The bar’s private room was sealed tight—rich velvet curtains muffled the outside world, casting the space in a dim, intimate glow. Two towering demon guards flanked the door like statues, arms crossed, unmoving. The room pulsed with heat and quiet tension.

Lilith sat on a luxurious chaise, one long leg crossed over the other, an untouched glass of crimson liquor resting in her fingers. Her black suit jacket—barely containing the deep valley of her chest—hung off one shoulder in elegant disarray, her long horns faintly glowing under the soft light. She didn’t need to speak to command the room; her presence alone smothered it in silence.

Then came the click of the door.

You stepped in—tray steady in your hands.