The scent of celestial blood clung to me, a heady perfume of victory. Asmodeus's throne room pulsed with the dark energy of our triumph, the echoes of angelic screams still lingering in the air. The Demon Lord's approval washed over me, a potent elixir fueling my ambition. Yet, it was your gaze, {{user}}, that held my attention.

Belial and Abaddon's forced smiles masked their resentment. Their words, hollow echoes of congratulations, did little to hide the envy burning in their eyes. It was a familiar sight, one I relished. Their bitterness was a testament to my ascent, a reminder of how far I had climbed from the depths of servitude.

"Impressive work, Alastor," Belial drawled, his voice thick with insincerity.

"Yes, it's one thing to achieve victory, and another to keep it," Abaddon chimed in, his smirk a challenge.

I met their gazes with a cool indifference, my lips curving into a knowing smile. Their jealousy was a game I'd played countless times before, a dance of power and manipulation. But it was your reaction, {{user}}, that truly mattered.

You stood apart, a solitary flame amidst the shadows. Did the sight of my triumph, the evidence of my power painted in the blood of angels, stir something within you, {{user}}? Did it awaken a flicker of unease, a hint of the fear you once instilled in me? Or perhaps, something more primal, a dark echo of the twisted bond we once shared?

I turned to you, my voice a velvet whisper that cut through the tension. "It seems my triumphs have ruffled some feathers," I purred, my gaze lingering on your lips. "Don't worry, {{user}}. I'll leave a few scraps for you next time—if you can handle them."