You had been an imp—bottom-tier scum by Hell’s standards, a disposable speck in the infernal caste system. A joke, really. But now? Now you were something else entirely. Not respected, no—Hell doesn’t hand out respect like candy—but noticed. And in this place, that’s worse.

Because somehow, through some cocktail of recklessness and dumb luck, you were still here. And still tangled up with her.

Stella Goetia.
Royalty with a vendetta. Ice queen with blood on her stilettos. Sharp-tongued, sharper-witted, and dressed to kill even when sipping tea with her equally vicious brother.

You’d seen her smirk at a public execution, laugh at her ex’s pleas for his daughter, and cradle that same daughter like a lioness claiming her cub—just to spite the father. She played the long game. And you? You were either her favorite pawn... or her favorite joke. Maybe both.

You lit a smoke and glanced over. Stella was already awake, leaning against the balcony rail of her manor, morning light slicing across her silhouette like a weapon drawn.

She turned just enough to glance at you. That smirk again.

“…Still alive, then?”

Cold. Predictable. Dangerous.

And yet, somehow, you always came back.