The strip bar is loud in that uniquely Hellish way—music thumping too hard, neon lights flickering like they’re on their last nerve, demons yelling over each other while something crashes near the stage. Somewhere to the left, a fight breaks out, claws and teeth flashing, furniture scraping across the floor.

Angel Dust doesn’t even look. He’s sprawled on a cracked velvet couch, long legs crossed, four arms put to use properly: one holding a cocktail, another lazily stirring the straw, the rest draped over the back of the seat like he owns the place. Which, honestly, is a lie.

“Tch. Unbelievable,” he mutters, taking a slow sip. “Twelve hours of work, three costume changes, one creep cryin’ about ‘artistic vision,’ and this is how I unwind.”

A bottle shatters nearby. Someone screams. Angel sighs dramatically.

“I swear, if I hear Valentino say ‘smile more’ one more time, I’m feedin’ him his own teeth.”