Debating between whether it was some defensive layer or adaptability, eventually he decided that it was probably both. That it could be simultaneously true that she didn't miss her mortal life and that that lack of attachment was in itself a defense mechanism against having to process how horrible that life had been.

“Well then,” he decided that it wasn't his job to psychoanalyze her emotional responses. “And you? You have asked me but you haven't shared your own response. What does the great radio demon miss from his time among the living?”

Alastor leaned back in his chair, considering the question with seriousness that perhaps it didn't deserve but that felt appropriate given the circumstances.

“Live music,” He started. “You know this obviously, given the whole bar thing. But not just jazz or any specific genre. But the experience of being in a space where musicians are creating something in real time. That particular energy that cannot be replicated completely even with better recreations.”

He paused while his fingers resumed that rhythmic game against the table in an unconscious pattern that never repeated.

“Jambalaya, my mother's recipe had been –according to her– passed through generations and that she never wrote because "if you have to write a recipe then you don't really understand it".”

His voice had softened slightly when talking about that, taking a quality that he rarely allowed others to hear. Real vulnerability instead of performative... To then observe the mare with amusement.

“Although I think I have perfected it, adding one or another touch from Hell.”

Despite the clear cannibal indirect, Oneira didn't seem to be judging or taking mental notes to use against him later. Her golden orbs were focused on his face in a way that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

“It sounds... pleasant,” she opined softly on the topic. “Having memories like that. Things worth missing.”

“Dear, unfortunately that in Hell makes you significantly weaker. That's the point of this place, which turns this conversation into a surprisingly deep philosophy for this casual breakfast.”

“You started with the existential questions about demonic transformations.”

“Touché, Mon Cher.”

Laurent appeared again, interrupting the moment in a delicate and even timid way. He was not ignorant about who he had in front of him.

“Anything else, sirs? More coffee perhaps?”

Alastor looked toward Oneira with implicit question in his expression. She checked the wall clock that was in the place discreetly to subsequently shake her head.

“I think we're done, thank you.”

“Very well. I'll bring the bill.”

Laurent withdrew with efficiency, leaving them in a silence that was comfortable despite the weight of the previous conversation.

Alastor allowed himself a moment of introspection while both waited. The way the light from the window captured her profile. How her fingers had returned to that drumming pattern against the table that clearly had become an unconscious habit. The slight disarray of her hair that still hadn't been completely tamed since last night's dance.

His plan was progressing considerably better than he had anticipated. Not by particularly skillful manipulation on his part but because he genuinely enjoyed her company, because conversations like this were interesting in ways that few were.

And that was perfect, because it only made everything easier. Because he didn't have to fake interest that he didn't feel. He just had to... continue doing exactly what he was doing. Spend time with her, have substantial conversations. Demonstrate that he was valuable as an ally as much as she was for him.

Reach the point of being needed.
Like an addiction.

Laurent returned with the bill sooner than expected. Alastor took it before Oneira could even reach it, ignoring her look of slight irritation at the gesture.

“I invited,” he simplified. “It would be discourteous to allow you to pay.”

“How chivalrous.”

“Occasionally I have moments of courtesy. They are rare, but they exist.”

The radio demon paid with some infernal coin that the narrator really won't bother to name. Laurent accepted the payment with appropriate thanks before withdrawing one last time with some hurry, leaving them free to leave whenever they wanted.

Both stood up simultaneously, Oneira recovering her coat while Alastor adjusted his staff against his palm. Their movements were synchronized in a purely coincident way but that felt rehearsed.

They went out to the perpetual heat of the Pentagram while the door closing behind them with bell tinkling their farewell. The street was slightly more active now than when they had arrived, as there were more demons moving with some morning purpose toward destinations of their own concern.

They remained standing outside the bistro, as neither moved immediately to leave. As if both were processing how to end this encounter appropriately without making it strange or excessively formal, due to their new tacit dynamic.

Alastor broke the eventual silence, because clearly someone had to do it and who better than him taking the initiative.

“This was pleasant,” He said, allowing the genuineness to filter through his tone. “More pleasant than a business breakfast has right to be, honestly.”

“I agree,” Oneira adjusted her coat, moving her fingers and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in her jacket. “Although technically it stopped being purely business at some point around the discussion about demonic transformations.”

“Minor details, heart.”

A small smile touched her lips at that.

Alastor considered his next move carefully. He didn't want to seem too eager, nor too interested in securing future encounters. But he also didn't want to leave this as a unique event that would never be repeated.

“We should do this again,” he said finally, hiding the contained air and turning it into a casual tone, as if the idea had just occurred to him instead of being something he had been considering since last night. “Regularly even. Not necessarily a breakfast every time, but... encounters. To discuss the commercial integration, supervise how the collaboration is working, that kind of things.”

He allowed himself a pause to then smile less widely than usual, but at the same time, less tense.

“And perhaps occasionally for simply... talk. Without the need for a necessary business agenda.”

Oneira's ears rose suddenly in the deer's direction, as if her body had reacted first before her brain. Her eyes, which had been widened by surprise, narrowed slightly in an attempt to decipher the innovative motivation behind his suggestion, carefully evaluating the type of tone or context in which she would be required in ideas of that kind.

And while she considered her response, the shadows behind her moved.

And Alastor, with his attention focused on Oneira, saw the change. That small darkening, as if a cloud had passed over the sun except that there was no real sun in Hell, only perpetual red light.

And in that brief darkening, for a fraction of a second, he thought he saw... something. An outline. A form that was vaguely humanoid but made completely of shadows denser than those that normally existed. With eyes that shone red.

And that for that moment before disappearing completely, reminded him of something.

Alastor blinked, his attention sharpened while trying to focus on what he had seen but by the time his eyes adjusted, whatever had been there was no longer. Only normal shadows projected by surrounding buildings, behaving exactly as shadows should behave.

Had he imagined that?

Possibly. Hell did strange things with perception occasionally. Light tricks, minor manifestations of demonic power that sometimes bled into visible reality.

Or maybe it hadn't been his imagination at all.

But before he could fully process what he had seen —or think he had seen— Oneira spoke, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Okay,” She said finally, and her voice came out with such quality that suggested she had arrived at this decision independently, although her tone was slightly softer than it had been moments before. “Regular encounters, to supervise the commercial collaboration and...” she paused, small smile touching her lips “...occasionally for simply talk without the necessary agenda.”

Alastor felt satisfaction expanding in his chest at those words, although part of his attention still remained on those shadows that had acted strangely. He kept his expression carefully neutral apart from his characteristic smile that widened only marginally.

He felt he had control of the direction of things, and that almost played his smooth expression.

“Excellent.” he responded, tilting his head in a gesture of thanks.

She turned then, starting to walk in the direction toward her own territory with measured steps even on the irregular pavement of the Pentagram. Her coat moved slightly with each step, her tail —that demonic addition that he had mentioned casually during their conversation— swayed in a natural counterpoint to her movement.

And as she walked away, Alastor noticed again the shadows around her. They didn't do anything obviously strange this time, but there was a quality to them that he hadn't noticed before. A certain density. As if they were slightly more substantial than shadows normally were.

Interesting.

Alastor watched her go, keeping the smile intact and narrowed eyes following the exact point where she had been, until the aroma of toasted coffee and jasmine diluted enough for Hell to smell again of sulfur and blood.

The breakfast had been a success in all relevant senses. But more intriguing than that was the new mystery he had discovered almost accidentally.

Those shadows.

Alastor was not stupid.

There was definitely something there. Something that Oneira either hadn't mentioned or that he simply hadn't thought to ask about it.

Or maybe he had mentioned it?

Alastor, being who he was, found mysteries irresistibly attractive occasionally. Especially when they involved someone who had already captured his interest in multiple ways.

Especially when it came to her.

Afterwards, without hurry, he turned the staff once between his fingers and vanished also in a crack of red static.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

ㅤ

Hours later, already in the infernal afternoon, Alastor appeared in front of the main door of Rosie's emporium with the impeccable suit, not a wrinkle, not a hair out of place, the staff shining under the carmine light and the smile as wide as always.

The bell tinkled when he pushed the door, and the sweet aroma of withered roses and fresh meat received him like an old friend. Rosie was behind the main counter, arranging a bouquet of flowers that seemed to scream weakly, and raised her gaze as soon as she saw him. Her smile opened from ear to ear, genuine, warm, of those that she only reserved for very few.

“Alastor, dear!” she sang, leaving the scissors carefully and rounding the counter with her arms already open. “What a delicious surprise! Come here, let me see you well.”

He accepted the hug with a theatrical inclination, letting her squeeze him against her generous chest before separating just enough to look at him from top to bottom.

“You're radiant, as always,” she commented, giving him a playful tap on the chest with the closed fan. “And you smell of expensive coffee. Have you been on conquest or just breakfasting with someone interesting?”

“A little of both things,” he responded, with that low laugh that always sounded as if he knew something that others didn't. “But I came with a purpose, Rosie dear. Not just to enjoy your charming company.”

Rosie raised both eyebrows, amused, and pointed with the fan one of the Victorian armchairs in the private salon.

“Then come in, come in. I'll serve you tea and you tell me that mysterious purpose you bring.”

She guided him to the back salon, closed the sliding door with a soft click and prepared two cups of black tea with a drop of something that definitely wasn't milk. Alastor sat with crossed legs, staff supported against the armchair's arm, and waited for her to take a seat in front of him.

They chatted for a while about trivial things: the new menu of the bar, the last batch of souls that Rosie had received... Comfortable things, known, that flowed alone.

Until the silence settled one second too much.

Alastor turned the cup between his fingers, the gaze fixed on the dark liquid, and spoke with that casual tone that he used when he was going to drop something that he knew was going to surprise.

“Rosie, dear... I need your advice on a delicate matter.”

She blinked, interested, and leaned a little forward with the cup between her hands.

“Oh, seriously? What kind of matter requires my wisdom?”

Alastor raised his gaze slowly, the smile wider than ever, the eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and something darker, more calculated.

“I have no idea how to conquer a woman without her ending up dead, crazy or both things at the same time.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Rosie stayed looking at him, with the cup halfway to her lips and the smile frozen on her perfect face, as if her brain was processing the phrase word by word to make sure she had heard correctly.

After, very slowly, she lowered the cup.

“What?”

The smile of Alastor stretched a little more.

Chapter 12: Gambling.

The ceiling of her private office had a crack that Oneira had been ignoring for weeks.

It wasn’t particularly large nor did it threaten to collapse on her head, but it was there. An irregular line that stretched from the left corner to roughly the center, where it branched into smaller patterns that vaguely resembled the roots of an inverted tree.

Oneira had been staring at it for the last ten minutes, fingers interlaced on her lap and posture relaxed in her chair, mentally processing that morning’s breakfast with a meticulousness that bordered on the obsessive.

Alastor wanted to see her more regularly.

Not under the pretext of equipment supervision or radio maintenance, but simply to… talk. Without a necessary agenda. Without an explicit commercial purpose.

Which was, objectively speaking, a perfectly reasonable proposition between business partners who had developed a certain level of cordiality.

But Oneira was no fool.

She had spent enough time observing demons—observing people—to recognize certain behavioral patterns. Certain… intentions that hid behind apparently casual gestures.

And Alastor, with all his theatricality and southern charm, was not particularly subtle when he wanted something.

He wanted her close. In his orbit. Accessible.

The question was: why?

Power, obviously. That was universal in Hell. Everyone sought advantages, connections, resources they could exploit. And she had all of those in abundance.

But there was something else in the way Alastor had been looking at her lately. Something in the quality of his smile when they were together, in the way he had shared those personal details about his mortal life the night before at the bar.

Calculated vulnerability, perhaps. An emotional investment designed to generate reciprocity.

Or maybe…

Oneira briefly closed her eyes, feeling a stab of something uncomfortably close to frustration.

Or maybe what?

That he genuinely enjoyed her company? That he found value in their conversations beyond immediate material gain?

Possible. Even probable, considering Alastor had proven to be considerably more complex than his initial reputation suggested.

But that didn’t change the fundamental fact that she was in a precarious position.

Because Oneira also recognized patterns in herself. Patterns she had cultivated over decades—centuries—of conscious existence. Behavioral patterns that triggered under specific conditions.

And Alastor, with all his barely contained ambition and fierce determination, was ticking every damn box.

Dangerous. Unpredictable. Powerful. Fascinating.

The exact type of person Oneira had a historical habit of becoming obsessed with.

Like her ex-husband.

The comparison made her inwardly shudder. Not because they were identical—clearly they weren’t—but because the pattern was similar. The dynamic developing between them had that same addictive quality. That feeling of constantly walking on the edge of something dangerous and exciting.

And she knew how those situations ended. She knew it intimately, painfully.

With obsession, with loss of perspective, with the gradual dissolution of healthy boundaries until she could no longer tell where she ended and the other person began.

She opened her eyes again, refocusing on that ceiling crack.

But, she reminded herself firmly, this time was different.

This time, she recognized the early signs. This time, she had decades of experience and self-awareness she hadn’t possessed in her mortal life.

This time, she could simply… not let herself get carried away.

Maintain appropriate emotional distance. Continue the commercial agreement because it was mutually beneficial, but set clear boundaries before things got unnecessarily complicated.

Yes. That would work.

Oneira straightened in her chair, feeling some renewed determination settle in her chest.

Just as a flash of movement in her peripheral vision made her turn her head.

Mara.

Her shadow—her other—had partially materialized near the window, taking that almost-human form she used when she wanted to express something more complex than a simple nod.

And she was… smiling. Not in a friendly or comforting way.

In that specific, knowing way Mara adopted when she knew something Oneira hadn’t fully admitted to herself yet.

“No,” Oneira said aloud, firm. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”

Mara didn’t respond verbally—she never really did—but her crimson eyes gleamed with barely contained amusement. Her form rippled slightly, and Oneira felt that familiar sensation of non-verbal communication they shared.

But you already accepted it, Mara conveyed without words. You already said yes to seeing him regularly.

“For commercial supervision,” she corrected aloud, feeling defensiveness seep into her tone. “And occasional conversations that are perfectly appropriate between professional partners.”

Mara’s smile widened. Her fingers—made of condensed shadow—moved in a gesture that clearly communicated skepticism.

“I’m not projecting anything,” Oneira insisted, though part of her recognized she was probably protesting too much. “I’m simply being… pragmatic. The agreement works. He provides value, I provide value. It’s a perfectly balanced commercial relationship.”

Mara tilted her head, those crimson eyes studying her with an intensity that made Oneira want to look away.

And the dance?

The non-verbal question came with attached images. Fragments of memory from the night before; Alastor’s hand on her waist, the way he had guided her through the steps with a patience she hadn’t anticipated, the moment she had finally allowed herself to relax and simply… feel the music.

“That was… contextually appropriate,” the mare hated how unconvincing it sounded even to her own ears. “Part of the establishment experience. A demonstration of his vision.”

Uh-huh.

“And,” she continued, feeling the need to justify herself more than strictly necessary, “even if I had enjoyed the experience—which, to be clear, was purely from a cultural appreciation perspective—that means nothing beyond recognizing the quality of his work.”

Mara simply looked at her, that smile still present, and Oneira felt her irritation growing.

“What?” she asked sharply. “What’s so funny?”

The shadow moved then, sliding closer until she was directly in front of Oneira’s desk. Her form condensed further, taking on additional details like the more defined outline of her face, the suggestion of her own expression in those barely visible features.

And then she conveyed something that made Oneira freeze in her seat.

Isn’t that better? That he wants to have you where you want to have him too.

The silence that followed was dense, heavy.

Because Mara, damn her, had hit the nail on the head.

Oneira was also gambling, wasn't she?

Not in the literal sense of a card or dice game. But yes in the sense that she was constantly evaluating this situation with Alastor, calculating risks and benefits, trying to predict his moves while keeping her own intentions hidden.

What did she want from this?

The question floated in her mind like smoke, elusive and hard to grasp.

Power, certainly. That was the obvious, what any reasonable demon would seek in an association with someone like Alastor. He was rising fast, eliminating obstacles with brutal efficiency. Having him as an ally instead of an enemy had undeniable strategic value.

But that didn’t explain why she had so easily accepted his midnight invitation to the bar. It didn’t explain why she had stayed longer than agreed. It didn’t explain why that ceiling crack had been staring at her for the last ten minutes while she processed every detail of her interaction with him.

Entertainment, perhaps.

Hell was tedious most of the time. Centuries of the same routine, the same conversations, the same predictable demonic behavioral patterns. And Alastor was… different. Unpredictable in ways she genuinely found interesting.

Like a puzzle she couldn’t fully solve.

Or like…

Oneira closed her eyes again, feeling that familiar discomfort settle in her chest.

Like an addiction in increment.

Because that’s what Mara was hinting at, right? That Oneira was already hooked. That she had already crossed that invisible line where professional interest became something more personal, more dangerous.

And the truly worrying part was that Mara was obsessed with him too.

Her other half, her shadow, her second self—however she wanted to define this complex relationship—had developed her own independent fixation with the deer demon. Visiting him in dreams, studying him, playing with him in ways Oneira technically didn’t control but was responsible for.

Which, according to Zestial’s twisted logic, suggested that both parts of her fragmented being found something irresistibly attractive in Alastor.

Shit.

“Okay,” Oneira said aloud, opening her eyes to look directly at Mara. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you’re right. That there is… something beyond commercial interest. So what?”

Mara tilted her head, waiting.

“What exactly do you propose?” she continued, feeling her irritation mixing with something dangerously close to desperation. “That I simply… give in to this? That I let it develop naturally without any precaution?”

The shadow didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she moved toward the window, her fingers—if they could be called that—tracing patterns on the glass that left temporary condensation marks.

And then she conveyed something that was part question, part challenge:

“When was the last time you felt something real?”

Oneira went still, because that was a damn good question.

When? Centuries ago? In her mortal life, when she was still naive enough to believe intense emotions meant something beyond exploitable vulnerability?

Since arriving in Hell, Oneira had carefully built herself. She had created an empire based on others’ addiction while meticulously staying away from anything that could compromise her own control. She had cultivated professional relationships, yes, but always with that appropriate emotional distance that avoided complications.

Even with Zestial—who was probably the closest thing to a friend she had—she maintained clear boundaries. Mutual respect, yes. Professional trust, certainly. But never need.

And now here was Mara, her own damn shadow, suggesting that all that careful control was just… boring. That the security she had built was just another form of prison. That maybe, just maybe, it was worth risking feeling something real again, even if it meant potentially losing the control it had cost her so much to gain.

“No,” Oneira said firmly, shaking her head. “I’m not going to… This isn’t—”

The landline phone rang, cutting her protest mid-sentence.

Oneira stared at it for a moment, almost grateful for the interruption. Then, composing her expression into something more professional, she picked up the receiver.

“Manhattan Café, Oneira speaking.”

“Madam,” her assistant’s voice sounded slightly tense. “You have a call. From the Ivory Spades casino. The owner wishes to discuss… a business proposal.”

Oneira raised an eyebrow.

Ivory Spades. One of the largest casinos in the Pride Ring, operated by a certain demon who had built a considerably profitable empire based on gambling and alcohol.

She had heard of him, of course. All Overlords knew each other, at least by reputation. But they had never had direct business dealings.

Which made this call… interesting.

“Put him through,” Oneira instructed, her mind already shifting gears from personal introspection to business mode.

There was a click, and then a hoarse, slightly raspy voice—probably from too much alcohol and cigarettes—came through the line.

“Oneira… Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” she responded diplomatically. “How can I help you?”

“Straight to the point. I like that,” he sounded almost… relieved. “Look, I’ve been watching what you did with that new bar. The Radio Demon’s Speakeasy.”

Oneira felt something tense settle in her shoulders at the mention of Alastor, but she kept her voice neutral.

“Continue.”

“The caffeine integration in alcoholic beverages. It’s… brilliant, frankly,” the man paused, and she could hear the sound of liquid being poured, probably more alcohol. “Keeps customers awake longer, gambling longer. And according to my sources, it also creates a psychological association. Demons start needing that specific environment.”

“It’s a documented effect,” Oneira confirmed, allowing herself a small smile. “Caffeine combined with the right atmosphere creates hard-to-break habits.”

“Exactly. And that’s exactly what I need in my casino,” another pause. “I want to make a deal. Exclusive Manhattan coffee, integrated into all our complimentary drinks. And maybe discuss… other collaboration possibilities.”

Oneira considered this, her mind already calculating figures, evaluating advantages.

A casino was different from a bar. Larger, more clientele, more exposure opportunities. And the addictive nature of gambling combined with caffeine addiction…

Yes. That could work very well.

“When would you like to meet to discuss terms?” she asked.

“Tonight, at the casino. Say, nine o’clock?” he responded. “I can show you the space, discuss volumes, talk numbers…”

Oneira mentally checked her schedule. She had a follow-up meeting with a supplier at seven, but that would end long before nine.

“Tonight works,” she confirmed. “I’ll be there at nine sharp.”

“Perfect. Oh, and Oneira,” the voice paused briefly, “bring your best offer. I’m ready to make this official if the numbers make sense.”

The call ended with a click, leaving Oneira holding the receiver with a thoughtful expression.

Mara, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, had moved again to her position near the desk. Her crimson eyes gleamed with something that seemed like curiosity mixed with… concern?

“It’s a legitimate business opportunity,” she shrugged, looking at the ceiling again.

The shadow didn’t respond, but her expression—insofar as a shadow could have an expression—suggested skepticism.

Because both knew the truth, even if Oneira didn’t want to admit it aloud.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The Ivory Spades casino was exactly the kind of establishment Oneira would expect from someone with the owner’s reputation. Opulent without being pretentious, elegant without sacrificing functionality, and designed with almost exact precision to keep customers inside as long as possible.

The mare paused briefly at the entrance, allowing herself a moment of professional appreciation as her eyes scanned the space.

The ceiling was high—probably three stories—creating a sense of openness that deliberately contrasted with the claustrophobic intimacy of Alastor’s bar. Crystal chandeliers hung at regular intervals, casting golden light that made everything gleam with that specific glow of money and excess.

The gaming tables were strategically distributed throughout the main space. Poker, blackjack, roulette, and all the classics, attended by demonic dealers dressed in impeccable white, red, and black uniforms. The sound of chips clinking, cards being shuffled, and occasional shouts of victory or defeat created a symphony of noise that was simultaneously chaotic and strangely hypnotic.

And the scent.

Oneira inhaled discreetly, identifying the layers: high-quality tobacco, expensive alcohol, perfume mixed with sweat, and beneath it all… something else. Something chemical and slightly sweet that was probably some kind of atmospheric alteration designed to keep customers alert but not too aware of the time they spent there.

Clever.

“Mrs. Manhattan!”

The voice came from her left. Oneira turned to see a tall, thin demon—probably the floor manager—approaching with a professional smile.

“The boss is waiting for you in his private office. If you’ll allow me to escort you…”

Oneira nodded, following the demon as they navigated between the gaming tables. Several customers looked at her with curiosity—some probably recognizing her, others simply reacting to her presence—but she kept her expression neutral and her pace steady.

As they walked, her mind was already working on the details of the potential deal.

The volume would be considerable. A casino this size probably went through hundreds—possibly thousands—of liters of drinks each night. Integrating caffeine at that volume would require careful logistical coordination, but the benefits…

Yes. The benefits would be substantial.

They reached a staircase at the back of the casino, ascending to a second floor that was notably quieter than the controlled chaos below. The manager led her down an elegantly decorated hallway to a dark wood door with a gold plaque that simply read “PRIVATE.”

He knocked twice, waited a moment, and then opened the door.

“Mrs. Manhattan, sir.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

Oneira entered, and the door closed softly behind her.

The office was… surprisingly modest, considering the opulence of the casino below. A solid dark wood desk dominated the space, covered with papers organized in precise stacks. Shelves of books—real books, not just decoration—filled an entire wall. A small but well-stocked bar occupied another corner.

And behind the desk, reclining in a worn leather chair with a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was Husk.

The cat demon was exactly as the descriptions Oneira had heard: black fur with distinctive white markings and even patterns that matched the environment he managed, yellow eyes that gleamed with calculating intelligence, and a perpetual expression of someone who had seen too much and was tired of it all.

But when their eyes met, Oneira saw something beyond the tiredness.

Desperation, perhaps. Or something close to it.

And it was interesting.

“Oneira,” Husk greeted, gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of his desk with his glass, “sit. Want a drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she responded, taking a seat with fluid movements. “I prefer to keep a clear head during business negotiations.”

Something that might have been respect flickered in Husk’s eyes.

“I like that,” he took a long drink of his whisky before continuing. “So, straight to the point. I want your coffee. All of it. Integrated into every complimentary drink we serve, which are… a lot,” he made a vague gesture downward, toward the casino. “I also want premium options available at the main bar. And—”

He stopped abruptly, because at that moment, the office door opened again without warning.

And Alastor walked in.

The deer demon looked impeccable as always. Immaculate red suit, polished staff, that characteristic smile perfectly fixed in place. His eyes briefly scanned the room before settling on Oneira with something that might have been genuine surprise.

Or maybe not.

With Alastor, it was hard to tell.

“Oh!” his voice came out with that distinctive melodic tone. “What a fascinating coincidence to find you here, dear.”

Oneira felt something tense settle in her shoulders, but she kept her expression perfectly neutral.

“Alastor. How… unexpected.”

It didn’t sound unexpected at all.

Husk, meanwhile, seemed to be struggling with some kind of internal conflict. His claws tapped against his desk in a nervous pattern, and he took another considerable drink of whisky before speaking.

“Yeah, well. About that…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Alastor also has… interest in the establishment. I thought it would be efficient to have this conversation with both of you present.”

Oneira slowly raised an eyebrow, processing that information.

Ah.

So it wasn’t just a standard business meeting. It was something more… complicated.

Alastor, apparently completely at ease with the situation, moved to take a seat in the chair next to Oneira. Too close to be completely casual, but not so close as to be inappropriately intimate.

That calculated distance that was his specialty.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” though his tone suggested he knew perfectly well he was interrupting and didn’t care at all. “But when Husk mentioned this… opportunity, well. I couldn’t resist exploring the possibilities.”

The silence that followed was dense, charged with something Oneira couldn’t fully identify.

And then she understood.

She looked at Husk—really looked at him—and saw the signs she had initially overlooked in her superficial evaluation.

The slight tremor in his fingers when holding the glass. The way his eyes moved nervously between her and Alastor. The barely perceptible sweat on his forehead despite the office being comfortably cool.

Tension.

Not just social discomfort. Real tension. The kind that came from being in a vulnerable position.

“Husker,” Oneira said calmly, deliberately ignoring Alastor for the moment, “is there something you should tell me about the exact nature of this meeting?”

The cat demon looked at her, and for a moment, she saw something raw in his expression, something bordering on fear. Then he composed himself, taking another drink before responding.

“It’s simple,” he said, though his voice was anything but simple. “I need to close some… deals. Reorganize certain obligations. And you both have something I need.”

Oneira leaned back in her chair, interlacing her fingers on her lap while processing this.

Debts.

It had to be that. Husk had debts—probably soul debts, considering his nervousness—and was trying to maneuver his way out. Which explained why both she and Alastor had been invited. Different types of value, different types of negotiation possible.

And Alastor…

Oneira finally allowed herself to glance at him sideways.

He was watching Husk with that characteristic smile, but there was something else in his eyes. Something calculating and hungry that she recognized because she had seen it before in other ambitious demons, and even in him.

Opportunity.

Alastor saw this as an opportunity to gain something beyond simple commercial access.

And suddenly, Oneira realized she wasn’t here just for a coffee negotiation. She was here to witness—and possibly participate in—something considerably more… significant.

Husk took another long drink of whisky, probably longer than was strictly wise for someone about to enter serious negotiations, and then placed the glass on his desk with a thud that sounded too loud in the tense silence of the office.

“Alright,” he said, his voice taking on a firmer, more decisive quality. Like someone who had reached an inevitable conclusion and was ready to face the consequences. “I’ll be direct because apparently that’s the only way to do this without losing my damn mind.”

He stood, moving toward the small bar in the corner. Not to pour himself another drink, though Oneira suspected he wanted to, but simply to have something to do with his hands while he spoke.

“I have debts,” he admitted without preamble, “soul debts, specifically. With several… lenders who are getting impatient with the deadlines.”

Alastor said nothing, but Oneira noticed how his smile widened ever so slightly. Barely perceptible, but there.

He already knew, and Oneira realized. Of course he knew.

Alastor wouldn’t have come here without complete information about Husk’s situation, that wasn’t his style. He was many things—impulsive at times, certainly theatrical—but he never entered a potentially significant negotiation without preparation.

“How many souls?” Oneira asked, keeping her tone neutral and professional.

Husk looked at her with something like gratitude flickering briefly in his yellow eyes at her lack of obvious judgment.

“Enough that losing this casino would be… problematic.”

So, the debts were secured by the establishment itself. Or at least, by enough of its operation to make it unsustainable if he lost it.

Oneira had seen similar situations before. Demons who built impressive empires using borrowed souls as capital, only to discover that the terms of those loans were considerably less favorable than they had initially anticipated.

“And this is where we come in,” Alastor re-entered the conversation, his voice taking on that soft and dangerous quality he used when he was about to propose something he knew the other party wouldn’t want to accept but would have no choice. “Because you have something I want, Husker. And I have something you need.”

The cat demon visibly tensed.

“What do you want?”

Alastor’s smile widened even further.

“Your position.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Husk stared at him, processing those two words as if they were in a foreign language he was having trouble translating.

“My… position?” he finally repeated, slowly.

“Your seat at the Overlords’ table, to be specific,” Alastor clarified, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed posture that somehow managed to be both casual and threatening. “Official recognition. Access to certain… meetings and resources currently reserved for those with your status. The rest doesn’t interest me.”

Oneira observed all this with heightened attention.

Because that was what Alastor had really been seeking, not just territorial expansion or additional resources. Legitimacy. Formal recognition of his position among the established Overlord hierarchy.

It was smart, she admitted to herself. Brutally efficient.

Instead of continuing to eliminate Overlords one by one—which would eventually attract more attention than he probably wanted—Alastor was finding ways to absorb their authority through more subtle means.

“And in exchange,” Husk said carefully, “what? You pay my debts?”

“Exactly!” Alastor gestured elegantly with one hand. “I assume your obligations. All of them. You’re free of that particular burden, and I get what I need. It’s a perfectly reasonable transaction.”

“Except my position is worth considerably more than the debts I have,” Husk growled, though his voice lacked real conviction.

Because both knew the truth. If Husk didn’t find a way out soon, he would lose everything—the casino, his position, possibly his complete autonomy if his creditors decided he was more valuable as property than as a business partner.

Alastor was offering him a way out. Not a generous one, certainly. But a way out nonetheless.

“Then perhaps,” Alastor said softly, “we should make this more… interesting.”

Husk raised an eyebrow.

“Interesting how?”

Alastor’s smile took on an almost playful quality.

“A game. You choose which one. If you win, I pay your debts without receiving your position in exchange. I cancel your obligations completely, no compensation. You’re free.”

The cat demon went still, processing this.

“And if I lose?”

“If you lose…” Alastor leaned slightly forward. “Your position becomes mine. Officially. And…” he made a deliberate pause “…your soul too.”

There it was.

Oneira felt something cold settle in her stomach at those words.

Because one thing was negotiating territories, resources, even formal positions. But a soul was… different. It was definitive in ways few things in Hell were.

“That’s not a fair deal,” Husk said, though his voice sounded hollow. “My position plus my soul against just my debts…”

“Against your freedom,” Alastor corrected. “And the opportunity to keep everything you’ve built. The casino remains yours. Your operation continues. You just… report to me instead of your current creditors.”

Husk stared at his empty whisky glass for a long moment, and Oneira recognized that expression. She had seen it before in the eyes of cornered demons, evaluating impossible options and trying to find the least horrible one.

“I need to think…” Husk began.

“You don’t have time,” Alastor interrupted gently. “Your creditors’ deadlines are in… what? Forty-eight hours?”

The cat demon froze.

Because clearly Alastor knew. He had done his work, knew every detail of Husk’s situation, probably down to the exact number of souls owed and to whom.

“Poker,” Husk said finally, his voice coming out rough. “If we’re doing this, it’ll be poker. It’s my game.”

“Of course,” the deer accepted immediately, perhaps too quickly, and Oneira felt another stab of concern.

Because Alastor shouldn’t have accepted so easily. Unless…

Unless he already knew he was going to win.

“But,” Husk continued, recovering some composure, “we need a neutral arbiter. Someone to deal the cards, supervise the game, guarantee it’s… fair.”

His eyes moved to Oneira.

Oh?

Oh, damn.

“I—” Oneira began.

“An excellent suggestion!” the Radio Demon exclaimed, turning to look at her with that smile that was now definitely playful. “Oneira is perfectly neutral. She has no stake in either of our outcomes.”

That wasn’t technically true—she definitely had a business association with Alastor that could be considered a conflict of interest—but Oneira also understood that refusing herself now would seem… suspicious.

As if she had something to hide. Or worse, as if she was taking sides.

“Very well,” she accepted carefully. “But I will be completely neutral. No favoritism, I won’t interfere beyond guaranteeing fair play.”

“Naturally,” the deer agreed, sounding almost delighted with this development.

Of course he was.

Because now Oneira was involved. Not just as a passive observer, but as an active participant in whatever was about to happen.

She was being pulled deeper into his orbit, and both knew it.

And the most frustrating part was that Oneira also knew she couldn’t back out now without seeming weak or biased. She was trapped by her own reputation for pragmatism and professionalism.

Damn him.

“When?” Husk asked, moving toward his desk to pull a deck of cards from one of the drawers. Clearly he wanted to do this now, before he could lose his nerve.

“There’s no time like the present!” Alastor responded cheerfully, standing and adjusting his jacket. “Where would you like to play?”

Husk looked around his office, clearly considering, then shook his head.

“Downstairs. On the main floor. One of the private tables.”

It made sense, Oneira supposed. More space, appropriate atmosphere. And probably Husk felt more comfortable in his own territory.

Though something told her the atmosphere wouldn’t matter much in the final outcome.

The three left the office in silence, descending the staircase toward the controlled chaos of the casino. Several customers looked with curiosity as Husk led them toward a section separated by velvet curtains, obviously reserved for high-stakes games.

Inside was a single table. Circular, covered with impeccable green felt, surrounded by genuinely comfortable leather chairs. Focused lighting from above created a circle of bright light that made everything else fade into irrelevant shadows.

It was perfect for what was about to happen.

Oneira took position on the neutral side of the table, accepting the deck of cards Husk offered her. She shuffled professionally, feeling the familiar weight of the cards between her fingers.

Husk sat to her left. Alastor to her right.

And for a moment—just a moment—Oneira felt something strangely similar to what she imagined Husk was experiencing.

That feeling of being trapped in something bigger than she had clearly anticipated, of gambling something she hadn’t intended to put on the table.

Because as she watched both demons settle into their seats, as she saw the desperate determination in Husk’s eyes and the calculated confidence in Alastor’s smile…

She realized something.

She was gambling here too.

Maybe not souls, nor territories, nor formal power. She wasn’t that insane… But something more intangible and potentially more dangerous.

She was gambling on how she would react to what she was about to witness, gambling on whether she could maintain that careful professional distance she had cultivated, gambling on whether she would see Alastor the same way after this night.

And most importantly…

Gambling on whether he would see her the same way.

“The rules are simple,” she announced aloud, her voice coming out firmer than she felt internally. “Standard Texas Hold'em. Best of three rounds. I deal, supervise, and guarantee fair play. No tricks, no external magic beyond innate abilities. Understood?”

Both nodded.

Oneira began dealing the first cards, watching them fall onto the green felt with small crisp sounds.

And as she did, she couldn’t help thinking about what Mara had conveyed earlier in her office.

When was the last time you felt something real?

Because as she watched Alastor adjust his cards with those skilled fingers, as she saw that confident and calculating smile… Oneira felt something. Adrenaline, anticipation. That electric feeling of being on the edge of something significant.

And she hated to admit it, but… it was intoxicating.

The cards fell onto the green felt with that soft, rhythmic sound that Oneira found strangely hypnotic.

Two for Husk. Two for Alastor. Her movements were mechanical and precise, the result of centuries of observing—and occasionally participating—in this type of game.

But her mind was somewhere else entirely.

Gambling.

That word kept echoing in her head as she watched both demons review their cards with carefully controlled expressions to avoid analysis from the opponent. Husk with that worn professionalism of someone who had played thousands of hands and Alastor with that perpetual smile that revealed absolutely nothing he didn’t want to.

Because that’s what everyone was doing here, wasn’t it?

Not just Husk gambling his soul and his position against the possibility of freedom. Not just Alastor gambling his resources against the opportunity to rise faster in the infernal hierarchy.

But her too.

She was gambling too.

“Initial bet,” Oneira murmured, placing the first community cards in the center of the table.

Husk threw a few chips into the center without hesitation. His expression was hard to read—he'd probably had years of practice at that—but Oneira noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he released the chips.

Nervousness. Fear, perhaps.

Alastor called the bet with a fluid, almost languid movement. As if the chips meant nothing to him. As if this were all just... entertainment.

But Oneira knew him better. She'd spent enough time watching him recently to recognize the subtle signs. The way his fingers once drummed against the table. The slight narrowing of his eyes when he assessed Husk. He was enjoying this.

Not just the game itself, the whole scene. The risk, the tension, the feeling of being on the verge of winning something significant.

And Oneira... Oneira was enjoying it too.

That was what bothered her.

She turned over another card—the turn—and watched as they both adjusted their strategies in real time. The cat leaned slightly forward, the stag leaned back further in its saddle.

And the mare realized something.

This was exactly the kind of situation she should be avoiding.

The high tension, the emotional stakes, the rush of adrenaline as she witnessed something potentially destructive yet undeniably fascinating.

It was the kind of thing she'd sworn never to seek out again after her mortal life. The kind of stimulation she'd learned—painfully—led only to obsession and a loss of perspective.

And yet, here she was. Not just participating, but genuinely invested in the outcome.

Not because she particularly cared who won in practical terms—both outcomes had pros and cons from a business perspective—but because she wanted to see how this played out. She wanted to see how Alastor handled the pressure. She wanted to see if Husk had any hidden cards that could change the game.

She wanted to see who was truly stronger when they were both fully committed.

“First round to me,” Alastor announced softly, showing his hand with an elegant gesture.

Straight. Clean and crushing.

Husk cursed under his breath, dropping his cards: a decent pair, but absolutely insufficient against what Alastor had built.

Oneira collected the cards, beginning to shuffle for the next round.

And as her hands worked automatically, her mind continued that uncomfortable analysis she had been avoiding all night.

What exactly was she gambling?

It wasn’t money, nor souls, much less territorial power. But something. Definitely something.

Her… comfort? Her carefully constructed emotional distance. That wall she had erected between herself and anything that could compromise her.

Because every time she saw Alastor—every conversation, every casual encounter that no longer felt so casual—that wall began to erode a little, not in obviously destructive ways.

But it was constant, gradual, like water wearing down stone.

“Second round,” the mare announced, dealing again.

This time Husk moved more aggressively from the start. Doubling bets, pressing, clearly trying to regain the psychological control he had lost in the first hand.

Desperation.

Oneira recognized it because she had seen it before. That moment when someone realizes they’re losing and starts taking bigger, more reckless risks, hoping boldness will compensate for the growing disadvantage.

It rarely worked.

Alastor allowed it for a while, matching bets without raising too much, letting Husk build the pot higher and higher.

And then, on the river, he raised.

Considerably.

Husk froze, looking at his cards, then at Alastor, then back at his cards.

Oneira could see the calculation happening in real time. Was the risk worth it? Did he have enough to justify matching? Or should he fold and conserve resources for the third round?

“I see your bet,” Husk said finally, pushing his chips to the center with hands that no longer bothered to hide their tremor.

They showed their cards simultaneously.

Husk had three of a kind. Something solid, respectable.

Alastor had a full house.

“My round,” the deer demon said softly, that smile widening only marginally.

The silence that followed was dense.

Because both knew what this meant. Two to zero. Alastor only needed to win one more round, and it was over. Husk’s soul, his position, everything he had built… would become the Radio Demon’s property.

And Oneira, dealing cards for the third and final round, felt that knot in her stomach tighten.

Because this was about her too, wasn’t it?

This was her chance to see Alastor in his purest element. Without the veneer of southern charm or professional courtesy, just his naked ambition and willingness to take what he wanted without apologizing for it.

And her reaction to that—whether repulsion, admiration, or something more complicated—would determine a lot about how this… situation between them would develop.

Could she respect this version of him? Or would she discover that calculated cruelty was a boundary she couldn’t cross, no matter how fascinating she found everything else about him?

The cards fell. Two for each.

And Oneira forced herself to keep her expression perfectly neutral as she watched both sets of eyes evaluate their hands.

But internally…

Internally, she was gambling just as much as either of them.

The third round began with an almost reverential silence.

Oneira dealt the cards with movements that were now completely automatic, her hands operating on muscle memory while her mind continued that uncomfortable analysis of her own participation in all this.

Husk picked up his cards with deliberate slowness, as if delaying the moment could somehow change what was written on them. His feline ears were slightly flattened against his skull—a universal sign of extreme stress—and Oneira noticed how his tail moved in that nervous pattern cats could never fully control.

Alastor, by contrast, seemed completely relaxed. Almost bored, if one didn’t know the subtle signs.

But Oneira did know them now.

The way his fingers curved slightly around the cards. The precise angle of his head as he evaluated not just his hand, but also Husk’s body posture. The rhythm of his breathing, controlled, measured, that of a predator waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Well, maybe a little sadistically. But more than that, he was enjoying the competition. The challenge of reading another demon, of calculating probabilities, of playing not just the cards but also the psychology.

And something about that realization made Oneira’s pulse quicken.

Because she understood that feeling. That need to measure your wit against something—someone—that really mattered. That electric sensation of knowing every decision had real weight.

It was addictive.

It was dangerous.

“Initial bet,” she murmured, placing the first community cards.

Husk didn’t move immediately. His eyes—yellow and bright even in the dim light—locked onto the community cards as if he could change their value through pure willpower or some convenient telekinesis.

Then, slowly, he pushed his chips toward the center.

Not many, it was a conservative bet. Testing the waters.

Alastor matched without hesitation.

Flop.

Three more cards in the center of the table, and Oneira saw how something changed in Husk’s expression. Something that might have been hope, or perhaps just desperation disguised as optimism.

He raised his bet. Considerably.

And for the first time in the entire game, Alastor seemed to genuinely consider his options. His smile didn’t fade—well, that never did—but his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied both the cards and Husk.

“Interesting…” he murmured, drumming his fingers once against the table.

Then he matched and raised even more.

The pot in the center of the table had grown into something substantial. Not in terms of absolute value—both demons had considerably greater resources—but in terms of what it represented.

Commitment.

Both were completely in now. There was no backing out, no graceful retreat.

Oneira turned the turn.

And she saw the exact moment Husk realized he had made a mistake.

It was subtle—a single, slight widening of his pupils, an almost imperceptible hardening of his jaw—but it was there.

He had a decent hand. Maybe even good.

But Alastor had something better.

And what made it all worse was that Husk knew it. He could read it in Alastor’s body language, in the casual confidence of his last raise.

But he had already bet too much to fold now.

Trapped.

Like Oneira was feeling trapped, she realized with an uncomfortable stab of self-awareness.

Because this—all of this—was a perfect metaphor for her situation with Alastor, wasn’t it?

She had also been making incremental bets on small concessions. First the commercial agreement with the radios, then accepting to inspect the bar at midnight, then breakfast, then agreeing to regular encounters.

Each one seemed reasonable on its own. Each one had pragmatic justification.

But collectively…

Collectively, she had bet much more than she had intended. She had put something considerably more valuable than commercial resources or strategic advantages on the table.

She had bet her ability to maintain emotional distance.

And like Husk staring at those community cards, Oneira was beginning to suspect that maybe she had already lost without fully realizing it.

“Last card,” she announced. Her voice came out calmer than she felt internally.

The river.

It fell onto the green felt with a soft tap that somehow sounded too loud in the tense silence.

Husk looked at the card. Then his own cards. Then the community card again.

And Oneira saw when something in him… broke. That rigidity in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a kind of tired resignation. His hands, which had been trembling with tension, suddenly went still.

Acceptance.

He knew how this was going to end.

“All in,” Husk said finally, pushing all his remaining chips to the center of the table.

Not because he thought he could win. But because at this point, it didn’t matter. He had already bet everything that had real value—his soul and his position—in the previous rounds.

These chips were just… symbols. Representations of something he had already lost.

Alastor studied Husk for a long moment.

And Oneira saw something in the deer demon’s expression she hadn’t seen before. Something that wasn’t exactly cruelty, but close.

Triumph.

Pure, distilled, unquestionable.

“I see your bet…” Alastor reiterated softly, pushing his own chips forward.

There was no real suspense in the reveal of the cards, because both already knew.

Husk showed first. Three of a kind. King high. Something solid, in any other circumstance it would have been a winning hand.

But not against what Alastor had built.

Royal flush.

Of course.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Something changed in the air of the room. Something tangible, visible even to those without particular magical sensitivity.

A green chain—neon, bright, and impossible to ignore—materialized around Husk’s neck. The contract manifesting, becoming real.

Husk didn’t move as it happened. He simply sat there, staring at the table, that tired resignation settling deeper into his features.

Instead, Alastor leaned back in his chair. His smile widened into something that was simultaneously charming and absolutely ruthless.

“Well played,” he praised in something almost genuine. “I really thought you might have something in that third round.”

Husk snorted. Without humor, without real bitterness. Just… tiredness.

“You knew you were going to win from the start.”

“I had a statistical advantage,” Alastor admitted with that casual honesty that was somehow crueler than any lie. “But the cards could always have fallen differently. That’s the charm of the game, isn’t it?”

Not really, Oneira thought, watching the green chain gleam softly around Husk’s neck.

Because Alastor had left nothing to chance. He had come here knowing Husk’s exact financial position, knowing his psychological state, knowing desperation would make the cat demon take risks he normally wouldn’t.

He had set up this board long before the first card was dealt.

And that realization should have bothered her more than it did. It should have made her question her association with someone capable of such calculated manipulation.

Instead, Oneira found herself thinking it was efficient.

Intelligent.

Exactly what someone truly competent in his position would do.

And that—that—was what finally scared her. It wasn’t the fact that Alastor had done this, but that she admired him for it.

Alastor stood with fluid movements, adjusting his jacket with that unnecessary care that turned every gesture into performance.

“Fulfill your part,” he told to Husk, his tone still light but with an edge of steel beneath. “I want everything properly officialized tomorrow.”

Husk nodded once.

“Yes… boss.”

The word came out with difficulty, but it came, in recognition of the new hierarchy between them.

And then Alastor turned to Oneira, those red eyes finding hers with an intensity that made something in her spine prickle.

“And you,” he said, moving around the table toward where she still stood with the forgotten cards in her hands, “were perfectly neutral as promised.”

He stopped directly in front of her. Too close to be completely appropriate, but not so close as to be obviously inappropriate.

That calculated distance that was his specialty.

“Thank you for… supervising all this, dear,” his smile softened slightly, taking on a more genuine quality. “I know this wasn’t exactly what you anticipated for tonight.”

Oneira looked at him, processing.

And she realized something with absolute clarity.

He had been gambling too.

Not just with Husk. But with her.

Gambling that she would witness this—this demonstration of his most calculating nature—and not turn away from his implicit threat. That she would see his capacity for ruthless manipulation and find something to admire instead of something to retreat from.

That she would recognize in him someone equally willing to do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted.

Someone like herself.

Someone for herself.

And damn if he wasn’t right.

“It was… educational,” Oneira said finally, allowing a small smile to touch her lips. “Seeing how you operate when the stakes are high.”

“And?” Alastor tilted his head slightly. “Did I pass the evaluation?”

His tone was light, playful. But there was a real question there.

Did this bother you? Did this change how you see me?

And Oneira, because apparently she had decided that lying to herself was no longer a viable option, responded with honesty.

“You’re… considerably more formidable than your theatrical presentation suggests.”

Something gleamed in Alastor’s eyes at those words. Satisfaction, perhaps.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

They stayed like that for a moment, looking at each other, the air between them thick with something Oneira didn’t want to name. With slowness, the radio demon leaned slightly and, as in their beginnings, delicately took the mare’s hand to kiss her knuckles with a loud sound.

All while not breaking eye contact.

Then Alastor broke eye contact by turning toward Husk with that fluid change of attention that was so characteristic of him.

“I’ll fulfill my part about your debts tomorrow too. You have my word.”

Husk nodded, clearly not trusting his voice at that moment.

But Alastor didn’t care about his obvious distrust, leaving the private area with the same casualness with which he had entered, leaving Oneira alone with a defeated demon and the growing realization that she had also lost something that night.

Maybe not like the subject beside her, who had lost his soul, his power, and his position in one night. But something potentially more important to her.

She had lost the illusion that she could keep this—whatever this was with Alastor—at a safe distance now that she had seen what he really was beneath all that charm. And instead of pushing her away…

It had trapped her more firmly.

Like Husk with that chain around his neck, Oneira realized she had gambled more than she intended.

And unlike Husk, she hadn’t even fully noticed when she had put her bet on the table.

Notes:

If you see that I've updated the previous chapters, it's because of some corrections I finally got around to making. I hope everything is clearer now... (⌒_⌒;)

Chapter 13: Mimzy.

The curious thing about being possessed—truly, legally, magically possessed by another demon—was that it didn’t feel as different as Husk had expected.  
At least not in daily operations.

The casino still opened at the same hour. The same dealers shuffled cards with the same practiced precision. The same desperate sinners bet souls they probably shouldn’t have been putting on the table in the first place. The roulette wheel still spun with that distinctive click-click-click that had become the soundtrack of Husk’s existence.

But there were a few differences. Small ones, mostly. The kind someone not looking closely might overlook entirely.

Like the way his hand occasionally drifted to his neck without conscious thought, fingers brushing skin that felt normal but that Husk knew now bore an invisible mark. The chain Alastor had manifested that night had vanished—faded the moment the contract fully settled—but Husk could still feel its weight.

A phantom sensation, probably. More psychological than physical.

Or maybe just a constant reminder that he was no longer his own.

The office was quiet at this hour—just past three in the morning, that dead zone between nocturnal depravity and morning desperation. Husk sat behind his desk with a glass of whisky that was more ice than liquor at this point, staring at the financial reports scattered in front of him.

And that was another difference: the numbers were… good. Better than good, actually. Better than they had been in years.

No more debt collectors showing up at inconvenient times. No more interest payments eating profits before he could even calculate them properly. No more sleepless nights juggling numbers that simply refused to add up no matter how many times he rearranged them.

Alastor had kept his word on that, at least.

The debts had been paid. All of them, in full, with a speed that had been almost insulting in its efficiency. As if the deer demon had had those resources at hand the entire time and had simply been waiting for the right moment to deploy them.

Which Husk suspected, with bitter certainty, was exactly the case.

Beyond that, something unexpected had emerged: whenever something needed fixing or remodeling—a damaged section of carpet, a chandelier threatening to fall, even the expansion of the main bar Husk had been putting off for months—it simply… happened.

Funds appeared, workers arrived, the job got done with professional efficiency. Husk had asked once about the budget for these things, expecting to justify every expense, but Alastor had simply waved a hand in dismissal.

“The establishment must be kept in optimal condition. I can’t have one of my assets looking… rundown. Bad image, you understand?”

As if it were that simple.

And maybe it was, for someone with Alastor’s resources.

Husk took a sip of his watered-down whisky, savoring the familiar burn as it went down his throat. The alcohol no longer affected him the way it used to—decades in Hell had built a monstrous tolerance—but the ritual of drinking was still comforting.

His gaze slid to the calendar on the wall. How long had it been…? Weeks, certainly. Maybe a month. Possibly more; time was strange in Hell. Days blurred together when each one was essentially identical to the last.

He had seen Alastor exactly four times since that night of the game.

The first had been the next day, when the contract was properly formalized. Documents signed, terms clarified, that green chain briefly glowing around his neck before fading into permanent invisibility.

The second had been a week later, when an issue arose with one of the suppliers. Alastor had appeared without warning and resolved the matter in roughly five minutes with a combination of that southern charm Husk now noticed and barely veiled threats.

The third had been stranger. Alastor had shown up past midnight, with no apparent business reason, and spent roughly an hour simply… talking about jazz. Musicians he remembered. Venues that no longer existed…

The fourth had been three days ago, a routine inspection, as Alastor put it. Just making sure everything was running smoothly.

And now…

A boom shook the building.

Husk stood so fast his chair fell backward, the whisky glass forgotten on the desk. That hadn’t been the sound of something accidentally falling; that had been magic. Violent, uncontrolled, and hurled carelessly at surrounding property.

Shit.

He moved to the door, yanking it open just as one of his floor managers—a nervous demon with too many eyes—came running down the hallway.

“Sir! We have a problem!”

“No shit,” Husk growled, already heading for the stairs. “What kind of problem?”

“There’s a demon on the main floor! Looks like a hooker and says she’s being chased! She came running in five minutes ago and now there are guys outside throwing—!”

Another boom. Louder this time, the entire building shuddered. Husk heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering—his goddamn windows.

These sons of bitches were destroying his windows.

He took the stairs two at a time, emerging onto the main casino floor just in time to watch the chaos unfold.

Most of the customers had fled—the smart ones, at least. A few others remained huddled behind overturned tables or crouched behind the bar, clearly too drunk or too stupid to evacuate properly.

And speaking of the bar…

There was a demon cowering behind it. Small, voluptuous, blonde, wearing a red sequined dress that sparkled even in the dim light of the casino in crisis. She still held a martini in one hand—because apparently even during an attack, priorities mattered—and a look of panic on her dramatically made-up face.

Husk had never seen her before in his life.

“YOU!” he growled, marching toward the bar. “Who the fuck are you and why did you bring this to my establishment?”

The demon looked at him with huge eyes.

“I needed to hide! Those thugs outside have been chasing me all night over a little financial misunderstanding and I thought maybe if I came here, where the radio has influence, they—!”

“The fucking radio?” Husk felt something cold settle in his stomach. “You know him?”

“Well, yeah! We’re old acquaintances from New Orleans, he always—”

Another explosion. This time one of the front windows shattered completely, raining glass across the marble floor.

Husk felt something hot and furious expand in his chest.

His casino.

These idiots were destroying his casino because this blonde slut thought she could hide behind Alastor’s name.

“Stay here,” he ordered sharply, moving toward the front doors. “And if this gets worse, it’s your fucking fault.”

He didn’t wait for a response before shoving the doors open hard enough to slam them against the walls, stepping out into the Pentagram’s night air—hot and thick—hitting his face along with the smell of sulfur and scorched magic.

There were six of them. Standard Pentagram thugs, big, ugly, varied in demonic form but uniform in their obvious lack of sophistication. One had twisted horns, another scales that gleamed under the perpetual red light, a third seemed to be mostly muscle with a face only his damn mother could love.

And all of them were armed. Not with sophisticated weapons—nothing that required particular skill—but with bats, chains, and what looked like basic destructive magic they clearly didn’t know how to control properly.

The one in front—the twisted-horn one—saw him emerge and grinned.

“You the owner?”

“I’m the owner,” Husk confirmed, feeling his claws extend instinctively. “And you have exactly five seconds to fuck off before this gets ugly.”

“It’s not with you, cat,” the scaly one spat to the side. “It’s with the bitch hiding inside. She owes us thirty grand in cash. Real money, cold hard cash she promised us three months ago.”

“And she thought she could hide here,” the pure-muscle one added. “Behind the radio’s name like that means something.”

“Well guess what,” the horned one continued, charging another fireball in his palm. “We don’t give a shit who she knows. We want our money, so hand over the girl or we come in to get her.”

Husk felt his eye twitch.

Because of course. Of course tonight was going like this.

“She’s not worth it,” he tried one last time, keeping his voice level. “She’s clearly a troublemaker who dragged her shit here. But my casino isn’t part of her debts. So you can wait outside civilly or you can fuck off, those are your options.”

The thugs looked at each other and then laughed.

“Or what, cat? You gonna stop us?”

The horned one threw the fireball.

Not directly at Husk—probably trying to intimidate more than harm—but at one of the remaining intact windows of the casino.

Something in Husk snapped at the same time he heard the window crack.

He moved before thinking consciously about it, wings unfurling as he lunged forward with speed born of fury he had been building for weeks. His claws found the horned demon’s neck, using the momentum to spin him and slam him against the building wall with enough force to crack stone.

“It’s. My. Fucking. Casino!” he snarled with each word while his other hand closed around one of the horns, yanking backward at an angle that made the demon scream. “You think you can just destroy my property because some idiot decided to hide here!?”

The scaly one reacted first, lunging at Husk with a chain that whipped in an arc designed to wrap and restrain.

Husk saw it coming and released the horned one just in time to duck under the chain. It passed over his head with an audible whistle, and he used the moment to sweep the scaly one’s legs, sending him crashing to the pavement. He wasn’t letting another fucking chain settle on him—one was more than enough.

But there were four more.

The pure-muscle one charged like a bull, no technique but enough brute force to compensate. Husk tried to dodge but wasn’t fast enough; the impact sent him flying backward, his back slamming against the casino doors with enough force to empty his lungs.

Shit. This was harder than he remembered.

Maybe because he had spent too much time behind a desk instead of in real combat, maybe because he had lost that edge when he lost his autonomy, or maybe simply because six against one were bad odds no matter how much experience you had.

He pushed himself back to his feet just as another attacker—this one with too many arms—lunged at him again. Husk rolled to the side, feeling fingers grab his jacket but find no solid purchase.

He needed to shift this. He needed an advantage, so his eyes scanned the area, looking for anything he could use.

There. One of the decorative planters flanking the entrance, a heavy cast-iron one filled with some infernal plant that was probably poisonous. Husk didn’t hesitate to lunge for it, grabbing it with both hands and ignoring how the plant inside hissed in indignation. He spun just as the multi-armed one reached him again and swung the planter in an arc, connecting with its skull with a satisfying crunch.

The demon dropped like a stone.

One down.

“Fucking cat!” the horned one had regained his balance, blood dripping from where Husk had grabbed. “You’re gonna pay for that!”

He charged another fireball, this one considerably larger than the last. The air around his hands glowed with intense heat, distorting the view.

And threw it straight at the casino entrance.

Husk moved on pure instinct, throwing himself in front of the doors with wings spread to absorb the impact. The fire hit with force that pushed him backward, feeling the searing heat burning through his feathers and making him roar in pain.

But the doors behind him remained intact.

“That all you got?” he panted, his voice coming out rougher than usual.

The scaly one had gotten up, holding his chain with renewed determination, as if seeing weakness in the cat in front of him had renewed his strength and greed.

“We don’t need to be fancy. We just need to beat you enough to get inside.”

And they all lunged at once.

Chains wrapped around Husk’s left arm, pulling hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. The pure-muscle one hit him from behind, sending him to his knees. Someone else—he didn’t see who—kicked his ribs with enough force to hear something crack.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle at first. Just a slight drop in temperature, a feeling of pressure that made the hairs on Husk’s nape stand even through the pain. The thugs felt it too. Their assault faltered, heads turning to search for the source of that sudden change. Husk, still on the ground with chains wrapped around his arm and probably broken ribs, felt something close to relief expand in his chest.

Because he recognized that sensation.

Static filled the air. Not loud or overwhelming, just present. Like when a radio was tuning between stations, that distinctive hum that made your teeth ache if you were exposed too long.

And then Alastor was there. Not walking into the scene or materializing dramatically in a cloud of smoke. He simply was there, standing between Husk and the thugs, wearing his immaculate red suit as always and his staff resting casually against his shoulder.

His smile was too wide, accompanied by eyes that gleamed with something that made even Husk—who was technically on the same side—feel a chill run down his spine.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Alastor’s voice came out with that distinctive melodic quality, but there was something beneath it. Something sharp. “It seems you’ve been having quite a bit of fun with my property.”

In silence, the thugs clearly recognized Alastor—it would be hard not to. The expression on their faces quickly shifted from aggressive confidence to something considerably closer to fear.

“R.. Radio...” the horned one stammered. “We didn’t know this place was yours. The girl just said—”

“Oh, the establishment belongs to Husk,” Alastor corrected cheerfully, gesturing toward where Husk was still on the ground. “But you see, I have a certain personal interest in his well-being. And in the continued operation of his casino.”

He paused, his smile somehow widening further.

“And you have been... how shall I put it? Ah, yes. You have been fucking with that.”

The shadows around Alastor thickened, mirroring his pronouncement. Just a gradual darkening that made the area around him seem less...real. As if reality itself were struggling to remain steady in his presence.

“We just...” the scaly one began, his hands rising in a gesture of peace. “We just wanted the girl. She owes us—”

“Thirty thousand in cash. Yes, I heard." Alastor waved his hand dismissively. “Perfectly reasonable, I must admit. Debts must be paid. That's the foundation of our infernal society, isn't it?”

The thugs nodded cautiously, clearly unsure of where this was going.

“However...” Alastor's tone shifted, losing all its previous warmth. “When did you think destroying private property to collect a personal debt was acceptable behavior?”

“We... she was hiding...”

“And you could have waited.” They could have negotiated, they could have done literally anything except cast... destructive magic on innocent windows. Alastor began walking toward them with slow, measured steps. “Do you know how much those windows cost? It's imported glass. Quality craftsmanship, not the kind you just replace at a corner store.”

He caught up with the nearest demon—the one of pure muscle who had attacked Husk from behind—and placed a hand on his shoulder with feigned camaraderie.

“And Husk's ribs,” he continued conversationally. "Those were quite important, too. Necessary for, you know, breathing, living. Properly running my casino.”

His grip on the demon's shoulder tightened.

And then he threw him.

The demon flew, literally flew, streaking across the air as if fired from a cannon, its trajectory carrying it over buildings, past streets, disappearing into the distance with a shriek that faded into a distant echo.

The remaining thugs froze.

“Next!” Alastor exclaimed gleefully, turning to face the one with the twisted horns.

“Wait, wait!” the demon backed away, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to create distance. “We had no idea! We thought it was just another casino, we didn't know you—”

Alastor grabbed him by the horn—the same one Husk had grabbed earlier—and used the grip like a lever to spin him in a complete circle before letting go. The demon became another shooting star, its trajectory taking it in a completely different direction from its companion.

“Fascinating physics, don't you think, Husker?” Alastor commented over his shoulder. “Launch angles, force distribution… there’s a whole science behind this.”

Husk, still on the ground with broken ribs and an arm that probably needed attention, could only watch with a mixture of pain and morbid awe, which he would, of course, always deny.

The three remaining thugs were now trying to escape. Running in random directions, they had clearly abandoned any pretense of dignity or intention of completing their original mission.

Alastor watched them for a moment, tilting his head as if considering whether it was worth the effort. Then he sighed.

“Oh, very good.”

The shadows stirred, though not subtly this time. Those real tentacles of solidified darkness erupted from the ground, enveloping the fleeing thugs with a precision that spoke of considerable practice. They lifted them into the air as if they weighed nothing, ignoring their screams and pleas.

And then Alastor made a casual gesture with his hand—almost dismissive in its ease—and the shadows flung them out one after another, as if he were disposing of troublesome trash. The thugs flew across the Pentagon's night sky. Their shouts faded into the distance as they vanished toward various points on the horizon.

Silently, Alastor dusted his hands as if he had been handling something particularly unpleasant, then turned to where Husk had managed to sit against the casino wall, breathing heavily.

“Well,” Alastor said cheerfully, walking toward him. “That was entertaining.”

Husk looked at him.

“Entertaining,” he repeated flatly. “They almost destroyed my casino.”

“But they didn’t!” Alastor pointed out, crouching to be at eye level with Husk. “Thanks to your excellent work holding them off. Very impressive, I must say. One against six are not good odds.”

He extended his hand.

Husk looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then took it with his good arm. Alastor pulled him up with surprising strength for his slender build, holding him steady when Husk’s broken ribs protested the movement.

“Thanks,” Husk growled, hating how the word came out rough but feeling it genuine anyway.

“You’re welcome,” Alastor responded, and something in his tone suggested he meant it too. “Now, about the cause of all this…”

He turned toward the casino, where the blonde demon had cautiously emerged from behind the bar. She still held her martini, surprisingly intact.

“Alastor!” she squealed, trotting toward him with heels clicking against the marble. “Thank God! I knew you’d come! Those awful thugs have been chasing me all night over a little—”

“Mimzy,” Alastor interrupted, his voice still light but with an edge beneath. “Thirty thousand. In cash.”

She froze.

“Well… yes, but I was going to pay them eventually, it’s just that timing was—”

“Bad?” Alastor completed. “Yes, I imagine so.”

He looked around the casino at the broken windows, scattered glass, overturned furniture, Husk bleeding against the wall.

“You know what, dear. You’re right. I should help you with this.”

Something like hope gleamed in Mimzy’s eyes.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Alastor smiled wider. “What kind of demon would I be if I let these… misunderstandings ruin your reputation?”

He paused.

“I won’t pay you until this debt is settled. Including interest… And the cost of this casino’s repairs… And an inconvenience fee for Husker because you ruined his night.”

The hope in Mimzy’s eyes vanished.

“That’s… That’s going to take months!”

“Then I suggest you start tomorrow!” Alastor responded cheerfully. “Early, six in the morning. Don’t be late.”

He patted her head condescendingly, then turned back to Husk.

“As for you, those ribs need medical attention. I know someone discreet, competent, won’t ask awkward questions. I’ll send her.”

“It’s not necessary—” Husk began.

“It’s not negotiable,” Alastor interrupted firmly. “I can’t have my casino manager operating with broken ribs; it gives a bad image.” He paused. “Besides, you held your ground. You protected the establishment even when the odds were against you. That deserves at least proper healing.”

And with that, he vanished into the shadows, taking a protesting Mimzy with him and leaving Husk alone in the damaged casino, processing what had just happened.

Mimzy was his new synonym for trouble. Walking, talking trouble in red sequins who apparently had no sense of self-preservation or basic financial management.

And now that she was more permanently in Alastor’s orbit, it meant she would probably cause trouble again in the future.

Husk sighed, pressing his hand against his ribs while waiting for that mysterious doctor Alastor had mentioned.

He definitely needed a drink after this.

Several drinks.

…The whole damn bottle, honestly.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Alastor’s radio studio was exactly as he had left it days before.

He dropped into his chair with a sigh that was a combination of satisfaction and fatigue. For him, the night had been productive enough, even entertaining.

Because yes, Mimzy was a walking disaster with questionable finances and judgment. But she was also… well, a very close acquaintance. One of the few people from his mortal life who had survived long enough to die and find him again in Hell. Even in life, she had accompanied him on dozens of nightly adventures against one politician or another in his colony, or simply people who bothered one of them.

And besides, what Overlord didn’t like a good opportunity to demonstrate his power?

Those thugs had been stupid enough to attack a property associated with him; that couldn’t go unanswered. And the way he had handled the situation—quick and efficient, without lacking drama—would send exactly the right message to the rest of the Pentagram.

Don’t fuck with what’s mine.

Even if that includes Husk’s casino.

Alastor smiled at that thought, pulling out his mental notebook to jot down a quick note about sending the doctor tomorrow morning. And another about making sure the windows were replaced with something even better than the originals… And a third about Mimzy’s work arrangement, with terms that would ensure she learned her lesson without being completely destroyed in the process. Because despite who he was, she also needed consequences.

He saved the notebook, adjusting the microphone in front of him as the transmission equipment finished warming up. The lights shifted from amber to green, signaling it was ready.

Alastor pressed the broadcast button.

Static briefly filled the air before settling into that clear frequency now recognizable throughout the Pentagram.

“Good evening, sinners of Hell!” his voice came out smooth, melodic. “This is Alastor, your favorite host on the infernal airwaves.”

He let his laugh flow through the microphone. Light, genuine in these cases he only allowed when alone in his studio.

“Tonight, dear listeners, we’re going to discuss something close to my heart. Something that transcends mere survival and enters the realm of pure art.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Food. Specifically, the best dish I ever had the privilege of eating, both in life and in death.”

He leaned back in his chair, allowing the memory to fill him. Warm, nostalgic, tinged with that bittersweet longing that came from remembering things that could never be exactly replicated.

“You see, in my mortal life I grew up in New Orleans. Beautiful city, by the way. Terrible in almost every way that mattered to someone like me, but the food…” his smile softened, taking advantage that no one else could see him. “Ah, the food was transcendent. And there is no dish that better embodies the soul of that city than jambalaya.”

The word came out with that particular accent that only came from having grown up surrounded by it.

“For those unfamiliar,” he continued, his voice taking on that tone of a teacher sharing beloved knowledge, “imagine, if you will, a dish that is simultaneously chaos and perfect harmony. Rice as the base. Cooked with meat, typically chicken, andouille sausage, sometimes shrimp if you were lucky and had resources. Along with what Creoles call the ‘Holy Trinity’: onion, celery, and green bell pepper. All finely chopped, sweated until the flavors meld.”

He leaned toward the microphone, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret.

“But that’s just the beginning, because what really makes jambalaya sing is the seasoning. Cayenne for heat, paprika for depth. Garlic because, frankly, what good dish doesn’t have it? Thyme, bay leaves. Maybe a touch of Worcestershire sauce if you’re adventurous. All cooked together in one pot until the rice absorbs every drop of flavor, until you can’t tell where one ingredient ends and another begins. Until it becomes something more than the sum of its parts…”

Alastor closed his eyes, allowing himself to remember, and his smile widened with genuine affection.

“My mother made the best jambalaya I will ever taste. And before you ask: no, she never wrote down the recipe. She refused. She said that if you needed to write a recipe, then you didn’t really understand the food. Cooking, she insisted, was about feeling, about knowing when the rice had absorbed enough broth just by the smell, about tasting as you cook and adjusting until it’s perfect, about timing; when to add the shrimp so they cook without becoming rubbery, when to add the sausage so it releases its oils into the dish without drying out… It was art. Creole art, specifically. Born of necessity as much as creativity.”

He opened his eyes, his smile taking a more… mischievous turn.

“And here, in Hell, I have perfected my own version. With some local touches, let’s say. Because it turns out certain meat has a remarkably similar flavor to pork when cooked properly. Rich, marbled, with that perfect balance of fat and muscle that makes every bite…” he let out a satisfied sigh “…divine. Ironically. And when you combine that with the right heat, the right spices, that love for the process my mother taught me…”

Alastor let the sentence hang in the air, the implication clear but never explicitly stated.

“Well. Let’s just say I’ve received enthusiastic compliments from those privileged enough to try it.”

Music began filtering in the background—instrumental jazz, something melancholic and warm—complementing his voice perfectly.

“But beyond the flavor, beyond the technique… what makes jambalaya special is what it represents.”

His tone softened slightly.

“It’s a communal dish. Made to be shared. In my youth, every major family gathering included someone—usually the matriarchs—standing over huge pots, making enough to feed everyone. Weddings, funerals, celebrations, wakes… It didn’t matter the occasion. There was jambalaya. Because feeding people was love, was tradition. It was how Creole families said ‘you belong here’ without needing words.”

He paused, letting those thoughts settle.

“So the next time you’re in some establishment in the Pentagram and see jambalaya on the menu… give it a chance. And if it tastes particularly good…”

His smile widened, taking on that playful edge that was his trademark.

“Well. Maybe don’t ask too much about the origin of the meat.”

He let his laugh flow through the microphones. Rich, genuine, tinged with enough implied threat to keep his audience guessing.

“This has been another late-night broadcast with your favorite host. Stay tuned, sinners. You never know when I might have more culinary wisdom to share. Or when I might need… new ingredients.”

The music rose as his voice faded, closing the broadcast with that perfect touch of sinister charm that ensured his shows had.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

It had been a good night. Productive, entertaining, and ending with a broadcast that would definitely have people talking tomorrow.

Exactly how he liked it.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Oneira would stare at her plate of food with some skepticism. Alastor had sent her a package a few minutes ago that was explicitly addressed to her. Upon opening it, she discovered it was some kind of rice mixed with shrimp, meat, and chicken, and a few standout vegetables.

The appearance was more than decent, actually. The smell tickled her nostrils, and as she ate that dish carefully, analyzing its flavor, she listened to that broadcast on the radio beside her.

A broadcast that curiously talked about the same dish she had just learned was called jambalaya.

“Crazy deer…” the mare murmured, venturing another spoonful toward her mouth.

At least it didn’t taste bad.

Notes:

I like to include short interludes where the focus shifts away from my main characters! I feel it gives the plot a break, and I also don't want to dwell on their relationship so constantly. It feels a bit rushed, especially since once they start, they won't be able to turn back. ◝ ⩊ ◜)

Sometimes I read headcanons on Twitter and agree with them, so I often incorporate them into the fanfic... Like this one about Alastor talking about Jambalaya on his radio! I also take the time to research canon things I can include in the story, like the one I did in chapter 15.

Chapter 14: Errands.

Striker had killed many demons in his life... or un-life?, technically. Though the line between both had become blurred in Hell. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that killing was his trade. His art. The only thing in which he was indisputably, undeniably excellent.

The perpetually red sun of the Pentagon shone over him while he walked through the streets toward the central district, where the Manhattan Café rose like a monument to commercial efficiency. His spurs clinked with every step —a distinctive sound that he had learned to use strategically, sometimes as warning, sometimes as distraction, sometimes simply as personal signature—.

Striker had received messages from Oneira that morning. Simple and direct:

"I need to see you. Three in the afternoon. Urgent matter."

That was all.

No additional detail, no elaborate explanation. Just the summons and the time.

And Striker, because he had learned that when Oneira said "urgent" it really was, had canceled his plans for the day —which wasn’t like he had many, honestly— and had begun the journey toward the café.

Which gave him time to think.

To think about his employer. About the relationship they had developed during these months working together and about what it really meant to be under her contract.

Because Striker had had employers before. Demons who hired him for one-off jobs, who paid well but treated him like disposable tool. Use and discard was the norm in Hell, especially for the imps who didn’t have the backing of powerful families or established connections. Only his skill and only his willingness to do what others wouldn’t had been enough to survive, to build a reputation, to become someone that the demons sought when they needed problems... resolved permanently.

But surviving wasn’t the same as thriving.

And Striker had wanted to thrive. He had wanted more than simply existing on the margins of infernal society, taking any job that paid enough to keep him fed and armed. He had wanted recognition, resources, the opportunity to perfect his art instead of simply practicing it.

And then Oneira had made him that offer.

Striker remembered that initial conversation with a clarity that was almost uncomfortable. Not because it had been particularly dramatic —Oneira wasn’t someone who did unnecessary drama— but because it had been... different. She had interviewed him as if he were a valued professional instead of disposable muscle. She had asked questions about his experience, his methods, his long-term goals as if his opinion mattered, as if he mattered beyond his immediate capacity to kill.

And when she had finally offered him the contract, the terms had been... Generous. Absurdly generous, if he had to be honest.

It included training with the best instructors that money could buy, superior-quality weapons, access to information networks that would normally be completely out of his reach, competitive pay not only for completed jobs but also a monthly stipend simply for being available.

And autonomy.

That had been the part that had surprised him the most.

Oneira didn’t micro-manage him. She didn’t demand constant reports about his movements or his activities during his free time, she didn’t try to control every aspect of his existence in the ways Striker had seen other Overlords control their subordinates. She gave him a goal, clear terms, the appropriate resources, and then let him work. She trusted his competence and in return only asked one thing: be available when she needed him.

That was literally all.

Striker had initially suspected that there was a trap, because there was always a trap in Hell. Nobody offered something that good without hidden expectations or clauses buried in the contract’s fine print that would trap you in obligations you hadn’t anticipated.

But the weeks had turned into months, and the trap had never appeared.

Oneira had simply... kept every promise she had made him.

The training had been brutal but effective. Striker had learned techniques that maybe would have taken him years to master, refining the skills he already possessed and developing new ones that considerably expanded his repertoire. The weapons were of exceptional quality, the daggers had been forged specifically to his specifications, the poisons he requested really worked instead of being diluted replicas that would barely affect demons with basic resistances. He even got explosives when the job required it. And the information...

Striker smiled slightly at that thought.

Oneira’s intelligence network was impressive. Contacts in practically every district of the Pentagon, sources that could track movements, identify weaknesses, provide building blueprints or target routines with a precision that made every job considerably easier.

And she shared all that with him without unnecessary restrictions. As if he were a valuable partner instead of simply an employee.

Striker had begun to respect her for that.

Not the superficial kind of respect that came from fear —though he certainly recognized that Oneira was dangerous in ways that most didn’t see immediately—, but genuine respect born of professional admiration.

She was competent, efficient and fair in her dealings in ways that were rare in Hell. And more important than all that: she treated him as if he mattered. Not as an imp nor as someone from a lower station, just as someone who was good at his job and deserved to be treated with professional dignity.

That meant something to Striker. More than it probably should, if he was honest with himself. Because in Hell, where hierarchy was everything and where those born in the lower classes rarely rose without selling their soul in ways that bound them permanently...

Being treated with respect by someone as powerful as Oneira was almost... valuable.

As if she saw his worth in ways that others couldn’t or wouldn’t.

And Striker had discovered that he was willing to work considerably harder for someone who respected him than for anyone who simply intimidated him.

Which brought him back to the present.

To this urgent summons.
To whatever Oneira needed today.

Striker had been expecting this, in a way. Because although she gave him considerable free time —more than he had anticipated when he signed the contract— inevitably there were jobs that required his particular set of skills.

And judging by the tone of the message, this one was going to be significant.

The Manhattan Café building appeared ahead with its elegant façade standing out even among the relatively sophisticated establishments of the central commercial district. The clean windows reflected the perpetual red light, the golden sign glowed with that touch of class that defined all of Oneira’s properties.

Striker entered through the main doors, immediately struck by the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with that subtle background of something more required in the specific blends.

The ground floor was moderately full. Demons of various kinds occupied tables, some clearly doing business and others simply enjoying their drinks while reading newspapers or conversing in low tones. Some looked at him when he entered —his cowboy appearance was always going to stand out in this kind of establishment— but most simply continued with their affairs.

Striker moved directly toward the stairs that led to the private offices on the fourth floor. The receptionist —a slender demon with bluish skin who always seemed slightly nervous, perhaps signs of addiction— saw him approach and nodded upon recognizing him.

"Mr. Striker," she greeted, keeping her voice professional but warm. "The lady is waiting for you. You can go straight up."

"Thanks," Striker tipped his head politely before going up the stairs.

The fourth floor was considerably quieter than the ground floor. Carpeted instead of marble, lit with elegant lamps that cast soft light instead of the brightness of the public area, it had doors on each side of the hallway leading to various administrative offices, but Striker knew exactly which one was his destination.

The office at the end of the hallway. The largest one. The one with a simple gold plaque that only said "Management."

Oneira’s office.

Striker stopped in front of the door, adjusting his hat once more before knocking two firm but respectful knocks.

"Come in," Oneira’s voice came from inside, clear and unhurried.

Striker opened the door, entering the office that had become familiar during these months.

The space was exactly what one would expect from someone like Oneira: elegant without being ostentatious, functional without sacrificing aesthetics. A large dark-wood desk dominated the center, covered with documents organized in precise stacks while on the sides there were bookshelves that covered an entire wall of financial records, contracts and some tomes that probably indicated a broad taste for reading, if it wasn’t obvious from having a small library in her office.

A large window behind the desk offered a view toward the streets of the Pentagon below, its curtains kept half-open allowing red light to filter in but not enough to be uncomfortable. And seated behind the desk, with a cup of coffee in her hand and those distinctive golden eyes focused on the papers in front of her, was Oneira.

She looked up when he entered, and something in her expression changed slightly enough for Striker to notice. Softness, perhaps. Or simply that recognition that caused an invisible caress to the ego of the snake imp.

"Striker," she greeted, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Of course, ma’am," closing the door behind him, he moved to take a seat in a relaxed but respectful manner. "Your message said urgent."

"It is," Oneira set her cup on the desk, interlacing her fingers over the surface. "But before going into details, how have you been? Is the training going well?"

It was typical of her to ask. Not because she had to, since the contract didn’t require her to care about his personal well-being, but because she genuinely seemed interested. Or at least, that was what Striker had chosen to believe after so many times.

"Fine," he answered honestly. "The hand-to-hand combat techniques that that demon instructor taught last week are being useful. A little more efficient than self-training."

Oneira smiled with approval.

"Excellent. I’m glad it’s worth the investment."

She paused, her fingers tapped harmoniously once against the desk.

"I have a job for you. One that requires... discretion, and a certain level of creativity in the execution."

Striker straightened slightly, his attention focusing completely.

"I’m listening, ma’am."

Oneira opened one of the desk drawers, taking out a thin folder that she placed on the surface between them. She opened it, revealing the contents of a photograph, several documents that appeared to be financial records, and a map of the Pentagon with certain areas marked in red ink.

"His name is Beron," Oneira began, turning the photograph so Striker could see it clearly. "Former trader of mine. He operated a smuggling network specialized in rare magical artifacts. About eight months ago, I lent him significant resources to expand his operations toward the northern district."

Striker studied the photograph.

The demon showed vaguely canine features —something like a wolf—. Dark gray fur, visible scars even in the image, eyes that glowed with a sickly yellow that suggested corrupt power or addiction to substances that altered demonic physiology. He wore clothes that had once been expensive but now looked worn, like someone who had had money and had gradually lost it without appropriately adjusting his lifestyle.

"How much did you lend him?" Striker asked, memorizing every detail of the image.

"Three million," Oneira answered in a neutral voice. "With very clear payment terms. Twenty-five percent of his monthly profits for two years, plus the principal divided into quarterly payments."

She paused, taking a sip of her coffee before continuing.

"Generous, considering the risks involved in his line of business."

Striker raised an eyebrow. Three million was considerable. The kind of investment that could completely transform someone’s operation if handled correctly.

"Let me guess..." he said slowly "...he hasn’t been paying."

"Worse," Oneira’s fingers tensed slightly around her cup. "The first three months were fine. Full payments, on time, even with small bonuses as a show of 'good faith.'"

Her tone when saying "good faith" made it very clear exactly what she thought about that in retrospect.

"But then the payments began to arrive late. First by days, then by weeks, the amounts began to decrease. His excuses were about problems with suppliers, interference from competitors, temporary bad things."

Oneira set her cup on the desk with a soft click.

"And now, according to my most reliable sources, he has been liquidating assets. Selling inventory at reduced prices, transferring properties to false names. Basically preparing to disappear completely with whatever remains of my investment."

The silence that followed was thick while Striker processed the information.

It wasn’t simply a delinquent debtor. It was a thief. Someone who had accepted resources under specific terms and now was actively trying to avoid fulfilling his part of the agreement.

The kind of behavior that, if allowed, would set a dangerous precedent.

"Have you tried contacting him directly?" hissing, he asked.

"Multiple times," Oneira answered with a tone of slight frustration. "He ignored every one of them. He canceled meetings at the last moment and when I finally managed to speak with him two weeks ago, he gave me an elaborate story about how 'everything would be resolved soon' and that he only needed 'a little more time.'"

Her fingers began that familiar drumming against the desk.

"Three days later, one of my sources informed me that he had sold one of his main warehouses for a fraction of its real value. Cash, no record, anonymous buyer."

Striker nodded slowly, understanding the full picture now.

Beron had no intention of paying. He was taking everything he could before fleeing, probably to some remote district where he thought Oneira wouldn’t follow him or wouldn’t bother.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked directly.

Oneira looked at him for a long moment. Those golden eyes studied him with an intensity that made something in Striker’s spine bristle. Not from fear, never from fear with her. But from... anticipation. Probably what would come next would be significant.

"Before answering that..." Oneira began slowly, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality "...I need to ask you a question."

"Ma’am?"

"Your contract with me specifies certain services," she leaned back in her chair, her fingers stopping their drumming. "Elimination of targets when necessary, retrieval of information, occasional protection... Jobs that require your particular set of skills."

She made a deliberate pause.

"But there are limits. Lines drawn in that contract that technically do not obligate you to cross. Things that are beyond the strict scope of your binding obligations."

Striker felt something tense settle in his chest, because he understood where this was going.

"Would you kill for me beyond those contractual terms?" Oneira asked directly, her eyes never leaving his. "Not because you are contractually bound, not because the contract forces you. But because... you choose to."

Striker processed the question, immediately understanding what she was really asking.

Loyalty.

Not the superficial loyalty that came from active contracts nor the obedience that was bought with resources or imposed with threats.

But real loyalty.

The kind that existed independently of magical obligations. The kind that meant something deeper than simply fulfilling terms written in a document.

The kind that was earned.

And the answer... Striker moved before consciously thinking about it, sliding from his chair to kneel in front of the desk in a fluid movement that was pure instinctive deference. He removed his hat, placing it over his heart with one hand while the other reached for Oneira’s gloved hand where it rested on the desk.

He raised it to his lips with careful reverence, kissing her knuckles in a gesture that was absolute respect. Earned devotion, not forced.

"Ma’am," his voice came out rougher than usual, loaded with a conviction he rarely allowed others to hear. "You gave me a chance when no one else would."

He raised his gaze to meet hers directly, holding that eye contact with fierce intensity.

"You treated me with respect when others of my... station... are treated like disposable trash. You provided me with resources that transformed my existence from mere survival to something that really resembles thriving."

His grip on her hand tightened slightly, not painfully, only emphatically.

"So yes. I would kill for you. Not because my contract obliges me, but because I choose to, because you have earned that level of loyalty. Because..."

He paused, searching for the right words.

"Because you see value in me beyond my immediate capacity to kill. And that means far more than I can probably express appropriately."

The silence that followed was different from the previous one. Heavier, charged with something Striker couldn’t fully name but felt in his chest like physical pressure.

Something changed in Oneira’s expression at those words. Not noticeably, but Striker had begun to know her well enough now to recognize those subtle signs.

Her eyes softened marginally, her posture relaxed almost imperceptibly, the fingers not being held stopped their drumming to simply rest flat against the desk.

Satisfaction, Striker decided. Perhaps even something close to... relief? As if she had been genuinely unsure of how he would respond and his answer mattered in ways that went beyond simply knowing whether she could count on him for this specific job.

"Good," Oneira said finally, her voice having lost its professional neutrality in favor of something softer. "Then this is what I need."

She gently withdrew her hand, gesturing for Striker to stand. He did, reclaiming his seat while Oneira pushed the folder closer to him to reveal the additional documents she had been hiding beneath the photograph.

"Find Beron," she instructed, her tone returning to the professional efficiency Striker already associated with her giving orders. "He is operating from somewhere in the outer districts of the Pentagon, my sources suggest he has a fortified complex, probably with guards."

She pulled out the map, pointing to the area marked in red.

"This region. Approximately twenty square miles of territory that is technically unclaimed by any Overlord. Perfect for someone trying to hide."

Striker studied the map, noting the additional marks Oneira had made. Possible access routes, areas where surveillance would be lighter, potential entry points based on topography...

She had done her homework.

"Once you find him..." Oneira continued "...I need you to find out where he hid the assets he liquidated. Cash, liquid souls, anything of value he has been accumulating. That information is priority."

She paused, her eyes meeting Striker’s with that focused intensity again.

"And then... eliminate him."

Striker nodded slowly, processing the requirements.

Find. Interrogate. Eliminate spectacularly.

Those concepts were beginning to engrave themselves in his mind like mechanisms from a robot. For they were exactly the kind of job he had been trained for.

"Any preference on the method of elimination?" he asked.

A small smile touched Oneira’s lips.

"Surprise me. Just make sure it is... memorable. The kind of thing other demons would talk about. The kind of thing that will make my other debtors reconsider any similar thought of evasion."

"Understood, ma’am."

Striker took the folder, carefully tucking it into his jacket. His mind was already working on the problem, considering approach angles, infiltration methods, ways to efficiently extract information before proceeding with the spectacular elimination.

"I’ll let you know when it’s done," he promised.

"Thank you, Striker."

He stood up, placing his hat back on his head with a fluid movement. But before turning toward the door, he paused.

"Ma’am..." he began, then stopped, not entirely sure how to articulate what he wanted to say.

Oneira raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"It’s an honor," Striker finished simply, without digging too much into what he specifically meant, because that wasn’t his style.

Something passed through Oneira’s expression at those words. Too quick for Striker to fully identify, but it was there.

"The honor is mutual," she murmured softly. "Be careful out there. The outer districts can be... unpredictable."

"I always am, ma’am."

And with that, Striker left the office, gently closing the door behind him.

The hallway outside was as quiet as it had been when he entered. His spurs clinked against the carpeted floor as he walked back toward the stairs, his mind already completely focused on the job ahead.

He had a target to locate.
Information to extract.
A message to send in the most spectacular way possible.

Exactly the kind of challenge that made his blood run faster.

Exactly what he had been trained for.

And now, with his declaration of loyalty still ringing in his ears...

Exactly what he wanted to do.

Not just because it was his job.

But because it was his job.

And that made all the difference to him.

Oneira had simply remained at her desk, watching with something indecipherable the same back of the hand that had just been softly kissed by the snake who had just left her door.

She liked having things under control. Unlike that red demon, Striker was someone she knew would give his life for her, which was a lot considering that he could actually die unlike a sinner like her.

Her ears twitched with satisfaction while her tail, inevitably, followed a pattern that was difficult to discern between eagerness or desire.

That was exactly how she wanted to have him.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The outer districts of the Pentagon were a completely different world from the polished and relatively civilized center where Oneira ran her coffee empire. Here, the streets were narrower, dirtier. The buildings leaned at precarious angles, as if they were about to collapse but somehow stayed standing through pure infernal stubbornness. Lighting was irregular; some areas remained bathed in that perpetual red glow, while others were plunged into shadows so dense that even demons with good night vision had trouble navigating.

And the smell…

Striker wrinkled his nose as he walked down what was technically considered a street but was more like a glorified alley. Sulfur, of course, was universal in Hell. But also rotting garbage, corrupt magic that left an oily residue in the air, and that distinctive metallic smell of recent violence.

This was technically unclaimed territory. No Overlord controlled it directly. Which didn’t mean it was unoccupied, only that whoever lived here operated outside the established power structures.

Perfect for someone trying to hide.

Terrible for someone being hunted by a professional.

Striker had spent the last two days preparing for this. Reviewing the information Oneira had provided, contacting some of his own sources on the border areas. Acquiring specialized gear he might need for infiltration and potential combat.

And now, finally, he had what he needed: a specific location.

Beron had set up his operation in an old industrial complex that had probably been used for manufacturing something before its original owners died or simply abandoned the property. It consisted of three main buildings connected by elevated walkways, surrounded by a cracked concrete wall topped with barbed wire that at this point looked more decorative than functional.

There was minimal surveillance from the outside. Striker had been watching the surroundings for the last six hours from an advantageous spot in a nearby abandoned building, and he had only seen four guards total making irregular rounds.

Pathetic.

Either Beron was arrogant about his security, or he simply didn’t have the resources to hire proper protection. Considering he was supposedly fleeing with three million, Striker suspected it was the former.

The sun—if that perpetual red thing could be called a sun—was beginning its descent toward what passed for night in Hell. The shadows lengthened, providing better cover for his approach.

Perfect.

Striker checked his gear one last time.

Three daggers, all forged specifically for him, perfectly balanced. One on his belt, two in hidden sheaths under his jacket.

Two different kinds of poison. One that paralyzed without killing, useful for interrogations. Another that killed slowly and painfully, useful for sending messages.

A light but incredibly strong rope. Multiple uses.

Lock-picking tools, because although he could break doors, sometimes subtlety was preferable.

And his firearm, a revolver that had been modified with infernal inscriptions that guaranteed the bullets would find vital targets even if his aim wasn’t perfect. Expensive, but it had been worth every soul he had paid for it.

Satisfied with his preparations, Striker began his approach.

He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this hundreds of times before. From shadow to shadow, using debris and abandoned buildings as cover, his steps completely silent despite the spurs that normally clinked with every movement. He had learned that skill specifically for situations like this. The spurs could be removed when necessary, but he preferred to keep them on. They were part of his identity, his distinctive mark.

And there was something satisfying about being able to move in complete silence while still wearing them.

He reached the perimeter wall without incident, crouching behind a pile of rubble while assessing the best entry point.

The barbed wire on top of the wall was rusted in several places, completely missing in others. It wouldn’t be a significant obstacle. The wall’s height—approximately ten feet if his visual calculations were good—was manageable with the right momentum.

He waited until the nearest guard finished his round and disappeared around the corner of the main building. Then he moved.

He ran toward the wall, using his momentum to leap and grab the top with both hands. He pulled himself up, swinging over the edge while carefully avoiding the sections of wire that were still intact. He dropped to the other side in a soft landing, immediately moving into the nearest shadows. He stayed still for thirty seconds, listening.

Nothing. No alarm or shout of alert. The guards continued their lazy rounds, completely unaware they had been infiltrated.

Striker smiled. Maybe it was too easy.

The complex had three buildings, as he had noted. The main one—probably where Beron had his central operations and possibly residence—and two smaller structures that were likely storage or employee lodging.

Striker decided to start with one of the smaller buildings first, choosing reconnaissance before direct engagement. It was always better to understand the full layout before going straight for the main target. He moved toward the nearest building, keeping close to the walls and using any available cover. The door was unlocked, another sign of lax security that made something in Striker feel irritated, because he felt he was being too professional for someone proving to be so mediocre.

Inside, the building was exactly what he had expected: storage. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, some labeled with symbols Striker recognized as indicators of demonic artifacts. The inventory Beron was supposedly selling off.

Meaning he was still operating, at least partially. He hadn’t fled completely yet. Which meant he was probably in the main building right now.

Striker left the warehouse, moving toward the main building with renewed determination. This one had more visible guards—two standing near the main entrance talking in low tones about something they apparently found amusing.

Front door was out, then.

Striker circled the building, looking for alternatives. He found one on the east side: a second-floor window, partially open, no visible guards nearby. Perfect.

Climbing the outer wall was trivial. Cracks in the concrete provided easy handholds, and the structure was so deteriorated that Striker could have carved his own holds if necessary.

He reached the window in less than a minute, slipping inside with fluid movements that made no sound, and found himself in what appeared to be an office hallway. Doors on each side, most closed. Dim lighting provided by oil lamps placed at irregular intervals.

And voices.

Striker froze, choosing to listen.

They were coming from somewhere further ahead. Multiple voices, one of them louder than the others, dominant—probably Beron. He moved toward the sound with steps that were ghostly in their silence. The door at the end of the hallway was ajar, light filtering out from inside. Striker approached, positioning himself where he could see in without being seen.

And there was Beron.

Sitting behind a desk that had seen better days, surrounded by three larger demons—bodyguards, judging by their size and the way they stood. He was gesturing animatedly as he spoke, and his voice carried that quality of someone who was stressed but trying to sound confident.

"...the last sales should give us enough to disappear properly to the northern district, maybe even almost completely out of the Pentagon. That Manhattan bitch will never see us again if we’re smart about this..."

Striker felt something cold and satisfying settle in his chest at those words. Beron was definitely planning to run, and he was stupid enough to admit it out loud in front of employees who would probably sell that information for the right price.

He was pathetic.

Striker assessed his options.

Three bodyguards plus Beron. Four targets total in the room, plus the two at the main entrance downstairs, plus whoever was patrolling the outer perimeter. Going in directly would likely result in a fight that would alert everyone. Which wasn’t ideal when he needed to interrogate Beron before eliminating him.

He preferred subtlety, then.

Striker backed away from the doorframe, thinking. He needed to separate the wolf from his bodyguards. Create a situation where he could grab him without immediately alerting the entire complex.

His eyes fell on one of the oil lamps in the hallway, and an idea began to form.

Dangerous, certainly. But effective.

He moved back down the hallway, stopping at one of the empty offices he had passed. He found what he needed: some old rags stored in a corner, probably used for cleaning at some point. He soaked them with oil from the nearest lamp, then carefully arranged them near the door of that office. Not enough to create an immediate uncontrollable blaze, but enough to cause sufficient distraction.

He lit the rags with a spark from one of his lighters—he always carried two, because redundancy was important—and then quickly moved back to his position near the office.

It took about thirty seconds for the smell of smoke to reach the room.

"What the fuck...?" one of the bodyguards sniffed the air. "Does it smell like smoke?"

"Probably just the lamps..." Beron began.

And then the smoke became visible, snaking under doors and into the hallway in gray-black clouds.

"FIRE!" one of the bodyguards shouted. "There’s a damn fire!"

Panic infected the three bodyguards, who rushed out of the office toward the smoke, shouting contradictory instructions among themselves about getting water or evacuating or finding the source. The wolf rose from his desk, his expression shifting from confusion to panic as the smoke thickened.

"You idiots! The documents! We need to save the documents before—!"

He moved toward a filing cabinet in the corner of his office, clearly more worried about evidence than his own safety.

Perfect.

Striker waited until all three bodyguards had completely disappeared down the hallway, their voices fading as they searched for the fire’s source. Then he slipped into the office with movements that were pure predatory stealth.

Beron had his back to the door, frantically stuffing papers into a bag with trembling hands. Completely focused on his task. Completely unaware.

Striker closed the distance in three silent steps.

His arm wrapped around the man’s neck from behind, applying precise pressure at the exact point needed to cut off blood flow to the brain without causing immediate permanent damage—it was a chokehold technique he had perfected through considerable practice. Beron thrashed, his claws scratching uselessly at Striker’s arm as he tried to scream. But no sound came out, because Striker was pressing his trachea hard enough to prevent that.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

Beron’s body gradually went limp, his movements growing weaker until he finally slumped, unconscious but alive. Striker lowered him to the floor carefully, then moved quickly. He pulled out his rope, tied the wolf’s wrists and ankles with simple but effective knots, and a strip of fabric torn from Beron’s own shirt served as a gag.

The smoke was thickening now. Striker could hear louder voices from the hallway telling him the bodyguards had probably found the fire and were trying to put it out.

He didn’t have much time before they realized their boss was missing.

Striker hoisted the unconscious thief’s body over his shoulder with a grunt of effort. The wolf demon was heavier than he looked—probably a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and fur.

Manageable, but not ideal for fast movement.

He moved toward the window he had originally entered through, assessing. Getting out the same way with an unconscious body would be… complicated. But not impossible. Climbing down a two-story building while carrying extra weight required specific technique, so Striker adjusted the man over his shoulder, distributing the weight more evenly, and then began his descent.

It was slow, slower than he liked. Every grip had to be tested to make sure it could support double the weight, and he had to calculate every movement to avoid losing balance.

But it worked.

His feet touched ground after roughly three minutes of tense climbing. He immediately moved into the nearest shadows, pulling away from the main building while the sounds of confusion still poured out from inside.

No one had noticed their boss was missing yet.

By the time they did, Striker would be far enough away that it wouldn’t matter.

He moved through the complex with renewed urgency, avoiding the areas where guards were still patrolling, staying in the shadows and using the knowledge of the layout he had gained during his initial reconnaissance.

He reached the perimeter wall without meeting resistance. Tossing the unconscious Beron over the wall was inelegant but functional; Striker simply lifted him and shoved him over the top, letting him fall to the other side with a dull thud that he found satisfying.

Then he climbed over himself, landing beside the body with practiced grace.

The wolf groaned faintly, beginning to regain consciousness. Striker considered knocking him out again, then decided against it. It was better if he was awake for what came next.

It was more fun that way.

He hoisted the body again, carrying it toward the abandoned building he had used as an observation point earlier. It had a basement; he had checked during his initial scouting. Private, relatively sound-isolated, perfect for an interrogation.

The trip took twenty minutes of constant movement, avoiding main streets and sticking to alleys and areas where demons didn’t look too closely at suspicious things.

Because in the outer districts, survival often depended on not asking questions.

He finally reached the abandoned building. Its exterior was crumbling, windows broken like empty eyes. The front door hung from a single hinge.

Perfect. No one would come here willingly.

He went down the stairs to the basement, careful on steps that were rotted in places. The space below was exactly as deplorable as the upper floors: cracked concrete, puddles of something that was probably not just water, that moldy smell that suggested nothing living had been here in years.

He dropped Beron without ceremony in the center of the room, then set to work securing the area.

He blocked the basement door from the inside. He checked there were no other exits: only small windows near the ceiling, too high to reach without help, too narrow for a wolf demon to fit through.

Satisfied with the security, Striker turned his attention back to his prisoner.

He was fully awake now, his sickly yellow eyes blinking as he processed his situation. Tied and gagged. In an unknown basement with a demon who clearly knew what he was doing.

Panic appeared on his features immediately.

"Mmph! Mmmmph!" muffled sounds against the gag, useless attempts to speak.

Striker crouched in front of him, studying him with an expression that was completely neutral. Professional.

"I’m going to remove the gag," he said calmly. "And when I do, you’re going to speak quietly and answer my questions honestly. If you scream, if you try to negotiate, if you do anything other than answer directly…"

He drew one of his daggers, letting the dim basement light catch the edge.

"…this will be considerably more painful than necessary. Understood?"

The other nodded frantically. His dark gray fur was now soaked with sweat despite the basement’s chill.

Striker reached forward, untying the gag in one quick motion.

"W-who are you?" the prisoner gasped immediately. "What do you want? I have money! Souls! I can pay you whatever—!"

The dagger pressed against his throat, just hard enough to break skin. A single drop of blood ran down the fur.

"What did I say about negotiating?" Striker asked softly.

Beron froze, his eyes widening in shock.

"I… I’m sorry… I just…"

"I ask the questions, you answer. Simple." Striker pulled the dagger back slightly, letting him breathe easier. "First question: Where are the assets you stole from Oneira?"

Understanding flashed in his eyes immediately, followed by desperation.

"Oh shit… oh shit, she sent you…" he started hyperventilating. "I… I was going to pay it back, I swear, I just needed more time to—"

The dagger found his thigh this time, sliding between the muscles with a precision that spoke of considerable anatomical knowledge. Not deep or cutting anything vital, but definitely intended to cause pain.

The wolf screamed, successfully confirming the intention.

"Where?" Striker repeated, his voice remaining completely calm. "The assets. Specific location."

"The warehouse!" Beron gasped through the pain. "In the west district! Number 183 Sulfur Street! In the hidden basement behind a false wall!"

Striker considered this. It sounded plausible; the west district had plenty of abandoned warehouses. Places where someone could hide things without drawing immediate attention.

"How much?"

"W-what?"

"How much you stole. Total. And don’t lie to me, because I will verify."

Beron hesitated, clearly debating whether to lie.

Striker moved the dagger toward his other leg in preparation.

"Four million!" he shouted before the blade made contact. "Four million in substances! Plus three million in cash! Plus inventory I haven’t sold yet!"

Striker raised both eyebrows.

Seven million total. He had stolen more than double what he originally owed…

The greedy bastard had really thought he could get away with it.

"Names," Striker continued. "I want the names of everyone you worked with to liquidate assets. Middlemen, buyers, anyone who helped you."

"I… I can’t… they’ll kill me if…"

The dagger found his shoulder this time. Deeper than the previous cuts. Beron howled, the sound echoing off the concrete basement.

"They’re not your problem right now," Striker pointed at himself. "I am your problem. And unlike them, I’m right here. Names."

It took another five minutes and three additional cuts, but eventually the wolf sang like a particularly melodious bird.

Names. Locations. Contact methods. Everything spilling out in growing desperation as he realized there was no way out of this situation except total cooperation.

Striker memorized everything carefully. Oneira would want this information: not just to recover her assets but to close the holes in her network that the thief had exploited. Finally, when he was satisfied he had extracted every useful piece of information, Striker stood, sheathing his dagger while considering his next move.

He had the information. He could verify it tomorrow, recover the stolen assets, return them to Oneira along with the list of accomplices who needed to be dealt with.

Which left only one thing.

The elimination.

Striker looked around the basement, considering his options. This place was isolated enough that screams wouldn’t draw immediate attention, but it also wasn’t exactly public in the way Oneira had likely imagined.

He needed to take the body somewhere more… visible.

But first…

"For what it’s worth," Striker said, looking down at the wolf. "You probably would have had a long and prosperous life if you had just honored the deal."

His counterpart laughed again, that same bitter sound that he barely heard anymore and already annoyed him.

"And now what? You kill me quick as a reward for cooperating?"

Striker considered this.

"No," he said finally. "Nothing about this is going to be quick."

What followed was… methodical. Striker worked with the precision that came from years of perfecting his art. Every cut on his body was calculated to maximize pain without causing immediate death, every wound strategically placed to prolong suffering while he extracted the last scraps of information he considered useful.

Beron’s screams filled the basement, bouncing off the concrete walls in a symphony of agony that was simultaneously horrible and satisfying.

Because this wasn’t just about killing. It was about sending a message. It was about proving his loyalty to someone who had earned it. It was about proving: to himself as much as to Oneira: that his earlier declaration had been genuine.

Finally, after roughly two hours of careful work, Beron stopped screaming.

His body lay in an expanding pool of blood, still technically alive but barely. He maintained shallow breathing and a weak pulse, conscious enough to feel pain but too weak to do anything about it.

Striker wiped his hands on a rag he had brought specifically for this purpose, then considered the next challenge. He needed transportation to move the body to a more public location. Somewhere it would be found quickly, somewhere that would maximize the impact of the message.

His eyes fell on the small windows near the basement ceiling.

An idea began to form. Risky. Requiring considerable physical effort. But definitely memorable.

He smiled.

Yes.

That would work perfectly.

The center of the Pentagon’s commercial district was considerably livelier than the outer districts where Striker had spent the last few hours.

Here, the buildings were well-maintained. The streets were clean: relatively speaking: and demons of all kinds moved with purpose, doing business, socializing, existing in that space between total chaos and functional civilization that defined Hell’s more prosperous areas. And at the heart of this district, rising three stories above everything else, stood the trade exchange building.

A place where Overlords and high-level merchants gathered to negotiate contracts. Where souls changed hands in transactions that moved entire economies. Where reputation was everything and being seen mattered as much as the actual business being conducted.

It was the perfect place.

Striker watched the building from his position on a nearby rooftop, assessing. It was past midnight now, that dead hour when most of the day’s business had concluded but when nocturnal demons still roamed in sufficient numbers.

The trade exchange had one distinctive architectural feature: a large balcony extending from the third floor, designed for public proclamations or displays. Rarely used in modern practice, but perfectly visible from the street below.

And exactly what he needed.

The wolf’s body lay at his feet wrapped in canvas Striker had “acquired” from a nearby warehouse. Still alive, technically. Still breathing in shallow gasps that were barely audible. Not for much longer, before Hell’s immortal art did its work.

Striker had spent the last hour transporting the body from the abandoned basement to here, moving through alleys and less-traveled routes. It had been exhausting work, but necessary.

Because this had to be perfect.

He hoisted the wrapped body over his shoulder once more: damn, he was tired of carrying this weight: and began his final approach. Climbing the trade exchange building was more challenging than the decrepit structures of the outer districts. Proper maintenance meant fewer cracks to use as handholds, and the smoother surfaces made finding footholds more difficult.

But Striker had climbed worse things, literally and metaphorically.

He moved methodically, testing every grip before trusting his weight to it, constantly adjusting the body on his shoulder to maintain balance. Sweat dripped down his forehead despite the Pentagon’s nighttime chill. Twenty minutes of tense climbing brought him to the third-floor balcony, where he pulled himself over the railing with one last burst of arm strength, landing on solid surface with genuine relief.

He dropped the wrapped body, breathing heavily as his muscles protested the sustained effort.

But there was no time for proper rest.

He unwrapped the canvas, revealing what remained of the poor, butchered Beron. The wolf demon was unrecognizable compared to the photograph Oneira had provided, his skin mottled with cuts, his fur soaked in dried and fresh blood, and those glassy eyes still conscious on some deep, primal level.

Striker dragged him to the center of the balcony, positioning him where he would be maximally visible from the street below once the red sun began its ascent.

Then he began the final phase.

He had brought extra rope specifically for this. He wrapped it around the body in specific patterns: not random, but deliberate. Binding arms and legs into positions that were simultaneously unnatural and strangely artistic.

As if the body itself were a sculpture. A living message.

And then, with his dagger, Striker carved.

Not deeply. Not causing significant new injury. Just enough for the blood to flow in specific patterns.

Words.

Carved into the wolf’s chest and abdomen where they would be impossible to miss:

"First and last debtor. — ℳ.𝒞."

It was simple and direct. Impossible to misinterpret.

Striker leaned back, admiring his work with professional satisfaction.

Yes. This would send exactly the right message.

Weakly, the debtor made a sound between a whimper and a gurgle, still conscious enough to understand what was happening but too weak to resist.

"For what it’s worth…" Striker said quietly, speaking more to himself than to his victim.

The other didn’t respond. Maybe he couldn’t at this point.

Striker stood one last time, checking his work once more. Everything was exactly as it should be. The body positioned perfectly. The message carved clearly. Visibility maximized.

Only one thing was missing.

Striker crouched again, examining the wolf’s paws. On his right index finger was a ring: silver with a red stone that had probably been expensive once. Distinctive. The kind of thing someone who knew the debtor would recognize immediately. Striker positioned his dagger carefully and then, with one clean, precise cut, severed the finger from the rest of the hand.

He wrapped the finger in a piece of clean cloth he had saved specifically for this purpose, then tucked it into his jacket.

Proof.

He stood one final time, looking down at Beron’s body. Judging by his increasingly shallow breathing, he probably had several hours left before he began to regenerate.

Which was fine.

Striker moved to the edge of the balcony, preparing to descend, when he heard something.

Voices down on the street, approaching.

Swearing under his breath, the snake-imp flattened himself against the building wall, melting into the shadows while assessing. Two demons, maybe three, walking toward the exchange building. Probably night guards or early workers.

They hadn’t seen the balcony yet or looked up, but they would eventually.

Striker made an instant decision. Instead of waiting for them to leave: which could take time he didn’t have: he would simply start his descent now. Fast and silent, hoping they were distracted enough by their conversation not to notice movement above.

He began to climb down, moving faster than was strictly wise. His hands found holds by instinct more than careful assessment. His feet sought footholds he tested only briefly before transferring weight.

It was risky, but what mattered was that it worked.

He reached ground level just as the voices rounded the corner of the building. He dropped the last five feet, landing in a crouch behind a conveniently placed dumpster.

The voices continued past, completely unaware.

Striker waited until they had faded completely, then emerged from his hiding spot. He brushed himself off, checking that the wrapped finger was still secure in his jacket.

Still there.

Good.

Now he just needed to get out of the commercial district before dawn and before someone discovered his… art installation on the third-floor balcony. He moved through alleys with renewed urgency, putting distance between himself and the crime scene. His body protested the sustained effort: he had been active for almost twelve straight hours at this point: but adrenaline kept him going.

He just needed to reach a neutral area where he could rest properly and then make contact with Oneira.

The sky was beginning to lighten: or rather, the perpetual red was intensifying slightly in the way that passed for morning in Hell: when he finally reached a district he considered safe enough to stop. A random corner bar he knew, run by a demon who didn’t ask questions as long as you paid cash. Perfect.

He walked in, ordered something strong, and dropped into a booth in the back corner where he could see both exits. The alcohol burned going down his throat, providing welcome warmth against the chill that had begun to settle into his bones.

Done.

The job was complete.

He had taken care of Beron. His message was literally carved into the corpse for everyone to see, and the proof was secured in his jacket. Tomorrow, after some proper sleep, he would verify the location of the stolen assets and recover them.

Everything executed exactly as Oneira had requested.

Striker pulled out his communicator, typing a brief message:

"Job completed. Confirmation on the way. Will verify asset location tomorrow."

He sent it, then pocketed the device.

Now he just needed to wait for her reply.

And maybe sleep for about sixteen hours straight.

He had definitely earned that.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

Oneira was reviewing quarterly earnings reports when the package arrived.

Small, wrapped in plain black paper, no distinctive markings except her name written in silver ink on the top. A nervous messenger (some low-level demon who clearly didn’t want to know what was inside) had placed it on her desk with trembling hands before practically fleeing the office.

She stared at it for a moment, processing.

Striker worked fast.

The message she had received last night had been brief but informative. Job completed. Would verify assets today. Confirmation on the way, and now it was sitting on her desk. Oneira opened the box with careful movements, lifting the lid to reveal the contents.

A finger.

Cleanly severed at the base, wrapped in cloth that had once been white but was now stained reddish-brown with dried blood. And on that finger, glinting under the office light…

Beron’s ring. Silver with a red stone. She remembered seeing him wear it at practically every meeting they’d ever had. He had always flaunted it as if expensive jewelry somehow made up for his fundamental incompetence in financial management.

A small smile touched her lips. It was exactly what she had expected.

She closed the box and locked it in one of the secure drawers of her desk. She would keep it for a while; perhaps even display it occasionally to other debtors who might be considering similar attempts at evasion.

A useful reminder of consequences.

Her communicator vibrated again. Another message from Striker:

"Assets located and secured. Four million in liquid souls, three million in cash, additional inventory valued at approximately two million. Total recovered exceeds original debt. List of accomplices attached. Instructions?"

Oneira read the message twice, processing the numbers.

Seven million in liquid assets plus inventory. Beron had stolen considerably more than he owed. The greedy idiot had probably thought he could build a new life somewhere with those stolen resources.

How wrong he had been.

She typed her reply carefully:

"Excellent work. Hold all assets for now; I will send a transport team tomorrow for secure transfer. The list of accomplices will be handled separately. Take the rest of the week off; you’ve earned it. Additional bonus will be deposited into your account tonight."

She sent the message, then leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee as she considered.

Striker had exceeded her expectations in every way.

He had located the target quickly, extracted information properly, executed the elimination, and recovered all the stolen assets, plus some extra.

That deserved proper recognition, so Oneira opened her financial ledger, navigating to Striker’s account. His regular monthly stipend was already there, but she added a significant bonus, generous by most standards, but appropriate for work of this quality.

She leaned back in her chair again, allowing herself a moment of genuine satisfaction.

Her desk phone rang then, interrupting her thoughts.

"Oneira."

"Ma’am…" her assistant sounded slightly breathless. "There’s… there’s news. From the commercial district. A body was found at the trade exchange building. Public. Quite… graphic, according to reports."

Oneira felt that smile touch her lips again.

"Oh? What kind of graphic?"

"Tied to a third-floor balcony. Multiple wounds. And… a message carved into the body, ma’am."

"What does the message say?"

There was a pause on the line before sound returned.

"First and last debtor," her assistant recited. "Word for word."

Oneira let her smile widen.

Oh, Striker.

Memorable had definitely been the right word.

"Thank you for informing me," she said calmly. "Please keep an ear to the ground about reactions. I want to know what the other Overlords are saying about this."

"Of course, ma’am."

The call ended, leaving Oneira alone in her office with her thoughts and that warm feeling of satisfaction that came from a perfectly executed plan.

The news would spread fast. By nightfall, every demon in the Pentagon would have heard about the body at the trade exchange building. Her other debtors, those who might have been considering following Beron’s example, would reconsider very strongly.

Because that was the point, wasn’t it?

Not just recovering stolen assets or revenge for being cheated, but setting a precedent. Proving that contracts with her were sacred, and that breaking those contracts had consequences that were brutal, public, and undeniable. And judging by the reaction she was sure would come…

That message had been received loud and clear.

Oneira took another sip of her coffee, savoring both the drink and the victory.

It was a good day to be in her position.

Her gaze fell on the drawer where she had stored the box with Beron’s finger. A small but significant symbol of loyalty earned and messages delivered. Like a cat bringing you its kills.

Yes. Hiring Striker had been an excellent decision. And keeping him happy, loyal, and well-compensated would be an investment that would continue paying off for years to come. In Hell, where betrayal was common currency… genuine loyalty was worth its weight in souls.

And Oneira fully intended to make sure she kept Striker’s.

Notes:

Writing the chapters feels so good until I have to translate them, since sometimes I make them so long. Anyway, I'm always happy to do it because you guys are so sweet ≽(•⩊ •マ≼

I have about 20 chapters planned out with themes and everything, but sometimes I worry that the development between my main characters will be too fast, especially since it needs to be settled before the exterminations.

Giving notes is starting to get fun.

Chapter 15: Date.

The Hell, despite having its own complex hierarchy, maintained a fundamental truth that many overlooked in their attempts to understand the Pentagon's power structure:

The Overlords were not close to Lucifer.

Not in the sense that most assumed, at least.

Yes, technically they all resided in the same ring. And yes, technically Lucifer ruled over all of Hell, which by extension included the Overlords operating in his territory.

But "ruling" was a generous term for the relationship that actually existed.

Because the Overlords were sinners. Human souls that had risen to considerable power through a combination of brutality, cunning, and pure determination. And like all sinners, they carried with them the weight of the sins that had condemned them in the first place.

Pride was the most prominent. And proud demons did not bow easily to authority, even fallen divine authority.

The infernal royalty—Lucifer, the Goetia, the Sins who ruled the other rings—had long ago learned that attempting to directly control the Overlords was counterproductive. It resulted in rebellion, chaos, loss of valuable resources when powerful Overlords decided they preferred destruction over subordination.

So a tacit understanding had been reached over the centuries:

The royalty left the Overlords alone to manage the Pride Ring as they saw fit. And the Overlords, in return, did not cause problems that required direct intervention from above.

It was a mutually beneficial neutrality for both sides. The Overlords maintained their autonomy, their pride intact, and the royalty avoided unnecessary headaches trying to micromanage demons who fundamentally resisted being managed.

And thus the Pentagon functioned in that precarious balance between order and chaos that defined its existence.

All this to say that when events like the Overlords' Games occurred, the royalty rarely attended. Not because they couldn’t—certainly they had the right to be anywhere in Hell they desired—but because they knew their presence would be… uncomfortable.

The Overlords tolerated observation from a distance.

Direct participation was an entirely different matter.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The private office at the top of the Manhattan Café was bathed, as always, in that filtered red light of the infernal sunset.

Oneira stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the final details of her outfit. It wasn’t vanity that motivated her—though she certainly appreciated looking good—but rather the understanding that appearance mattered at public events.

Especially events where practically all the important Overlords of the Pentagon would be present.

The dress she had chosen was considerably more elaborate than her usual daily attire. Long, falling to the floor in a gradient that began as deep petroleum blue at the neckline and gradually darkened to absolute black at the hem. Scattered throughout the fabric were subtle glimmers that caught the light like distant stars in a night sky. The neckline was high, covered by translucent black lace that rose to her neck in a design that was simultaneously modest and somehow more provocative for what it concealed rather than revealed. The sleeves were long, ending in the same lace that partially covered her gloved hands.

The waist was marked by an internal corset that accentuated her figure without being uncomfortable, along with a skirt that featured a short train that dragged slightly behind her when she walked, and a high side slit that revealed glimpses of her legs with every step.

In the center of her chest, hanging from a thin chain, dangled a large emerald-green gem, probably infused with some kind of minor magic. It wasn’t functional, just decorative, but striking in ways that complemented the rest of the ensemble. Long black lace gloves covered her arms past the elbows. And silver high-heeled shoes—considerably taller than what she normally wore—completed the look.

It was elegant. Slightly funereal due to its dark color palette, but extremely appropriate for the occasion.

Oneira reached into her desk drawer, searching for the last accessory she needed: a necklace she had saved specifically for occasions like this, silver with a green stone that matched the gem on her chest. But as her fingers searched through the drawer’s contents, she found herself thinking about events like this, about Hell’s hierarchy, and about the nature of the pride that had condemned them all.

When she finally found the necklace, she held it between her fingers as she turned toward where her guest was waiting.

"Do you know why Lucifer was condemned with the sin of pride?"

Alastor, who had been sitting patiently in one of the elegant chairs near the window, looked up from where he had been examining his own reflection in the polished surface of his staff.

He too was dressed considerably more formally than usual. A black suit—instead of his characteristic red—that somehow matched Oneira’s outfit without being obvious about it. Subtle details in the cut, in the silver buttons, in the way the vest underneath captured those same deep petroleum blue tones of her dress.

They hadn’t specifically planned to coordinate their outfits. It had simply… happened. Through casual conversations over the last few days about what they would wear, minor adjustments based on what the other had mentioned. The result was something that looked deliberately matched without being overly obvious about it.

Alastor tilted his head at her question, his eyes—red and bright as always—focusing on her with genuine interest.

"I wasn’t especially devout, dear," he admitted honestly but maintaining interest in the topic. "Enlighten me."

Oneira felt a small smile touch her lips as she finally located the necklace in the drawer’s contents. She pulled it out, holding it as she turned fully toward Alastor.

"The first sin wasn’t committed in the Garden of Eden," she began, her voice taking on the quality of someone sharing knowledge she valued. "In fact, it was committed in Heaven."

She saw Alastor’s ears lift slightly—that involuntary tic he had when something fully captured his attention. He leaned back in his chair, resting his cheek on his hand in a posture that was completely focused on her.

Waiting.

Oneira continued, her fingers working the necklace’s clasp as she spoke.

"Our creator, at the beginning, had designated three angels above the others. Michael, responsible for wars. Gabriel, responsible for delivering messages…" She paused, struggling slightly with the necklace clasp. It was delicate, designed more for aesthetics than practical functionality. "And Lucifer, who was responsible for worship."

She heard more than saw Alastor rise from his chair. His steps were silent against the carpeted office floor as he approached.

"The scriptures say that his body, at first and in that angelic enigma, was made of musical instruments…"

She felt hands—warm even through her gloves—reach her hair. Alastor gently moved it aside, exposing her neck for easier access to the clasp.

The intimacy of the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Oneira, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she continued speaking as he worked to secure the necklace properly.

"In the scriptures, it’s mentioned that, somehow, Lucifer was able to glimpse his beauty. His magnificence. The glory that had been created in him by divine design."

The necklace settled against her skin, the cold of the silver contrasting with the warmth of her neck. Alastor’s fingers lingered there briefly, adjusting the position of the green stone so it hung perfectly centered.

"And then…" Oneira felt her eyes meet Alastor’s in the reflection of the mirror in front of them "…the first sin entered the heart of a being."

"Pride." Alastor completed softly, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders.

The contact sent a shiver down Oneira’s spine. It wasn’t unpleasant, just… perhaps too present. The kind of thing that made her skin tingle with a sensation she couldn’t fully name but definitely recognized.

"What a wonderful beginning," Alastor murmured, his voice having dropped to that register he used when he was genuinely intrigued by something.

His hands slid from her neck to her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the lace of her sleeves in a movement that was too deliberate to be accidental.

Oneira’s tail reacted before her brain fully processed the intent behind that touch. It whipped like a lash, connecting with Alastor’s leg with enough force to communicate a clear message:

Space.

Alastor stepped back immediately, his hands raising in a gesture that was half apology, half theatrical exasperation. His smile remained, but his eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement or perhaps disappointment.

Probably both.

"How sensitive," he commented in a light tone, stepping back several paces to reestablish proper distance.

"How bold," Oneira replied, turning to face him directly.

They looked at each other for a moment that stretched perhaps a second longer than strictly necessary. And then Oneira felt something change in Alastor’s expression. That mischievous gleam in his eyes softened marginally, replaced by something more thoughtful.

"Though I must say…" he began, gesturing vaguely toward her outfit "…you look absolutely stunning tonight, dear. The dress is… appropriately dramatic."

"Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment," Oneira replied dryly, adjusting her gloves with a movement that was unnecessary but gave her something to do with her hands.

"As you should," Alastor picked up his staff from where he had left it leaning against the chair. "Though I hope you don’t plan to completely outshine my own presentation. I have a reputation to maintain, after all."

"Your reputation will survive someone else looking good occasionally."

"Occasionally?" Alastor pressed his free hand to his chest in a gesture of exaggerated offense. "Dear, I always look good. It’s practically my trademark."

Despite herself, Oneira felt a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Your ego certainly is impressive."

"We’re in the Pride Ring, heart. It would be rude of me not to fully participate in the sin that defines us."

That drew a real laugh from Oneira. Brief, but genuine.

"I suppose you’re right about that."

Alastor smiled more widely at the sound, clearly pleased to have provoked that reaction.

"Now then," he said, extending his arm in a gesture that was old-fashioned but somehow fitting coming from him. "Shall we proceed? We don’t want to be late for our first… what did you call it? Outing without commercial pretext?"

After a second, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead her toward the door.

"First official outing," she confirmed. "Let’s try not to make it memorable for the wrong reasons."

"Where would be the fun in that?"

"Alastor."

"I’m joking, I’m joking." Though his tone suggested he was only partially joking. "Completely civilized behavior. I promise."

"Somehow that doesn’t reassure me."

"It should. My promises are notoriously reliable."

"Your promises come with fine print that would make a lawyer cry."

"Now you’re getting it." Alastor opened the office door with his free hand, gesturing for her to go first. "After you, my dear companion."

Oneira passed through the door, very aware of her hand still resting on his arm, of the way their steps naturally synchronized as they walked down the hallway toward the stairs.

This was new. Not necessarily uncomfortable, just different from their usual interactions, which had at least a thin veneer of commercial purpose. This was purely social. Purely… personal. And as they descended the stairs to the café’s ground floor—where some late-afternoon patrons looked up with evident curiosity at seeing them together, dressed so formally—Oneira found herself wondering exactly when she had allowed this to happen.

But the answer, she supposed, didn’t really matter at this point.

Because they were already here, and the Coliseum awaited.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The Coliseum was exactly as impressive as Oneira remembered from the few times she had attended these events in the past.

Massive, built in a style that evoked ancient Roman amphitheaters but with distinctively infernal touches. Black stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Columns carved with depictions of past battles, some mythological, others documenting real encounters that had taken place in this very arena.

The stadium could accommodate hundreds, and judging by the noise emanating from inside as they approached, it was near full capacity tonight.

The Overlords’ Games always drew crowds. Not just demons hoping to see spectacular violence—though that was certainly part of the appeal—but also aspirants dreaming of being noticed, political observers trying to read power dynamics in who chose to sponsor whom, and simply curious onlookers who wanted to say they had been there.

The VIP entrance—reserved exclusively for Overlords and their guests—was flanked by impressive demonic guards. One looked at her as she approached, his eyes briefly assessing her before nodding in recognition.

"Ma’am Manhattan," he greeted in a voice that resonated with professional respect. "Mr. Alastor. Your box is ready."

"Thank you," Oneira replied politely as they passed.

The interior of the Coliseum was even more impressive than the exterior. The ceiling arched high, disappearing into shadows that were probably magically maintained for dramatic effect. Torches placed at regular intervals cast flickering light that made everything glow with an orange-red sheen.

And the arena itself…

Oneira could see it from her elevated position as they made their way to their assigned box. Circular, approximately a hundred meters in diameter, covered in sand that was already stained with blood from warmup fights that had probably occurred earlier in the day. Weapons of various types were mounted on racks around the perimeter. Swords, spears, maces, chains, even some more exotic implements that Oneira didn’t immediately recognize.

And around the arena, rising in tiers, were the seats. Lower levels for general spectators, middle levels for demons of certain standing, and up top, on the upper level where ventilation was better and the view was optimal, were the private boxes.

Each major Overlord had one permanently assigned. Spaces that were technically theirs to use when attending events, decorated according to personal taste. Oneira’s box was modest compared to some: black velvet seats, a small table for drinks, an unobstructed view of the arena below. Functional without being ostentatious.

Perfect for her taste.

She settled into one of the seats as Alastor took the other. For a moment, they simply observed the arena below where the crew was making final preparations.

"It’s been a while since I attended one of these," Alastor commented, his voice projecting just enough for her to hear over the ambient noise.

"Two years for me," Oneira replied. "Since Carmilla was chosen by Zestial."

"Ah, yes. That was quite the event, from what I heard. First selection in… what, a decade?"

"Fourteen years."

Alastor whistled softly.

"A long time without new players entering the game."

"It’s hard to find talent worth cultivating."

"Or perhaps we’ve simply become more selective over time."

Oneira considered that.

"Possibly both."

Before she could continue that line of thought, a familiar voice called from the adjacent box.

"Oneira! Alastor!"

Oneira turned to see Zestial gesturing from his own space. The ancient Overlord looked as impeccable as ever in his medieval-Victorian attire, his multiple eyes gleaming with what might have been amusement.

"Zestial," Oneira greeted warmly. "It’s been a while."

"Too long, really," Zestial agreed. "Though I see you’ve brought interesting company tonight."

His eyes—all of them—fixed briefly on Alastor in a non-hostile assessment.

"Mr. Alastor, what a pleasure to see you at a cultural event. I had heard your interests tended more toward… less structured entertainment."

Alastor laughed at that, the sound coming out with genuine amusement.

"Occasionally I enjoy a spectacle with proper rules, Lord Zestial. Though I admit spontaneous violence has its own charm."

"Certainly." Zestial turned slightly, gesturing toward the figure beside him. "I believe you know my… protégée."

Carmilla Carmine leaned forward, and Oneira immediately noted how much the demon had changed since the last time she had seen her.

Two years under Zestial’s mentorship had clearly polished rough edges. She wore formal attire that spoke of new resources and a posture that conveyed earned confidence. But her eyes—sharp, calculating—still had that edge she would probably never fully lose.

"Ma’am Manhattan," Carmilla greeted with appropriate respect. "Mr. Alastor."

"Carmilla," Oneira replied with a small smile. "You’ve been well, I see."

"Thanks to proper guidance," Carmilla glanced briefly at Zestial with something that might have been affection. "Though I admit these events make me nervous now. Knowing it was me sitting down there two years ago…"

"And now you’re up here," Alastor pointed out. "Considerable progress in a relatively short timeframe."

Before Carmilla could respond, two younger figures appeared behind her. Oneira recognized them immediately as Carmilla’s daughters, those twins who had fallen to Hell along with their mother.

Clara and Odette, if she remembered correctly.

Both dressed formally and both clearly uncomfortable with all the attention but trying to hide it with varying degrees of success.

"My daughters," Carmilla introduced them with evident pride. "This is their first time attending."

"Charming," Oneira said sincerely. "I hope they find the entertainment educational."

"Or at least memorable," Alastor added with a smile that suggested he found the young ones’ discomfort somewhat amusing.

Other Overlords were beginning to arrive now, filling the boxes with their presences that made the atmosphere thicken with accumulated power. Maestro appeared in his box with his usual entourage of musicians, nodding politely toward Oneira and Alastor.

And then there was movement in one of the larger boxes, one decorated with heraldry that Oneira immediately recognized as belonging to the Von Eldritch family.

It wasn’t Frederick Von Eldritch himself—the patriarch rarely attended these events personally—but he had sent a representative. A major demon with features suggesting noble bloodline, dressed in opulence that bordered on excessive.

"The Von Eldritch sent someone this year," Alastor observed in a neutral tone. "Interesting."

"Probably evaluating potential talent," Oneira speculated. "Their network of influence has expanded lately. They would have use for fresh blood with the right ambition."

"Assuming anyone is chosen at all."

"Assuming."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a low horn that resonated through the Coliseum, the universal signal that the event was about to begin. The crowd that had been roaring gradually quieted.

And then, from a tunnel on one side of the arena, a figure emerged. Tall, dressed in a ceremonial robe that was half functional, half theatrical. Identified as the official spokesperson for the Games, the demon had been doing this job for decades.

His voice, when he spoke, was magically amplified to fill the entire space.

"Lords and ladies! Overlords of the Pentagon! Welcome to the annual Games!"

A roar of approval rose from the crowd.

"Tonight, as every year, you will witness demonstrations of skill, strength, and pure determination from those who seek to ascend!"

Another wave of noise erupted.

"The rules are simple!… There are no rules!" the spokesperson gestured toward the upper boxes where they all sat. "And now, without further delay, let the Games begin!"

He retreated toward the tunnel as gates on opposite sides of the arena began to open.

And the first competitors emerged.

Oneira leaned back in her seat, watching with interest as the violence began to unfold below. The first competitors to emerge were exactly the type Oneira had anticipated: mid-rank demons, sinners who had spent enough time in Hell to develop some power but not enough to be truly formidable. The kind who thought an impressive display in the arena might catapult them to Overlord status without having to go through the tedious process of building power gradually.

Some were genuinely skilled. Others simply desperate.

The first to fall was a demon with reptilian features who had tried to use speed as an advantage against a considerably larger opponent. A solid strategy in theory, but poorly executed in practice, as a poorly timed mace swing sent him crashing into the arena wall with enough force that the sound of the impact echoed even up to the upper boxes.

He didn’t get up, and the crowd roared with approval.

"What a poor strategy," Alastor commented casually, as if he were criticizing a mediocre theatrical performance rather than witnessing a potential death. "His balance was completely off; he should have pivoted to the left after the second dodge."

Oneira glanced at him sideways.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Dear, I’ve killed enough things to recognize poor technique when I see it," his smile widened. "Though I admit I rarely bother with close-quarters weapons when magic is considerably more efficient."

"How pragmatic of you."

"I always am when it matters."

Below, the next matchup had begun. Two demons—one with wings clearly trying to use aerial advantage, the other ground-based but with considerable brute strength—circling each other cautiously. The winged one attacked first, diving from above with an improvised spear made of sharpened bone. The ground-based one rolled to the side just as the spear buried itself in the sand where he had been seconds before.

And then, with surprising speed for his size, the ground-based demon grabbed the spear’s shaft and yanked. The winged one, still clutching his weapon, was dragged out of the sky and slammed into the ground. The impact kicked up a cloud of blood-tinted sand.

Oneira watched with neutrality as the ground-based demon essentially tore his opponent apart. It was graphic in its explicitness—how bones snapped and flesh tore, accompanied by screams that gradually faded into wet gurgles.

Finally, silence. The ground-based demon stood, covered in blood that wasn’t his, raising his arms in a gesture of victory, and the crowd responded with enthusiasm once more.

Oneira looked around at the other boxes, assessing reactions.

Zestial watched with interest, his multiple eyes tracking every movement with the attention of centuries spent analyzing combat. Carmilla beside him seemed slightly uncomfortable—probably still not fully accustomed to this level of casual violence—but maintaining appropriate composure. Her daughters looked decidedly green.

Maestro seemed bored, more interested in conversation with one of his musician companions than in the action in the arena.

The Von Eldritch representative watched with an expression that was evaluative in ways Oneira recognized. Calculating potential value and weighing whether any of these competitors were worth an investment of resources.

Probably reaching the same conclusion as everyone else: not particularly.

"Anyone catching your interest yet?" Alastor asked, his voice lowering slightly so only she could hear.

"Not especially," Oneira admitted. "It’s pure brute force without any refined technique. It could be trained, I suppose, but it would require a significant investment of time I’m not particularly inclined to make."

"Hmm. Pragmatic as always."

"Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment."

"It should be."

The next matchups followed a similar pattern. Violence, occasionally impressive in its sheer brutality but rarely demonstrating the kind of skill that would make an Overlord consider serious sponsorship.

One demon with fire control had put on a particularly flashy spectacle, enveloping much of the arena in flames that had made even the crowd recoil from the heat. But his control had been wild, unfocused. Power without precision, useless in real tactical situations where collateral mattered. Another had demonstrated notable speed, moving so fast he was almost a blur. But when he was finally cornered by an opponent who had anticipated his movement patterns, he fell as quickly as any other. Speed without strategy was just a delay of the inevitable.

Oneira found herself sliding toward something close to boredom as the fights continued. Not because the violence wasn’t entertaining—it certainly was, in a visceral sense—but because it was becoming… predictable. The same patterns emerging, the same mistakes being made over and over by different competitors who clearly hadn’t studied previous failures.

Her attention wandered to Alastor, who also seemed to be losing interest in the action below. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair in that rhythmic pattern she had learned to associate with his mind wandering to other things.

"Bored?" she asked softly.

"Is it that obvious?" Alastor replied without looking at her, his eyes still focused on the arena where another matchup was concluding in predictable fashion. "I thought I was hiding it better."

"Your finger-drumming gives you away."

"Ah. I’ll have to work on that." He paused, finally turning toward her. "Though I admit I was expecting… I don’t know. More? I had heard these events were legendary in their spectacle. This is just… competent, occasionally brutal, but not particularly memorable."

"It used to be better," Oneira admitted. "Decades ago, when more Overlords actively participated in seeking protégés. The competitors came more prepared, knowing they actually had a chance if they impressed enough."

"And now?"

"Now everyone knows the odds of being chosen are essentially zero. So they come anyway because…" she gestured vaguely "…what else do they have to lose? They’re already in Hell. Might as well die spectacularly in the arena instead of rotting in some alley somewhere."

"What a depressingly philosophical take."

"Welcome to Hell."

Alastor laughed at that, a genuine sound that made several demons in nearby boxes glance in their direction with evident curiosity.

"I suppose you’re right about that."

He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing into something almost lazy.

"So if we’re not here for particularly impressive spectacle… why did we come?"

Oneira considered the question for a moment.

"Tradition, I suppose. Overlords are expected to attend occasionally. Keep up appearances, show that we’re still involved in…" she gestured toward the arena "…whatever this is."

"Political theater?"

"Essentially."

"How charming."

"Welcome to my life."

Alastor looked at her, and then something changed in his expression. That playful gleam that usually lived in his eyes softened into something more… thoughtful.

"You know?" he began slowly. "For someone as successful as you, you sound remarkably cynical about all this."

"Cynical?" Oneira raised an eyebrow. "I prefer to think of it as realistic."

"Tomato, tomato."

"It’s not the same."

"But it’s close enough for the purposes of this conversation."

Oneira felt a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

"You’re impossible."

"And yet here you are, voluntarily tolerating my company. What does that say about you, I wonder."

"That I have poor judgment in associates."

"Ouch." Alastor pressed his free hand to his chest in a gesture of exaggerated hurt. "Right to the ego."

"Your ego will survive."

"Probably. It’s remarkably resilient."

Down in the arena, another competitor had fallen. This one in a particularly spectacular fashion that involved his own weapon being turned against him in a maneuver that had probably seemed clever in theory but resulted in his head being separated from his shoulders in a clean cut.

The crowd roared with renewed approval. Probably the only thing they liked was seeing blood.

Oneira watched with detachment as the headless body collapsed, blood pumping from the severed neck in arcs that stained the already soaked sand.

The next matchup below was particularly brutal. Two demons, both roughly equal in size and apparent skill, tearing each other apart with savage determination. One finally gained the advantage when his opponent stumbled over a body that had fallen in a previous fight—a moment of weakness that was immediately exploited.

The winner didn’t settle for a quick victory. Instead, he prolonged his opponent’s death, systematically dismembering him while the crowd roared with a mix of approval and revulsion.

"And now, esteemed guests, we come to the final event of the night! The winner of this last matchup will be considered champion of this year’s Games!" There was a dramatic pause. "Let the finalists enter!"

Gates on opposite sides of the arena opened simultaneously.

And two figures emerged, both clearly exhausted from previous fights but still able to stand upright. One was a demon Oneira recognized from an earlier matchup—the one who had demonstrated fire control but without proper precision. The other was a smaller but clearly more agile fighter who had survived by navigating larger threats through pure speed.

They approached the center of the arena, both bleeding from multiple wounds, both clearly understanding that this was all or nothing.

The crowd roared with renewed energy, and the fight began.

The fire demon attacked first, hurling a ball of flames that roared through the air with heat Oneira could feel even from her elevated position. The feline dodged with that near-blurry speed, the fireball passing where he had been moments before and crashing into the wall with an explosion that kicked up a cloud of debris. The counterattack came immediately as the feline closed the distance with an explosive sprint, his claws extended aiming for the exposed throat. But the fire demon was ready, summoning a wall of flames between them, forcing the feline to retreat to avoid immolation.

It was… competent. Better than many of the previous fights. Both competitors had clearly learned from earlier mistakes, adjusting strategies in real time based on what worked and what didn’t.

But it still wasn’t enough to capture serious interest from Oneira.

Nor from any other Overlord, judging by the expressions she could see in nearby boxes.

Zestial watched with approval but without that particular gleam that would suggest genuine sponsorship interest. Carmilla seemed to be taking mental notes—probably on techniques she could adapt—but didn’t look impressed. Maestro had returned to his conversation, completely ignoring the arena. The Von Eldritch representative yawned barely discreetly behind his hand.

But below, the fight was reaching its climax. The fire demon had exhausted much of his magic; his flames grew weaker with each conjuration. The feline had taken several partial hits that had burned sections of his fur and left charred flesh visible underneath. Probably both were on the verge of collapse.

And then the feline made a mistake. Small, barely perceptible, but fatal in this context of high-level combat. His left foot slipped in a puddle of blood from some previous fight, compromising his balance for just a fraction of a second.

But it was enough.

The fire demon launched his final attack. Not a fireball this time but a concentrated stream of flames that roared through the space with singular intent to strike the feline directly in the chest.

The scream that followed made even the bloodthirsty crowd flinch slightly.

The feline fell, his body convulsing as flames consumed fur and flesh, the smell of burning meat filling the air and reaching even the upper boxes in nauseating waves. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, the movements ceased. The fire demon stood for a moment longer, swaying dangerously, clearly using his last reserves of strength just to remain upright.

And then, with visible triumph on his burned and bloodied face, he raised his arms to the sky in a clear gesture of victory.

The crowd responded again with cheers, which made Oneira roll her eyes. However, she noticed something in the winner’s posture, in the way his eyes scanned the upper boxes where the Overlords watched with varying degrees of interest.

There was something beyond simple triumph in that gaze.

There was… challenge.

"Oh dear," she murmured, realizing what was about to happen a second before it did.

The fire demon lowered his arms, planting his feet firmly despite his obvious wounds. And then, with a voice that somehow projected through the Coliseum without magical amplification, he shouted:

"NONE OF YOU HAVE THE GUTS!"

Absolute silence fell over the Coliseum. Thousands of demons held a collective breath, clearly unable to believe what they had just heard. And the winner continued, apparently oblivious or simply uncaring that he had just signed his own death warrant.

"All you sitting up there! Playing at being gods! None of you have the guts!"

He gestured wildly toward the boxes.

"You know I’ll become so powerful I’ll surpass all of you! That I’ll take your territories! That I’ll make your names forgotten while mine is worshipped!"

The silence felt a little more troubled than the initial one. Because insulting the Overlords in their own house was one thing.

But actively threatening their position…

That was insolent in ways that might not be tolerated. Oneira looked around at the other boxes, assessing her peers’ reactions.

Zestial seemed more amused than offended, his multiple eyes gleaming with what might have been appreciation for the sheer audacity of the declaration. Carmilla looked scandalized, clearly unsure how to respond to such flagrant disrespect. Maestro had finally paid attention amid the timely scandal, and the Von Eldritch representative seemed vaguely insulted, but not enough to act personally.

And none of them were going to dignify such a declaration with any response, because responding would be admitting the challenge had enough merit to warrant consideration.

Oneira sighed, looking away with carefully cultivated disinterest.

Because this was predictable. Every few years, some idiot decided that insulting the Overlords would somehow prove their worth, and every time, that person learned—briefly, before dying—that certain lines shouldn’t be crossed.

This demon would probably be killed by the crowd itself before anyone of importance bothered to intervene.

Or at least, that was the intention.

Oneira felt her other half, who had been unusually quiet for most of the night, finally reacting to the accumulated violence. To the spectacle of blood and death she had been passively witnessing for hours.

And apparently, this final insult had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Oneira felt Mara separating, that presence slipping free from where she normally resided on the edges of her consciousness. She didn’t fight it this time. Didn’t try to contain what she knew would happen eventually anyway.

Instead, she simply watched and waited.

Down in the arena, the fire demon continued shouting challenges toward the boxes, apparently taking the silence as validation rather than the condemnation it truly was.

"Come on then! If any of you have the courage! Show me you deserve to be where you are! Prove to me you’re not just—!"

He stopped abruptly as he sensed something had appeared in the arena with him. Something that hadn’t been there a moment before.

A shadow.

The crowd saw it too. Thousands of eyes focusing on this new development with a mix of confusion and growing horror.

And then the shadow began to change.

It rose from the ground, expanding upward and outward in that fluid movement that defied physics. The darkness solidified, taking a form that was simultaneously beautiful and utterly terrifying.

A horse. Not an ordinary one. An infernal horse in its purest and most terrible form.

Formed entirely of writhing, twisting shadows like living smoke, black as the void between stars, with edges that seemed to bleed into the surrounding darkness. Roughly the size of a warhorse, muscular and powerful in ways that conveyed brutal strength.

And its glowing crimson eyes burned with a hunger that was palpable even from a distance. The same eyes Alastor would remember from his dreams, the same eyes that had studied his reactions with predatory curiosity for weeks.

Mara had taken her true form, for she was hungry.

The fire demon backed away, his earlier bravado evaporating instantly before this impossible manifestation.

"W-what…?" he began, his voice cracking.

Mara gave no explanation or warning to the poor sinner; she simply moved. The shadow horse charged with speed that was nearly invisible, closing the distance in a fraction of a second. Its head lowered, and teeth that shouldn’t exist in equine anatomy revealed themselves in a smile that was pure predatory malice.

And then she struck, demonstrating carnage in its most artistic form.

Mara didn’t simply kill the fire demon. She tore him apart with brutality, with a creativity that spoke of intelligence guiding the actions rather than mere animal instinct. Teeth found flesh, ripping it in strips that flew through the air. Her hooves—solidified from shadow but apparently perfectly capable of causing physical damage—trampled bones into dust. That impossible, indescribable body coiled around her victim like a constricting serpent, squeezing until ribs collapsed with sounds like snapping branches.

The screams were horrible, worse than anything that had echoed in the arena all night. The kind of sounds that spoke of agony transcending simple physical pain into something more existentially terrifying.

And Mara was clearly enjoying it. Her shadow form writhed with what might have been pleasure as she worked, her crimson eyes glowing brighter with each new horror inflicted. Even her movement had that playful quality, like a cat in horse form toying with a demon-shaped mouse before the final death.

The crowd watched in absolute silence now. Thousands of demons—many of whom had witnessed considerable violence in their existences—frozen in shock at the spectacle unfolding.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes, Mara finished. The fire demon’s body—or what remained of it—lay scattered across a considerable section of the arena. Unrecognizable. Completely destroyed to the point of delaying regeneration beyond any possibility, even with demonic healing capabilities.

Mara stood still amid the carnage, her horse form still perfectly intact despite the blood that covered literally everything else in the immediate area.

And then, apparently satisfied with her work, she turned. Her crimson eyes scanned the upper boxes, passing over the faces of Overlords watching with varied expressions of amusement or reluctant satisfaction.

And then, with a movement that was almost cheerful in its renewed energy, she trotted toward the edge of the arena.

Directly toward Oneira’s box.

The crowd watched with growing astonishment as the shadow horse simply… climbed. Completely ignoring physics, her hooves found purchase in the air itself as she ascended the vertical Coliseum wall as if it were flat ground. Seconds later, Mara had reached the box level. She slid over the railing with fluid grace, landing in the private space where Oneira and Alastor waited.

And then her form changed again.

The infernal horse dissolved, condensing downward into something smaller. A line of shadow that moved with an almost puppy-like energy, clearly pleased with herself for her own spectacular performance.

She slid toward Oneira first, wrapping around her feet in a gesture that was clearly affectionate. Seeking approval for a job well done.

She didn’t say anything verbally, but a small smile touched Oneira’s lips as her eyes—which had been golden all night—flickered briefly.

When they opened again, they were crimson; with another blink, they returned to gold.

The line of shadow moved then, leaving Oneira’s feet and sliding toward where Alastor remained seated.

He had been watching the entire scene with a somewhat tense amusement, certainly. Absolute recognition of that presence that had tormented him for weeks. But he also understood the implication.

The line of shadow reached Alastor, rising slightly as if studying him. And then, in a gesture that was almost… affectionate, it brushed against him. Like a greeting between acquaintances finally meeting face-to-face rather than through dreams.

Alastor remained perfectly still during this, allowing the contact without pulling away.

His eyes moved from the shadow to Oneira, then back.

Then he saw the smile on Oneira’s face. Small, but genuine—not the professional neutrality she used for business nor the careful courtesy she had shown for most of the night. But something more personal.

Perhaps satisfaction, even pride. As if she had been waiting for exactly this, as if the entire night had been building toward this specific moment.

Her introduction.

Oneira had introduced him to Mara by allowing her other half to reveal herself fully. Demonstrating exactly what Mara was capable of and what she represented, doing it in a way Alastor couldn’t ignore or simply misinterpret.

Because… why?

Was it trust? A warning? A test to see how he would react?

Probably all of the above, Alastor decided.

The line of shadow finally withdrew, sliding back toward Oneira and dissolving completely. Returning to wherever she normally resided when not manifested independently.

The silence in the Coliseum was absolute now.

Thousands of demons processed what they had just witnessed… only for cheers to erupt again from the audience. After all, they were excited by the violence in the end. The Overlords resumed as if nothing had happened; it didn’t really surprise those old enough to have seen the magnitude of Mara before.

And those who hadn’t—the new ones—now had a clear idea of why the others thought that way.

The spokesperson finally reappeared in the arena, clearly unsure what to do with this unprecedented situation. His voice, when he spoke, came out considerably less confident than before… but he regained it amid the encouraging shouts from the expectant demons.

"That… That concludes this year’s Games! As always, no competitor has been selected for sponsorship." He paused briefly, already tired. "Thank you all for attending. Please exit in an orderly fashion."

And with that, the event officially ended.

The crowd began to disperse, conversations erupting as demons discussed what they had just witnessed. Some looked terrified, others fascinated. Most clearly thrilled by the particularly spectacular violence.

In the upper boxes, the Overlords also began to depart. Some casting glances toward Oneira’s box. Others deliberately avoiding looking in her direction.

Zestial was one of the first to approach. He moved with that arachnid grace characteristic of him, stopping at the entrance to Oneira’s box with an expression that was… appreciative.

"That was… unexpected," he commented, his multiple eyes gleaming with what might have been amusement. "And extraordinarily effective in ending that tedious speech."

Oneira inclined her head in acknowledgment.

"The insult required a response. I simply provided one."

"You certainly did." Zestial glanced briefly toward the arena where the cleanup crew was already beginning the unpleasant process of gathering remains. "Though I must admit curiosity about your… companion. Does she appear like that often?"

"When it’s appropriate."

"Fascinating." He turned slightly toward Alastor. "And you, young demon. You seem remarkably calm considering the spectacle you just witnessed."

Alastor smiled, that characteristic smile that never fully revealed his thoughts.

"Let’s say I had… anticipated something of this nature."

"Had you?" One of Zestial’s eyes shifted between them. "How interesting."

He didn’t elaborate on what exactly he found interesting, simply inclined his head once more before departing, with Carmilla and her daughters following.

Other Overlords passed with varying degrees of acknowledgment. Maestro offered an appreciative nod. The Von Eldritch representative kept a careful distance, clearly having decided that a closer association with Oneira required reconsideration.

Finally, when the Coliseum had emptied considerably and only a few stragglers remained, Alastor spoke.

"Well…" he stood, adjusting his jacket with unnecessary movements. "I must say, dear, your approach to introductions is… memorable."

"That was the intention."

"Mission accomplished." He offered his arm. "Shall we go? I think we’ve both had enough entertainment for one night."

Oneira accepted his arm, allowing him to lead her toward the exit.

And as they left the Coliseum, she couldn’t help but notice the way his grip on her arm was slightly firmer than before.

As if he finally understood exactly who he was walking with.

And had decided that was… fine.

More than fine, even.

Notes:

Did you know that the Overlords Games actually exist? It's where Baxter and Pentius competed, but since there wasn't any clear information about it, I took the liberty of interpreting it as I liked. ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎

Chapter 16: Nanny.

Oneira’s office had reached that state of productive silence that only arrived after hours of uninterrupted focused work. The documents were organized in meticulous stacks on her desk, each one in its exact place according to a system only she fully understood. Her coffee cup, already cold but still half full, rested on a polished obsidian coaster. The perpetual reddish light of the Pentagon filtered through the partially closed curtains, casting elongated shadows against the dark stone walls that gave the office the feel of a private fortress more than a simple administrative space.

Her assistant knocked on the door with that specific pattern—three quick knocks followed by a pause—that meant “there’s a situation requiring your immediate attention but it’s not technically an emergency.” Which was oddly specific to have a pattern for.

Oneira looked up from the numbers she had been reviewing, her equine ears twitching slightly forward in response to the sound.

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal her assistant and, behind him in all her feathered splendor, Stella.

The Ars Goetia princess looked particularly elegant this morning. She wore an outfit that had probably cost more than the annual salary of most common demons, her crown rested perfectly on her head, and her posture radiated that natural authority that came from being born into infernal nobility.

But there was something else in her expression. That particular tension around her red eyes that Oneira had learned to recognize over months of conversations about her unfaithful husband.

Urgency.

"Stella," Oneira greeted, standing with the appropriate courtesy the situation demanded. "What a surprise."

"Oneira, dear." Stella practically flew toward the desk, her feathers rippling with every movement. "I need to ask you for the biggest favor I’ve ever asked in my life."

Oneira’s assistant lingered at the door, clearly unsure whether to stay or withdraw. Oneira waved her hand, and she left quickly, closing the door with a soft click that left the two women alone.

"I’m listening," Oneira sat back down, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk. "Though I suspect this favor isn’t simply about coffee."

"No." Stella sat with less grace than usual, which was saying something considering that normally every movement of hers was choreographed for maximum dramatic effect. "It’s about my daughter."

Oneira raised an eyebrow.

Over months of endless conversations about Stella’s disastrous marriage, the one constant positive had been Octavia.

"Did something happen to her?"

"No! No, nothing like that." Stella hurried to clarify. "It’s just that… I have a political dinner tonight, with the other Goetia. You know how those things are—endless, boring, full of political posturing and conversations that are definitely not appropriate for children." She paused. "And normally I’d bring Octavia because it’s important for the royal family to appear united, but…" her voice took on that familiar tone of disgust "…that cheating bastard of a husband will be there. And I don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut for the entire evening. Especially if he drinks, which he definitely will."

Oneira wasn’t sure if she meant her husband or herself, but she could see where this was going.

"And Octavia shouldn’t witness another of their marital fights."

"Exactly." Stella leaned forward urgently. "Normally I’d leave her with the nannies, but it turns out they’re all busy today with other household matters. And I don’t trust anyone else on the staff enough to… well."

She left the sentence unfinished, but the meaning was clear. She didn’t trust anyone else to protect her properly if something went wrong.

"So I thought of you." Stella continued, her voice taking on that tone of desperate pleading she rarely used. "I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you probably have important work and that babysitting isn’t exactly part of your job description as an Overlord, but…"

She stopped, taking a breath.

"You’re the only person I trust enough for this."

In silence, Oneira carefully processed this information.

Babysitting a child—even if it was demonic royalty—wasn’t something she had particular experience with. Children were… complicated and unpredictable. They required a type of attention that was outside her usual comfort zone.

But on the other hand… Stella clearly trusted her. That kind of trust that was extraordinarily rare in Hell, especially between royalty and sinners who had risen to power. The fact that Stella was willing to leave her only daughter—her most precious possession… literally—in Oneira’s hands…

That meant something.

And besides, Oneira had to admit a certain curiosity. After months of hearing stories about Octavia’s achievements, her precocious intelligence, her fascination with astronomy, her musical talent… Perhaps it would be interesting to meet the girl in person.

"How long?" Oneira asked finally.

Instant relief flooded Stella’s face.

"Just until tonight. I’d drop her off around three, and I’d come pick her up before midnight. Ten, eleven hours at most."

"And what does she need? Special food, allergies, medical considerations?"

"Nothing special. She eats normally for her age, no known allergies, and she’s incredibly well-behaved, I promise." Stella was speaking quickly now, clearly wanting to seal the deal before Oneira could reconsider. "She reads a lot, loves the stars. Asks a lot of questions but they’re smart questions, not annoying ones…"

"Stella." Oneira interrupted gently. "It’s fine. I’ll do it."

"You will?" The hope in Stella’s voice was almost tangible.

"Yes." Oneira nodded once, decisively. "You can bring Octavia this afternoon. I’ll watch her until you return."

The sound that came from Stella was something between a sob of relief and a hysterical laugh.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." She stood so quickly she nearly knocked over the chair. "You’re literally a lifesaver. No, better than a lifesaver. You’re…"

She searched for appropriate words, apparently found none, and instead launched around the desk to wrap Oneira in a hug that was surprisingly strong for someone of her slender build.

Oneira tensed for a moment—unsolicited physical contact had never been her strong suit—but gradually relaxed, tolerating the hug with a grace that surprised even herself.

"You don’t have to thank me so effusively," she said when Stella finally released her. "It’s just one day."

"No, you don’t understand." Stella wiped her eyes, clearly emotional in ways that went beyond simple relief over solving a childcare problem. "Via means everything to me. Everything. And the fact that I trust you enough to…"

She stopped, composing herself with visible effort.

"Just… thank you. Truly."

"You’re welcome." Oneira replied, feeling something uncomfortably close to emotion threaten her usual composure. "Now the practical details. What should I know about her routines?"

They spent the next twenty minutes discussing the specific details of Octavia’s preferences, her sleep routines—though Stella anticipated being back well before bedtime—, her current interests, and Stella’s emergency contact number in case something went wrong.

When they finally finished, Stella seemed considerably calmer, her posture returning to that natural elegance she normally displayed.

"I’ll bring her around three then," she confirmed, moving toward the door.

"See you at three." Oneira replied, watching as Stella left in a swirl of white feathers and expensive perfume.

When the door closed, Oneira allowed herself a moment of silent processing.

She had agreed to babysit a seven-year-old girl for the day.

Oneira, who had never had children of her own and who had barely spent time around kids during her mortal life, who frankly found young children somewhat… disconcerting in their unpredictability.

Her gaze shifted to Mara, who had partially materialized in the shadows near the window during the conversation with Stella. The shadow rippled with what was clearly barely contained amusement.

"Not a word," Oneira warned, even though Mara had no words to offer, but her form shook with what was definitely silent laughter. "It’s just one day," Oneira continued, more to herself than to her other half. "How hard can it be?"

Mara rippled harder.

"Don’t answer that."

At three o’clock sharp in the afternoon—because Stella was many things but unpunctual wasn’t one of them—the office door was knocked on again. This time, when the door opened, it revealed not just Stella but also a small figure partially hidden behind her mother’s legs.

Octavia Goetia was, objectively speaking, adorable in that specific way only demonic children could achieve.

She was small for her seven years—or at least what Oneira assumed was small, considering her lack of experience with child development—with feathers that were mostly white and gray in patterns reminiscent of a snowy owl. Her eyes were large and expressive, a pale pink that contrasted beautifully with her darker plumage, and carried that quality of intense curiosity Oneira had come to associate with young minds that absorbed everything around them.

She wore what was clearly clothing designed to be both elegant and practical, and held a book against her chest as if it were a protective shield.

"Via, sweetie," Stella crouched to be at eye level with her daughter, her hands adjusting the small dress with movements that were surprisingly tender coming from someone usually so dramatic. "This is Mrs. Manhattan, who Mommy has told you about. Remember?"

Octavia nodded, her large eyes shifting from her mother to Oneira and back, clearly processing the situation with a seriousness that seemed advanced for her age.

"The coffee lady," she said in a voice that was soft but clear. "Mommy says you make the best coffee in all of Hell. And that you’re very smart. And that you have better manners than most Overlords."

Something akin to genuine amusement touched Oneira’s lips at that characterization.

"Your mother is very generous with her compliments," she replied, moving around her desk to approach but maintaining a respectful distance that wouldn’t intimidate the child. "Though I must admit the coffee part is quite accurate."

That drew a small smile from Octavia.

Stella stood, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders in a gesture that was both reassuring and preparatory.

"Now Via, Mommy has to go to that boring dinner we mentioned. You’re going to stay here with Mrs. Manhattan for this afternoon and evening, and I promise I’ll come pick you up as soon as it’s over. Okay?"

"How long is that?"

"Several hours. Probably close to your bedtime, but Mrs. Manhattan will make sure you’re comfortable until then."

Octavia considered this, her eyes shifting back to Oneira with an evaluation that was impressive for someone so young.

"Do you have books here?" the girl asked finally.

Oneira gestured toward the shelves that covered an entire wall of her office.

"Several."

"And windows to look outside?"

"Yes."

"And you won’t be mad if I ask questions?"

"Questions are how we learn things," Oneira replied. "So no, I won’t be mad."

Octavia seemed to find this response satisfactory, because she nodded with a decisiveness that made her feathers ruffle slightly.

"All right then. I can stay here."

The relief on Stella’s face was immediate and obvious.

"You’re such a good girl," she crouched again, wrapping Octavia in a hug that was clearly more for Stella’s benefit than the child’s. "Mommy loves you so much. Behave well, listen to Mrs. Manhattan, and we’ll see each other soon."

"I love you too, Mommy," Octavia replied, her voice muffled against Stella’s feathers.

When they finally separated, Stella stood with a grace that took visible effort, clearly fighting the impulse to stay longer.

"Any problem, call me immediately," she told Oneira. "Anything."

"Everything will be fine," Oneira assured her with more confidence than she actually felt. "Go. Don’t be late for your political engagement."

With one last dramatic gesture—because Stella could never do anything without at least some theater—the Goetia left, leaving Oneira alone in her office with a seven-year-old girl who was now looking at her with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

The silence stretched for about five seconds.

"So," Oneira began, feeling strangely out of her element in ways she rarely experienced. "That book you’re holding. What’s it about?"

Octavia looked down at the book she was still clutching against her chest as if she had just remembered it was there.

"It’s about constellations," she lifted the book slightly so Oneira could see the cover, which showed an elaborate star map. "I like stars."

"Really?" Oneira gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. "Come, sit down. Tell me about it."

Octavia approached with careful steps, climbing onto the chair that was clearly too big for her. Her feet dangled several inches above the floor, swinging slightly as she settled in, but she didn’t seem to mind as she opened her book with evident enthusiasm.

"You see," she began, her earlier shyness evaporating as she spoke about a topic she clearly loved. "Constellations are patterns of stars that people used to use for navigation and to tell stories. Like Orion the hunter, who has a belt of three bright stars. Or the Big Dipper, which looks like a big ladle. Or Cassiopeia, which looks like a W in the sky…"

Oneira listened with genuine attention as Octavia explained various star patterns with knowledge that was impressive for her age. The girl had clearly spent considerable time studying the subject, and her passion for it shone through every word. It was… refreshing, Oneira realized. Talking to someone who was so genuinely enthusiastic about their area of interest without the filter of politics or posturing that infected most adult conversations in Hell.

They had been in this conversation for about fifteen minutes—Octavia had just begun explaining the difference between binary stars and multiple star systems with the seriousness of an academic lecturer—when there was another knock at the door.

Oneira frowned slightly.

She wasn’t expecting anyone this afternoon. She had specifically canceled all her meetings to accommodate looking after Octavia.

"Come in," she said, her voice carrying a slight tension.

The door opened, and Alastor entered with that casual confidence he always carried, his staff making that distinctive tap-tap-tap sound against the marble floor.

"Good morning, dear! I thought we could discuss expanding the radio locations toward the eastern district because I’ve been considering…"

He stopped abruptly mid-sentence, his crimson eyes landing on the small figure seated in front of Oneira’s desk.

Octavia turned in her chair, looking at the newcomer with obvious curiosity but without the fear most adults showed upon encountering the Radio Demon for the first time, and Oneira felt something close to resignation settle heavily in her chest.

Of course Alastor would show up precisely today, on the one day when she needed her office quiet and predictable to properly look after someone else’s daughter.

The universe—or more specifically, Hell—clearly had a twisted sense of humor.

"Alastor," she greeted in a tone that was carefully neutral but carried enough tension to communicate that this wasn’t a particularly convenient visit. "How… unexpected."

Alastor’s eyes moved from Octavia to Oneira and back, his smile widening with that particular gleam that suggested he had discovered something absolutely fascinating and had no intention of leaving until he had fully satisfied his curiosity.

"Apparently I’m not the only one with surprises today," he mentioned cheerfully, moving further into the office without waiting for an invitation. "And who is this charming young lady?"

Octavia, to her credit, wasn’t intimidated by Alastor’s presence despite his perpetual smile and general appearance that most demons found disturbing at best and utterly terrifying at worst. Instead, she straightened in her chair with a dignity that had clearly been carefully taught, her star book still held in her lap.

"I’m Octavia Goetia," she announced with a formality that was adorable coming from someone so small. "And who are you?"

"Alastor, entirely at your service." He made an exaggerated bow that was simultaneously mocking and genuinely courteous. "The Radio Demon, if you’ve heard the term. Though I prefer simply Alastor among friends."

"I’ve heard about you," Octavia said, her eyes widening with recognition. "Mama says you’re…" she stopped abruptly, clearly remembering that she probably shouldn’t repeat everything her mother said about various Overlords in polite company.

"Yes?" Alastor leaned forward with obvious interest, his smile taking on a quality of genuine amusement. "What does your mother say about me? I promise not to be offended no matter how terrible it is."

Octavia considered this for a moment, clearly debating between honesty and discretion.

"She says you’re very powerful," she chose finally. "And that you make very good radio. And that Mrs. Manhattan and you are… partners."

"Partners," Alastor repeated, looking toward Oneira with his smile widening even further. "What a diplomatic and technically correct term. Your mother has very good political tact."

"Stella has her moments," Oneira replied dryly. "And yes, Octavia is staying with me this afternoon while her mother attends a social engagement. Which, I must add, you gave me no choice but to cancel."

"Why would you cancel?" Alastor moved to the other side of Oneira’s desk, clearly with no intention of leaving now that he had discovered this interesting situation. "This is absolutely delightful. Oneira babysitting? I never thought I’d see the day."

"I’m not ‘babysitting’ in the general sense," Oneira corrected with a tone that was patient in ways she didn’t feel. "I’m supervising a very well-mannered and intelligent young lady for a few hours. It’s different."

"Of course it is," Alastor agreed in a way that clearly meant he wasn’t agreeing at all.

Octavia had been watching this exchange with obvious fascination, her head moving between Oneira and Alastor as if she were at a verbal tennis match.

"Do you two argue like this all the time?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"We’re not arguing," Oneira replied.

"We’re absolutely arguing," Alastor said simultaneously.

They looked at each other.

"This is a civilized discussion," Oneira clarified. "Which is different from actual arguing."

"If you say so, dear."

Octavia clearly found this entertaining, because something akin to a smile touched her beak.

"Mommy and Daddy argue too. But their arguments are more… loud."

An awkward silence fell at that observation, because neither adult present knew exactly how to appropriately respond to a small child casually mentioning her parents’ marital dysfunction.

"Yes, well," Alastor recovered first, his tone taking on a quality of forced cheer. "Adults have different communication styles. Some people prefer volume, others prefer refined sarcasm."

"I prefer sarcasm," Octavia declared. "Volume hurts my ears."

"I agree with you!" Alastor settled on the edge of Oneira’s desk, completely invading her personal space, which she tolerated only because making a scene in front of Octavia would be inappropriate. "Now, before I so rudely interrupted, what were you doing?"

"I was telling Mrs. Manhattan about constellations," Octavia lifted her book as evidence. "Do you know about stars?"

"A bit," Alastor admitted. "Though I must confess my knowledge is considerably outdated. Astronomy has advanced quite a bit since my mortal days. Perhaps you could educate me?"

Octavia’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to share her knowledge with a new receptive audience.

"Of course! You see, the stars we can see from Earth are only a small fraction of all the stars that exist in the universe…"

And somehow, in a way Oneira hadn’t anticipated or particularly desired, she found herself spending the next hour listening to a seven-year-old girl give an impromptu lecture on astronomy to one of the most dangerous Overlords in the Pentagon, who seemed to be genuinely fascinated by every word.

Alastor asked questions—good questions that were clearly designed to encourage Octavia to elaborate rather than simply show off his own knowledge. Octavia responded with growing enthusiasm, her initial shyness completely evaporated as she spoke about the topic she obviously loved. Oneira simply observed with a mix of fascination and mild discomfort as this strange dynamic unfolded in front of her.

Because this wasn’t what she had anticipated when she agreed to look after Octavia for the day.

But she also had to admit, as she watched Alastor genuinely engage with the girl’s explanations about orbital mechanics…

It was almost… pleasant. In ways she didn’t want to examine too closely.

"So orbits are elliptical, not perfect circles," Octavia was explaining, using her hands to demonstrate the shape. "Which means sometimes planets are closer to the sun and sometimes farther away, and that affects things like seasons and temperature…"

"How fascinating," Alastor murmured, and to Oneira’s credit, he really did sound fascinated rather than simply polite. "And who discovered this?"

"Kepler. Johannes Kepler. He was a German astronomer in the sixteenth… or seventeenth… one of those centuries," Octavia frowned, clearly annoyed at not remembering the exact detail. "Daddy told me but I forgot which century specifically."

"Specific temporal details are less important than understanding the concept," Oneira offered. "The fact that you know who discovered the laws and what they mean is more valuable than memorizing exact dates."

Octavia looked at her with something akin to relief.

"That’s what I think too. But some of my tutors insist I have to memorize all the exact years of everything."

"Tutors often focus on the wrong metrics," Alastor said in the tone of someone who had held strong opinions about educational systems for a long time. "True education is about developing critical thinking, not rote recitation."

"Exactly!" Octavia practically bounced in her seat with enthusiasm at finding adults who agreed with her perspective. "I try to explain that to them but they say I’m too young to understand how proper learning works."

"The fact that you can articulate that criticism suggests you understand perfectly well," Oneira observed.

Mara had partially materialized in the shadows near the window during this conversation, rippling with what was clearly amusement at seeing her other half navigating this unexpected situation.

Oneira deliberately ignored her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, realizing they had been talking for a considerable time and that children probably needed regular meals in ways adults often forgot to prioritize. "It’s almost four. Did you eat lunch?"

Octavia considered this.

"I ate something before coming. But I could eat again."

"Young ones have faster metabolisms," Alastor added unnecessarily. "Constant fuel is required for proper growth and brain function."

"Did you just compare child nutrition to mechanical engineering?"

"The analogy is solid."

"The analogy is strange."

"It can be both."

Octavia was clearly finding this exchange entertaining, because that small smile had returned to her beak.

"What kind of food do they have here?" she asked. "Mommy says your coffee is the best, but she didn’t mention food."

"We have a moderate selection of culinary options on the ground floor," Oneira stood, deciding that moving to a different location might be beneficial for everyone involved. "Nothing particularly elaborate, but sufficiently substantial. Do you have any preferences or dietary restrictions?"

"I don’t like carrots," Octavia declared with the same seriousness as someone making an important political statement. "But everything else is fine."

"Specific vegetable aversion," Alastor commented. "Universal among the young across all cultures and time periods. It’s a fascinating consistency."

"They’re not fascinating. They’re horrible," Octavia corrected. "They have weird texture and worse taste."

"Fair perspective."

Oneira led them toward the door, feeling strangely as if she were herding particularly verbal cats.

"Let’s go downstairs then. And Alastor…" she looked at him with an expression that clearly communicated her expectations "…assuming you’re coming with us, which seems inevitable at this point, please try not to traumatize any of the customers with inappropriate conversation."

"When have I ever traumatized someone with conversation?"

"Do you want the list by chronology or severity?"

"Both options deeply offend me."

Octavia followed them down the stairs, clearly fascinated by this dynamic between the two adults who had involuntarily become her supervisors for the day.

And as they made their way to the ground floor of the Manhattan Café—where regular customers looked up with obvious surprise at seeing the Radio Demon accompanied by the owner Overlord and a small Goetia—Oneira couldn’t help but think that this was going to be a considerably more complicated day than she had anticipated.

But also, as she watched Alastor make an exaggerated comment that made Octavia let out a genuine laugh… she thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely terrible.

Just… unexpected. Like most things involving Alastor turned out to be.

The ground floor of the Manhattan Café was moderately full at this time of afternoon.

Demons of various types occupied the tables—some clearly doing business, judging by the scattered documents and low-toned conversations; others simply enjoying their drinks while reading newspapers or chatting casually. The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air, mingling with that subtle background of something more that made Oneira’s products so addictive.

Several customers looked up as the trio descended the stairs, their expressions shifting from casual curiosity to genuine surprise as they processed exactly who was entering the main space.

After all, seeing both of them together with a child was definitely unexpected.

Oneira ignored the stares and led Octavia toward a table in the corner. Alastor simply followed with that confident stride he had, clearly unbothered by the attention he drew.

"This one is nice," Octavia declared as she climbed onto one of the chairs, which was clearly designed for adults rather than seven-year-olds. Her feet dangled several inches above the floor, swinging slightly as she settled in. "It has a good view of the window."

"What a strategic seat choice," Alastor approved, taking the chair to her left. "Always choose the location that lets you observe both the interior of the establishment and the street outside. You never know when useful information might present itself."

Octavia looked at him in confusion.

"Why would I need useful information? I’m just going to eat."

"It’s a habit," Alastor explained cheerfully. "When you’ve lived the kind of life I have, certain behaviors become automatic."

"What kind of life?"

"The kind that’s not appropriate to discuss with young ladies during meals."

"Oh." Octavia considered this. "The kind with a lot of violence?"

Oneira, who had been about to sit, paused mid-motion, looking at Octavia with growing surprise.

"Why…" she began carefully "…would you assume it involves violence?"

Octavia shrugged her small shoulders in a gesture that was far too mature for her age.

"Because we’re in Hell. And Mommy says everyone’s here for bad reasons. And that the more powerful someone is down here, probably the worse the reasons were." She paused. "Which means you two probably did really bad things."

The silence now was absolutely thick.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, his smile unchanged but something in his eyes suggesting he was genuinely impressed by the child’s logic.

"Your mother has taught you well about the nature of Hell."

"She says it’s important to understand where we live. Even if I’m too young to know all the specific details." Octavia opened her star book, apparently completely comfortable with this conversation that had made most adults squirm uncomfortably. "So was there violence?"

"Octavia," Oneira finally sat, her tone taking on that quality of an adult trying to redirect a potentially inappropriate conversation. "Perhaps we should focus on the menu instead of the life stories of those present."

"Why? It’s more interesting than food."

"Food is critical for survival," Alastor pointed out with zero helpfulness. "But you’re right that stories are more entertaining."

"Don’t encourage her," Oneira shot him a look that clearly communicated her disapproval.

"Why not? She’s asking perfectly reasonable questions based on logical observations about her environment."

"Because she’s a child."

"A very intelligent child who clearly already understands basic concepts about the nature of damnation," Alastor leaned forward, directing his attention to Octavia. "And to answer your question with appropriate honesty within age-appropriate limits: yes, there was violence. In considerable quantity. But the specific details are, as I mentioned, not appropriate for discussion during meals."

"Or at all," Oneira added.

"Or at all with young audiences," Alastor corrected. "Adults have different standards for appropriate conversation."

Octavia seemed to find this satisfactory, because she nodded and then changed the subject with the characteristic ease of children who had received a sufficient answer to their curiosity.

"What kind of food do they have? Mommy wasn’t specific."

Oneira felt tangible relief at the topic change, gesturing to one of her employees. The employee approached with visible nervousness, her eyes shifting between Oneira, Alastor, and Octavia with an expression suggesting she wasn’t entirely sure how to handle this particular situation.

"M-ma’am?" she stammered slightly. "How can I help?"

"Menus," Oneira said simply. "And water for the table."

"Right away."

The employee practically fled toward the kitchen, returning moments later with three menus and a pitcher of water that she placed in the center of the table with hands trembling enough to make the liquid slosh visibly.

"Anything else?"

"That’s all for now."

The demon retreated with obvious relief, leaving the trio to review the available culinary options. Oneira watched as Octavia opened her menu with seriousness, her large eyes scanning the options with intense concentration. The girl could clearly read well and was taking the task of selecting food with appropriate gravity.

"What’s jambalaya?" she asked after a moment, her finger pointing to the item on the menu.

Alastor practically lit up at the question.

"Oh, excellent potential choice. Jambalaya is a traditional dish from Louisiana—specifically New Orleans—that combines rice with various types of meat, vegetables, and spices in…"

"Does it have carrots?" Octavia interrupted with the practicality of someone with clear priorities.

"Not traditionally, no."

"Then it sounds good."

"You have excellent taste for someone so young," Alastor approved. "Though I must warn you that jambalaya tends to be spicy. Do you handle spices well?"

Octavia considered this.

"I’m not sure. I’ve never eaten really spicy food."

"Then perhaps something milder would be better for your first experience," Oneira suggested, scanning the menu for options that would be appropriate for a child’s palate. "We have sandwiches, soups, salads…"

"No carrots," Octavia reminded.

"No carrots," Oneira confirmed. "Though you really should try expanding your vegetable preferences eventually."

"That’s what Mama says too."

"Your mother is right."

"But carrots are horrible."

"It’s a matter of perspective."

Eventually they decided that Octavia would try tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich while Alastor ordered the jambalaya with that enthusiasm suggesting he had been waiting for an excuse to get it, and Oneira selected a salad because someone at this table needed to make reasonable nutritional choices.

When the employee returned to take their orders, she did so with speed suggesting she wanted to minimize time spent near this particular combination of customers.

"And to drink?" she asked, her notepad trembling slightly in her hands.

"Milk for Miss Octavia," Oneira replied before Octavia could request something potentially inappropriate. "And coffee for me."

"Same," Alastor added. "Your special dark blend, if it’s still available."

"It’s always available for you," the mare glanced sideways at the radio demon.

Alastor’s smile widened in ways suggesting he had noticed exactly that.

"How considerate."

Octavia was watching this exchange with obvious interest, her head tilting slightly in ways that reminded one of an owl examining potential prey.

"Are you friends?" she asked with the direct curiosity only children could achieve.

"We’re business associates," Oneira replied automatically.

"Who enjoy each other’s sweet company," Alastor added.

"Which is not the same as friendship."

"Isn’t it?"

"No."

"What’s the difference?" Octavia asked, genuinely confused.

Oneira opened her mouth to explain, then paused.

Because honestly… what was the difference at this point?

She and Alastor had started as adversaries—he had literally tried to kill her, which was a difficult start for any relationship. Then they had evolved into commercial associates with a mutually beneficial agreement about radios and coffee integration.

But at some point over the last few months they had begun spending time together that wasn’t strictly for business purposes. Breakfasts that extended beyond business discussions, conversations that wandered into personal territory, that growing familiarity that came from consistent shared time.

Did that qualify as friendship?

Oneira honestly wasn’t sure.

She hadn’t had many friends during her mortal life—her domestic situation hadn’t been conducive to healthy social relationships—and in Hell, most of her connections were transactional by necessity.

Except perhaps Zestial, but that was a different relationship built on decades of mutual respect and shared understanding of Hell.

This with Alastor was… complicated.

"The difference," Alastor said finally, saving her from having to articulate an answer, "is that business associates work together for mutual benefit. Friends choose to spend time together because they enjoy the company, even when there’s no immediate commercial benefit."

He paused, his eyes meeting Oneira’s.

"Though I admit the line between the two can blur with enough time."

"Then it sounds like you’re friends," Octavia concluded with the simple logic of someone not yet trained in the complexities of adult relationships. "Because you’re spending time together now and you’re not even talking about business. Mostly."

"The young lady has a point," Alastor observed toward the elder.

"The young lady should focus on her own social life instead of analyzing ours," Oneira replied, feeling something uncomfortably close to vulnerability threaten her usual composure.

"I don’t really have a social life," Octavia commented in an extremely casual and immediate way. "Mommy doesn’t let me socialize much with other kids because she says most demon children are bad influences. And the other Goetia kids are…" she paused, searching for the appropriate word "…stuck-up."

"Stuck-up?" Alastor repeated with obvious amusement.

"Uh-huh. They just want to talk about how important their family is and how much power their parents have and who has the biggest palace. It’s boring."

"Class politics among the noble youth," Oneira thought aloud. "Some behaviors are universal regardless of age."

"They’re dumb," Octavia declared. "I’d rather read about stars."

"Excellent priorities."

Their food arrived then, delivered by the same nervous employee who clearly wanted to complete this transaction as quickly as possible and retreat to a safe distance.

Octavia attacked her soup and sandwich with an enthusiasm suggesting she had perhaps been hungrier than she had initially admitted. Alastor ate his jambalaya with obvious appreciation, occasionally offering comments about the spices or preparation. Oneira simply ate her salad while observing the other two, feeling something strange settle in her chest.

She realized this was unexpectedly and disconcertingly pleasant. Certainly not something she had actively sought out, but now that it was happening she discovered she didn’t hate it.

Which was, in itself, mildly alarming in ways she preferred not to examine too closely, at least not right now.

Mara had materialized again in the shadows near her chair, rippling with what was definitely amusement at her other half’s transparent thoughts.

"Mrs. Manhattan?" Octavia’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Yes?"

"After eating, can we do something? Not just sit and talk, I mean. Something… active."

Oneira considered this.

What did one do with a seven-year-old girl in the Pentagon for an afternoon?

It wasn’t exactly familiar territory for her, considering that—as she had mentioned to Alastor earlier—she had never had children of her own and rarely spent time around the young.

"What kind of active something did you have in mind?" she asked cautiously.

"I don’t know, whatever kids do for fun." The small one gestured vaguely. "Mommy usually makes me stay inside and read or practice piano. Which is fine, but sometimes I want to… move."

"Contained energy seeking release," Alastor observed. "Completely natural for her age."

"And how would you know about age-appropriate child behavior?"

"I read extensively, including texts on psychological development."

"Of course you do."

"Knowledge is power, dear."

Octavia had turned her attention back to Alastor with renewed interest.

"Have you read about children? Why?"

"At one point I had general curiosity about human and demonic behavior across various developmental stages," Alastor replied as if this were a perfectly normal explanation. "Plus, children are fascinating. So honest before society teaches them to lie properly."

"Does society teach us to lie?"

"Absolutely. They call it ‘tact’ and ‘political courtesy’ but it’s fundamentally the same concept."

"Alastor," Oneira interrupted before he could launch into a full philosophical discourse on ‘the nature of social deception.’ If it were a book, he would clearly found it. "Perhaps we save the lessons on cynicism for when Octavia is older."

"How much older?"

"Considerably."

Octavia had finished her soup and was now working on her sandwich while processing this conversation.

"So," she said after swallowing her bite. "Can we do something? Please?"

Oneira looked at Alastor, who simply smiled with that expression suggesting he found this entire situation deliciously entertaining and had no intention of being particularly helpful in providing practical suggestions.

"There’s a park," she offered finally. "Not far from here. It’s relatively safe, considering where we are, with trees and open space."

Octavia’s eyes lit up immediately.

"With trees to climb?"

"Possibly."

"Yes! Can we go? Please?"

Oneira considered the potential risks of taking a valuable client’s daughter to a public park in the Pentagon, where literally anything could happen.

Then she considered the hopeful expression on Octavia’s face.

And realized she had apparently developed a soft spot for enthusiastic children who just wanted to climb trees.

"Very well," she agreed, ignoring the way Alastor’s smile widened at her capitulation. "But under specific conditions. One: we stay within my sight at all times. Two: if anything seems remotely dangerous, we leave immediately. Three: you listen when we tell you to stop any activity. Understood?"

"Understood," Octavia nodded with a seriousness that was adorable. "I promise to follow all the rules."

"Good. Finish your food first, then we’ll go."

And that was how Oneira found herself, thirty minutes later, walking through the streets of the Pentagon flanked by the Radio Demon and a seven-year-old princess who was practically bouncing with enthusiasm.

This definitely wasn’t how she had anticipated her day going.

But as she watched Octavia point out various buildings and ask questions about their architecture—because apparently her curiosity extended beyond just astronomy—Oneira had to admit that perhaps this wasn’t entirely bad.

Like most things lately.

 

 

— ꨄ —

 

 

The park in question was a small green oasis amid the urban chaos of the Pentagon.

It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps a couple of acres at most—but there was enough vegetation to provide shade, several trees of different sizes and species that had somehow survived in Hell, and some scattered benches suggesting that at least some demons came here occasionally for something other than the usual violence.

The grass was a reddish hue common in this part of Hell, and the perpetually crimson sky cast everything in tones that were simultaneously beautiful and vaguely ominous. There was a small fountain in the center gurgling with liquid that was probably not exactly water, surrounded by a worn stone path suggesting years of use.

It was, in general terms, as close to “picturesque” as the Pentagon could achieve.

Octavia stopped at the park entrance, her eyes widening as she took in the scene with obvious fascination.

"It’s pretty," she declared with genuine surprise. "I didn’t know Hell had pretty places."

"It has some," the woman replied, scanning the area. "They’re rare, but they exist."

"They’re like little pockets of tranquility amid the chaos," the radio added, moving ahead with his staff tapping against the ground. "Though I must do a proper sweep before allowing our young guest to run freely."

"How prudent," Oneira observed as Alastor began a methodical circuit of the park’s perimeter.

His presence alone was generally enough to discourage trouble—most demons recognized the Radio Demon on sight and made the smart decision to be literally anywhere else—but there were occasionally those too stupid or too desperate to exercise proper judgment. There was a small group of lesser demons near the fountain who took one look at Alastor’s sweep and collectively decided other parks were probably better options for the day, dispersing with a speed that would have been comical if it weren’t so predictable.

After about five minutes of inspection, Alastor returned to where Oneira and Octavia waited near the entrance.

"Cleared," he announced. "The previous residents have decided they have urgent commitments elsewhere. How convenient for us!"

"Did you scare them?" Octavia asked with a curiosity that didn’t seem disturbed at all by the implication of intimidation.

"I simply allowed them to make informed decisions about their time usage," Alastor corrected with that tone radiating pure false innocence.

"That sounds like scaring them with extra steps."

"It’s a distinction without a difference."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you’re right but he doesn’t want to admit it directly," Oneira translated.

Octavia considered this, then nodded.

"So can I play now?"

"You can," Oneira confirmed. "But remember the rules. Within my line of sight, stop when I say, avoid anything that looks dangerous."

"I promise!"

And with that, Octavia practically flew toward the trees with an energy she had probably been holding in for hours. Her small wings—still not fully developed but functional for short assisted flight bursts—helped her reach the lower branches more easily than climbing alone would have allowed.

Oneira watched her with fascination and growing apprehension as the girl examined several trees with the seriousness of an engineer assessing structural integrity.

"She’s competent," Alastor observed, moving to sit on one of the benches offering a clear view of the area where Octavia was exploring. "More athletic than her preference for academic activities would suggest."

"Children are generally more capable than adults give them credit for," Oneira joined him on the bench, keeping her eyes on Octavia as the girl selected a particularly sturdy tree and began a cautious ascent. "Though I admit I don’t have much personal experience with that."

"You mentioned you never had children," Alastor said, his tone casual in ways suggesting this was a continuation of a previous conversation rather than a new line of questioning. "Was that your choice or due to some circumstance?"

Oneira considered how much to share.

On one hand, it was personal information of the type she rarely discussed with anyone. On the other, Alastor already knew she had been married—which was more than most people in Hell knew about her past—and it seemed silly to be evasive about details now.

"It was the circumstances," she replied finally. "My husband was infertile. Side effects of… certain lifestyle habits that affected his physiology in ways that made conception impossible."

"Lifestyle habits," Alastor repeated. "Sounds like a deliberately vague description."

"It is," Oneira confirmed. "Because the specific details are complicated and not particularly relevant decades after the fact."

Alastor didn’t press, which she appreciated. Instead, he simply nodded in acceptance.

"And you never considered… other options? After his death, presumably."

"After his death I was busy building a commercial empire from scratch," she replied dryly. "Motherhood wasn’t exactly a priority at that point. And by the time I had established enough stability to consider it…"

She paused, searching for the right words.

"By then too much time had passed. The moment had passed, if it had ever truly been there."

"Do you regret that?"

Oneira considered the question honestly, watching as Octavia reached a particularly high branch and sat on it with obvious triumph, her small legs dangling as she surveyed the park from her elevated perch.

"I’m not sure," she admitted after a few seconds. "Children require a type of attention and emotional commitment I don’t know if I’m capable of providing appropriately. My upbringing wasn’t exactly a model of healthy parenting skills, and my marriage certainly didn’t teach me anything useful about raising young life."

She paused.

"But seeing Octavia today, seeing how Stella clearly loves her despite all the chaos in her own life… there’s part of me that wonders what would have been different if circumstances had allowed that option."

It was more vulnerable than she had intended to be, more honest than was comfortable.

But Alastor simply listened without visible judgment, his eyes occasionally shifting to where Octavia was now attempting to reach an even higher branch with admirable determination.

"I understand that," he said finally. "Wondering about what could have been. Though in my case, I never had illusions about my suitability for fatherhood. My lifestyle, both in life and death, has been fundamentally incompatible with the kind of stability children require."

"And that doesn’t bother you?"

"Not particularly," Alastor replied with an honesty that matched hers. "I enjoy children in small doses, as evidenced today. They’re refreshing in their honesty, fascinating in their development, delightful in their unfiltered reactions to the world."

His smile widened slightly.

"But raising one would require sacrifices I’m not willing to make. My freedom, my autonomy, my ability to pursue interests that are definitely not appropriate for homes with young ones present… Those things are too fundamental to who I am to compromise."

"So you never considered marriage either. You mentioned that this morning."

"Correct. Hunting was, and is, an essential part of my identity. Compromising it for domesticity would have been like asking me to stop breathing."

"Your hunting is my coffee," Oneira rephrased, repeating that thought she had had during previous conversations with him. "Building the empire, perfecting the addiction, expanding the reach. It’s part of my identity. The kind of thing you can’t just set aside for the convenience of a relationship."

"Exactly," Alastor looked at her with understanding… or something more complicated to perceive. "Though I must point out that you’ve apparently found a way to maintain your empire while also… this."

He gestured vaguely between the two of them.

"This?" Oneira repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Whatever this is," Alastor clarified in a way that clarified nothing, slowly penetrating the mare's skin. "This commercial association that has become more personal over time. Friendship, according to our young observer earlier. Whatever the appropriate term is."

"I’m not sure I want there to be an appropriate term," she murmured.

"Perhaps that’s the point."

A silence fell between them, not uncomfortable but charged with something. Octavia saved them from having to continue this line of conversation by calling from her perch in the tree.

"Mrs. Manhattan! Mr. Alastor! Look at me! I’m really high up!"

Both looked obediently, offering gestures of impression at her small achievement.

"Very well done," Alastor called. "Can you go higher?"

"Alastor!" Oneira reprimanded him immediately. "Don’t encourage her to take unnecessary risks."

"Where’s the fun in that?"

"In not having to explain to Stella why her daughter has broken limbs."

"Limbs heal. Especially in Hell."

"That’s not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is that I agreed to look after her properly, which does not include encouraging her to potentially dangerous activities to impress strangers."

"There are no strangers. Just us, and we’re clearly very impressed."

"…You’re impossible."

"I’ve been told that before."

Octavia, apparently deciding her current height was sufficiently impressive without needing to push limits further, began a careful descent. Her movements were deliberate and surprisingly coordinated for someone so young, clearly having climbed trees before despite Stella’s claims about keeping her daughter confined to indoor activities.

Once back on solid ground, she ran toward where they were seated, breathless but obviously delighted with her arboreal adventure.

"Did you see how high I got?" she asked with contagious enthusiasm. "I could see the whole park from up there! And even part of the street!"

"We saw you," Oneira confirmed. "Very impressive. Do you want water? You should hydrate after physical activity."

She had brought a bottle specifically for this purpose, anticipating that exercise would require fluid replenishment. Octavia accepted the water gratefully, drinking generously before sitting on the grass in front of the bench where they were, apparently unconcerned about soiling her dress.

"This is fun," the girl declared with satisfaction. "Mommy never lets me do things like this. She says it’s too dangerous or too dirty or too… something."

"Your mother is protecting you," the mare agreed. "That’s what parents are supposed to do."

"But sometimes it feels like a prison," Octavia replied with disconcerting wisdom coming from someone so young. "Especially when I know I can handle more than she thinks."

Alastor let out a laugh at that.

"Oh, you’re going to be an absolute headache when you’re a teenager."

"Why?"

"Because you’re already articulating sophisticated critiques of overprotective parenting dynamics. By the time you’re fifteen, you’ll be debating political philosophy with your mother about personal autonomy versus collective safety."

Octavia considered this.

"That actually sounds interesting."

"Of course it does," Alastor gestured toward her with his staff. "You have a naturally inquisitive mind combined with a solid education. It’s a perfect recipe for eventual intellectual rebellion."

"I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a warning…"

"Both. The best observations usually are."

Oneira watched this exchange with a mix of amusement and mild concern because Alastor was definitely the type to encourage exactly the kind of independent thinking that would make Stella’s life considerably more complicated in about five to ten years.

But she also had to admit… It was pleasant to see Octavia so engaged, so clearly enjoying conversation that treated her as an intellectual equal rather than just a child who needed to be directed.

"Mrs. Manhattan?" Octavia had turned her attention to her now. "Can I ask a personal question?"

"It depends on how personal it is," Oneira replied cautiously.

"Why coffee? Like… why did you choose that specifically for your business?"

It was a better question than Oneira had anticipated, more thoughtful than typical child curiosity.

"For several reasons," she began, considering how to explain decades of strategic decision in terms sufficiently appropriate for a young audience. "First, coffee is naturally addictive. That creates a reliable customer base."

She paused.

"Second, it’s socially acceptable. No one judges someone for drinking coffee, even if they drink it excessively. Which means I can build an empire based on addiction without the stigma that comes with other substances."

"That’s smart," Octavia analyzed with approval. "Like… social engineering."

"Exactly, like social engineering."

"And is there a third reason?"

Oneira hesitated, because the third reason was considerably more personal.

"I like it," she admitted finally. "The process of making coffee, perfecting blends, creating a complete experience around its consumption. It’s… art, in its own way. And building a business around something I genuinely appreciate makes the work feel less like work."

"Ohhhh," Octavia nodded seriously. "Mommy says you should find something you love and find a way to get paid for doing it… Though she doesn’t love being a princess, so I guess her own advice doesn’t always work."

Oneira fell into an uncomfortable silence at the casual mention of Stella’s unhappiness. The mare was aware that she actually did like being a princess… What she didn’t like was what made her a princess: her husband.

"Your mother is in a complicated situation," Oneira said carefully. "She has family obligations versus personal fulfillment. They’re not always compatible."

"I know. That’s why I’m glad she has friends like you to talk to," Octavia looked at her with surprisingly perceptiveness. "You make her feel better. I can tell because she’s less angry after her visits with you."

And she was clearly going to be less angry if every time she went it was to vent about her husband. Octavia didn’t know it, but Oneira had probably saved her from many family disputes since Stella started going to her establishment more often.

"I’m glad I can help," her voice came out slightly softer.

Alastor had been watching this exchange silently, his expression impossible to read but his posture suggestive of interest.

"You’re lucky," he mentioned to Octavia. "To have a mother who cares enough to seek appropriate support when she needs it. Many parents simply… don’t."

"Did you have a good mother?" Octavia asked with that direct curiosity again.

"Exceptional," Alastor replied without hesitation. "She taught me everything important. Cooking, reading, thinking critically, defending myself from those who would try to take advantage of perceived differences…"

He paused.

"Though I admit she probably didn’t anticipate exactly how I would apply some of those lessons later on."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing appropriate for the present discussion," Alastor evaded cheerfully. "The point is that your mother clearly loves you and is doing her best in difficult circumstances. That counts for a lot."

Octavia nodded, processing this.

"And you, Mrs. Manhattan? Did you have a good mother?"

Oneira tensed slightly at the question.

Because no. She hadn’t had a good mother.

She had had a mother who had allowed her brothers to torment her without intervention, who had looked the other way when her father arranged her marriage to a visibly violent man, who had prioritized social image over her daughter’s well-being at every conceivable turn.

But that wasn’t information appropriate to share with a seven-year-old girl who clearly still had a relatively innocent view of the world.

"My mother was… complicated," she settled on, choosing her words carefully. "We didn’t have a particularly close relationship. Which is fine; not everyone is lucky enough to have strong family connections."

Octavia frowned at that, clearly trying to understand the concept of a family that wasn’t loving.

"That sounds sad."

"It was, sometimes," the black-clad one admitted. "But it also made me stronger in certain ways. It taught me to rely on myself instead of expecting others to rescue me."

"I guess that’s good."

"It can be. Though I would have preferred to learn that lesson in less painful ways."

Alastor was looking at her now with that intensity suggesting he was processing this information and filing it away for future consideration.

But to his credit, he didn’t press for additional details.

Instead, he simply reached over and placed his hand over hers—briefly, barely a second—in a gesture that might have been comfort or simply acknowledgment of her shared vulnerability. Then the moment passed, his hand withdrawing as Octavia began a new line of questions about whether there were other parks in the Pentagon and if any had better trees for climbing.

But Oneira felt the lingering warmth where his fingers had touched.

And she wondered—not for the first time lately—exactly what was happening between her and the Radio Demon.

And whether she should be more concerned about it than she currently was.

Despite that, they spent the next hour in the park in ways that were surprisingly peaceful for Hell.

Octavia alternated between climbing different trees—each one evaluated carefully before deciding if it was worth the effort—and running across the grass with energy that seemed inexhaustible. Occasionally she returned to where Oneira and Alastor remained on the bench, sharing some observation about something she had seen or asking a question about some aspect of the park that had captured her curiosity.

At some point, she had found a particularly interesting stick—though what made it interesting was a mystery only she fully understood—and was using it to draw patterns in the dirt near the fountain.

"It’s remarkable," Alastor observed as Octavia created what appeared to be a rudimentary map of constellations on the ground. "How she naturally gravitated toward visual representation of her interests. It suggests an artistic inclination in addition to the academic one."

"Stella mentioned she takes piano lessons," Oneira added. "Apparently she has talent for her age."

"Of course she does. She’s probably also excellent at math, science, anything else requiring structured thinking."

"Are you projecting?"

"I’m basing it on exhibited behavior patterns," Alastor corrected. "Though I admit a certain… identification with the young one who is clearly smarter than most adults around her and frustrated at being constantly underestimated due to her age."

Oneira looked at him with renewed curiosity.

"Were you like that as a child?"

"Unbearably so, according to most of my memories," Alastor confirmed with something akin to pride. "My mother was the only one who truly encouraged me. Everyone else found my… curiosity… annoying at best and threatening at worst."

"Threatening?"

"A mixed-race child in early twentieth-century Louisiana asking too many smart questions," Alastor said dryly. "You can imagine how that was received in certain circles."

Oneira could imagine it, unfortunately.

"Your mother was…?" she began, not entirely sure how to phrase the question appropriately.

"Creole," Alastor answered, understanding what she was asking. "Of French and African mixture. Which put me in the interesting position of being too dark for some circles and not dark enough for others. The kind of ambiguity that makes people uncomfortable everywhere."

He paused, his fingers drumming against his staff in a pattern.

"Though in retrospect, it probably made me better at navigating different social worlds. You learn to read people when your survival depends on understanding exactly which mask to wear in which situation."

"That’s a useful skill in Hell too."

"Absolutely. Though here the consequences of misreading are considerably more permanent."

Octavia had finished her constellation map and was now trying to find flat rocks she could skip across the fountain’s surface. She had found three so far, lined up carefully at the edge while searching for more.

"She adores you." Oneira watched as Octavia occasionally glanced back to make sure she was still being watched.

"The child?"

"Who else?" The mare rolled her eyes. "Or at least she’s fascinated. I’m not entirely sure which one."

"The difference is subtle at that age," Alastor replied. "Though I must admit the feeling is mutual. It’s delightfully refreshing to spend time with someone who doesn’t have a hidden agenda beyond simple curiosity about the world."

"Most adults have too many layers of politics and posturing."

"Exactly. With Octavia, when she asks a question, she genuinely wants to know the answer. She’s not trying to gain an advantage or assess weaknesses or any of the other things adults do when they feign interest… Though I suspect that will eventually change. Goetian education will inevitably include training in all those unsavory political skills that turn honest children into calculating adults."

"Certainly," Oneira agreed. "Although with Stella as a mother, I worry that spark might die out."

"I don't know her well enough to say that, but your doubts must be well-founded."

"I suppose so..."

They both watched as Octavia finally found enough rocks to her liking and began tossing them into the fountain one by one, clearly trying to make them bounce off the surface of the water.

The first one sank immediately. The second bounced once before sinking. The third managed two bounces, which elicited a delighted squeal of triumph.

"We should teach her the proper technique," Alastor asked. "There’s a specific science to making rocks skip effectively."

"You know how to skip rocks?"

"Of course. It’s basic physics, combining angle and rock type. I learned it young and honed the technique over years of occasional practice."

"Why exactly did you spend years perfecting rock skipping?"

"Why not?" Alastor replied as if it were logical. "Life and death are long. One needs hobbies."

Oneira couldn’t help but smile at that.

"Very well. Go teach her your perfected rock-skipping technique. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the education."

Alastor stood with an enthusiasm that was almost childlike in its quality, moving toward where Octavia was searching for more suitable projectiles.

"Miss Octavia!" he called. "Allow me to show you the proper method for maximizing skips."

Octavia’s eyes lit up immediately.

"You know how to make more skips?"

"Of course. First, you need to select stones with the right shape: flat, smooth, about the size of your palm…"

Oneira watched as Alastor proceeded to give his impromptu lesson on the physics of rock skipping, using terms that were surprisingly technical but presented in a way that clearly resonated with Octavia’s analytical mind.

It was… unexpectedly charming.

Seeing the very Radio Demon, the most recent Overlord and serial killer in life, patiently teaching a seven-year-old girl how to skip rocks properly. There was something almost domestic about the scene that made something strange twist in Oneira’s chest.

Because this was what it might have been, perhaps, if circumstances had been different. If her husband hadn’t been infertile, if her marriage hadn’t been abusive, if she had had the chance to be a mother…

It might have been this.

Afternoons in parks, teaching small things, watching as those young minds absorbed information and grew.

But it hadn’t been.

And sitting here wondering about untaken paths was a futile exercise that had materialized Mara again in the shadows beside the bench. Her crimson eyes watched not Alastor and Octavia, but directly at Oneira. And the expression—insofar as a shadow could have an expression—was something between compassion and understanding.

Because Mara knew. She knew about the marriage, about the infertility, about all the things Oneira had sacrificed or lost, or never had the chance to have in the first place.

"Shut up," Oneira murmured low, knowing Mara would hear even without speaking aloud.

The shadow didn’t respond verbally, but rippled in what was definitely amusement at her other half’s defensiveness.

"Mrs. Manhattan!" Octavia’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Look at me! Mr. Alastor taught me and now I can do four skips!"

Oneira focused her attention on the fountain where Octavia stood with a perfectly flat stone in her hand, clearly ready to demonstrate her new skill.

"I’m watching," she confirmed.

Octavia threw with a fluid motion; the stone skimmed across the liquid’s surface one, two, three, four times before finally sinking.

"Perfect!" Alastor congratulated her. "The technique was excellent. With practice, you could easily achieve six or seven skips."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. Though you’d need a longer stretch of water to accommodate the distance. This fountain is somewhat limiting."

Octavia absorbed this information seriously, clearly already planning future attempts to improve her personal record.

Oneira discreetly checked the time, noting it was almost seven in the evening.

They had been in the park for over two hours.

And though Stella had said she’d return before midnight, Oneira suspected the political dinner would likely extend to nine or ten at minimum. Which meant several more hours of supervision.

"We should consider heading back to the café," she mentioned to the other two, standing. "It’ll be getting dark soon, and the park is considerably less safe after nightfall."

Alastor nodded in agreement, calling to Octavia.

"Time to go, little one. We’ve monopolized this green space long enough."

Octavia ran toward them, clearly tired but still with notable energy for someone who had been running around for over two hours.

"Can we come back another day?" the girl asked hopefully.

"That will depend on your mother," Oneira replied diplomatically. "But if you stay with me again, we can certainly consider another park visit."

"Will you stay with me again?"

"If your mother requests it and I have time available, then yes."

Octavia seemed satisfied with that answer, taking Oneira’s hand without asking first.

The three began the walk back toward the Manhattan Café, navigating streets that were beginning to fill with nocturnal demons. Alastor’s presence ensured most kept a respectful distance, and the fact that they were clearly accompanying a small royal child added an extra layer of “do not disturb” that most demons were smart enough to respect.

Octavia maintained a constant conversation as they walked, jumping between topics with a rapidity that was hard to follow: astronomy, rock skipping, whether there were animals in Hell, why the sky was always red, if the stars looked different from here than from Earth… Alastor answered each question with a patience Oneira hadn’t fully anticipated he possessed.

And she…

Oneira simply walked, feeling the small weight of Octavia’s hand in hers, and wondered when exactly she had started to enjoy this.

It hadn’t been what she expected when she agreed to Stella’s favor that morning, but now that it was happening… she discovered she wouldn’t change it.

For now she simply walked, listening to Octavia’s endless questions, watching as Alastor answered them with that particular charm he employed when genuinely enjoying a conversation.

And tried not to think too much about what it meant that this felt so… natural.

So right.

So dangerously close to something that might have been her family, if circumstances had been entirely different.

Notes:

The truth is, I like to think that, despite everything, Stella does love Octavia. Sadly, Oneira knows exactly what Stella is like, and she wasn't wrong in saying that she ended up wasting her potential; as we saw, she became an insecure teenager, estranged from her father. (╯︵╰,)

By the way, my little Oneira really would have loved to be a mother. However, she probably would have been a terrible one! If she'd stayed with her husband, she probably would have ended up killing them both in a fit of rage. My girl isn't well! (・人・)

My little Alastor will comfort her later.