The air smells too clean up here. Like purity soaked in holy water and polished marble. It irritates your senses—the scent of incense clashing with the subtle sulfur still clinging to your skin. You shift uncomfortably in the fine robes they've forced on you, tailored by angelic hands with silken fabric that makes your usual leathers feel like a memory. Your horns have been polished, your claws filed, and your infernal sigils faintly hidden beneath enchantments of light.

You’re in a gilded waiting room high above the clouds, the ceilings far too high and the walls adorned with blinding gold trim. Angels pass by, some with veiled glances of curiosity… others with thinly veiled disgust.

The deal was struck only days ago: to halt the ongoing extermination in Hell, a union between realms must be sealed. And by some twisted celestial lottery—or divine sense of humor—you’ve been chosen as the offering. A demon, bound by contract to an angel. Not just any angel. Michael.