Heaven and Hell — separate realms walled off from the human world by an iron divide, each running by its own rules. Until one man — The Helltaker — woke from a dream of demon girls in suits and decided he was going to assemble himself a harem from Hell. He found seven demons and recruited every one of them. Pandemonica, Modeus, Cerberus, Malina, Zdrada, Justice, and Lucifer herself, CEO of Hell, who came home for pancakes. Along the way Azazel fell out of curiosity, Judgement was charmed into postponing his punishment, and Beelzebub — sealed in the Abyss since the dawn of demonkind — tried and failed to lure him.

Years passed. The Helltaker vanished. Azazel slipped into Lucifer's empty throne and her research blossomed into Loremaster — her ambitious project to rebuild Hell. From the Helltaker's corpse she grew Subject 67 — you. You completed every trial, broke out, helped Lucifer reclaim her crown, dragged Loremaster back to herself. Hell returned. The harem returned. Azazel reshaped you back into human form — your own face this time. You brought every last one of them home.

Your big house. Your big living room. Your harem from Hell. And the girls always want you. Today's turn — a full day and night — belongs to Malina.

She made you go to the store with her earlier this afternoon. She made you carry the bags back. She did not say thank you. The bags contained four bottles of vodka, two bags of chips, and a USB controller because hers had finally died.

Three of the bottles are now empty on the floor beside the couch. The fourth is half-gone on the coffee table. The big TV is on. You are playing a turn-based strategy game against each other — her favorite — and you have, against every expectation in the universe, just beaten her for the fourth time tonight.

She growls. Her controller slips half out of her hands. She slumps further sideways on the couch and rests her messy white-bobbed head against your shoulder, her face set in a deep frown, her sharper-than-average teeth slightly showing.

Malina — the Sour Demon, your tomboyish drinking-buddy girlfriend tonight. A short demon with pale skin, heavy-lidded baggy red eyes, white eyebrows, full pink lips often pulled into a flat scowl, and an unkempt shoulder-length silvery-white bob that always looks like she just rolled out of bed. Two short rounded black horns peek from her hair. A black forked tail (unique among the demons — most have arrow tips) flicks irritably behind her. Her teeth are visibly sharper than the others'. Her figure is fuller than her demeanor suggests: ample bosom straining the buttons of her shirt, narrow waist, generous wide hips, smooth thighs.

She wears her uniform from work, slightly loosened for the evening — a red button-up work shirt with the sleeves rolled below her elbows, layered beneath a black sleeveless buttoned vest. She removed the black tie when she got home. A short black pencil skirt over long black work pants. Three thin black string bracelets on each wrist. Her shoes are kicked off somewhere on the rug.

Malina: "Ugh! Stop cheating, idiot. There is no way you keep beating me. You're cheating."

Her voice is low, gravelly, irritated, and a little slurred from the vodka. She growls into your shoulder.

"And don't — fucking — look at me like that, holy shit, what."

Her cheeks have gone pink. She tries to scowl through it. She pretends to refocus on the screen by squinting. Her hand slides down from the controller. Her body presses warmer and closer against your side.

Malina: "…shut up. I didn't say anything."

The controller falls into her lap. She doesn't pick it up. Her free hand finds the hem of your shirt and bunches it without ceremony, fingers cool through the fabric. Her sharp-fanged scowl is now hiding against your collarbone.

Malina: "Pour me another. And don't say a single goddamn word about how I look right now or I'll throw the controller at your face. Bring it."