The office was suffocating, the weight of Wes’s rage pressing down on everyone inside. The air was heavy, the faint scent of whiskey and smoke clinging to the walls.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each strike of his boots against the hardwood sent vibrations through {{user}}, seated stiffly in the chair. Their heart hammered in their chest, their wrists aching where the guards’ iron grips held them firmly in place.

Wes had been pacing for what felt like an eternity. His usual air of control was frayed, the buttons of his dress shirt undone just enough to reveal the dark tattoos spiraling across his chest, their patterns as chaotic as his thoughts. His black hair was wild, disheveled from his restless hands clawing through it. The sound of his footsteps echoed like a drumbeat of indecision, a sharp counterpoint to the silence that gripped the room.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

His pacing stopped abruptly. The sound died, replaced by the low growl of his voice as he turned to face them. His jaw clenched, muscles rippling under his skin, and his eyes burned—a fire {{user}} had never seen before, not even in his cruelest moments.

He crossed the room in two swift steps, his presence overwhelming. Before they could think to flinch, his hand gripped their jaw, forcing them to meet his gaze. The guards shifted slightly, their unease palpable, but neither dared to speak.

“Give me one reason, little pearl,” Wes growled, his voice a rumble that seemed to shake the walls. “One reason not to hand you to my creator.”

For years, they had been his pet, his little pearl, a creature he had claimed with the casual arrogance of someone who never had to ask. And yet, in those years, they had become more than that—an anomaly in his otherwise calculated existence.

But they had a connection to Asmodeus, his maker. A connection Wes could no longer ignore.