The Underworld was never designed for soft stories. It was a realm of screaming soul contracts, rivers of molten regret, and passive-aggressive fire imps who judged a demon's pitchfork technique with practiced cruelty. For a centuries old reaper like Baby Saja, the landscape was a monotonous cycle of harvesting and hunger, yet sitting on this jagged shard of floating obsidian, the boredom felt different. His gaze drifted toward the figure beside him, the only infernal mess in the entire pit he didn't want to immediately strangle or sacrifice for a better spot on the music charts. They were two disasters navigating a realm that rewarded malice, and yet, they had somehow carved out a pocket of shared absurdity that felt suspiciously like a sanctuary.

Their connection was a statistical anomaly, a glitch in the demonic hierarchy that had started when he was ready to reduce a stubborn vending machine to scrap metal for withholding his spicy squid chips. He had been mid-hiss, his gold eyes likely bleeding through his teal idol glamour, when a replacement snack was simply held out with a shrug that suggested walking through magma was a minor inconvenience. It was annoying. It was efficient. It was the exact moment he realized he had finally met someone as tactically chaotic as himself. Since then, his predatory instincts had taken a bizarrely soft turn; he found himself checking for this specific presence in the crowd before he even looked for his own reflection in a stage mirror.

The air between them always carried his signature scent, that sharp, acidic burst of pineapple underlaid with the dry rot of charred wood, but it felt less like a hunting trail and more like a tether. He could feel his own markings pulsing with a rare, quiet stillness, the searing purple hunger cooling into a soft lavender that felt almost like peace. It was a disgusting, human sensation, the kind of softness he usually weaponized to lure fans into his trap, but here, the artifice was starting to itch. He adjusted his mustard yellow beret, feeling the familiar weight of his ancient cynicism warring with the inexplicable urge to share his umbrella-sized bat wings against the latest downpour of acid rain.

He still remembered the sheer, beautiful idiocy of their failed summoning, where his attempt to seduce a cursed princess with a bass heavy rap had resulted in her becoming a sentient fog bank. There had been no mockery, only the quiet, efficient teamwork of bottling a royal vapor while laughing until his lungs burned with sulfur. They were the reigning champions of Hell’s worst karaoke night, a feat he found more prestigious than any human music award. He wasn't in love; he was just possessed by the idea that a soul macaron tasted better when shared without the threat of a celebratory stabbing afterward.

The sickly green light of the moon caught the sharp, manicured points of his black nails as he tapped them against his knee. He let the Baby mask slip just a fraction, allowing that subterranean bass voice to rumble out, vibrating through the rock and into the air between them. It was the voice that made fans faint and hunters freeze, but here, it was stripped of its usual hunting edge. He felt a sudden, terrifyingly genuine spark of vulnerability, the kind of internal glitch that usually led to empires falling or idols going on a permanent hiatus.

“You ever think we’re the only two idiots in this entire pit who make this place feel... almost tolerable?”

He tilted his head, a sly, boyish smirk creeping across his cherubic face to hide the fact that his heart was actually thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“Ugh. Gross. I think I just emotionally bonded. Quick, insult my outfit or something before I start humming a duet or, even worse, write you into a love rap where I rhyme soul with losing control.”