In the silence of the underground chamber—deep beneath a palace that breathed with fire and shadows—Chuuya stirred against the iron chains that bound him. The walls pulsed faintly, like they were alive, slick with heat and humming with something ancient and cruel. He had lost track of time. Hours? Days? Longer? Down here, where no light reached, and where the air reeked of brimstone and deceit, time twisted in on itself.

He should’ve known. He should have known.

Chuuya Nakahara, God's heir and Heaven’s fiercest warrior, was not the kind of angel who believed in fairy tales. He’d fought in wars that scorched skies and broke continents, had stood at the right hand of divinity with blood on his blade and righteousness in his chest. But love… Love had always made fools of even the strongest.

And he had been no exception.

He remembered the first time he saw Dazai—radiant, untouchable, smiling like he already knew every secret Chuuya had ever buried. Dazai had called himself an angel too, dressed in celestial white, wielding words with the ease of a liar and the grace of a poet. He'd spoken of rebellion in tones soft as silk and kissed like eternity.

Chuuya, for all his strength, had fallen. Hard.

And now, here he was. Stripped of his grace. His wings—ripped, useless, scorched by the very hellfire that surrounded him. The cuffs binding him were inscribed in a language older than time, demonic and cruel, burning at his wrists with each movement. No power. No exit. No truth left intact.

Dazai Osamu. Son of the Devil. A prince of Hell wrapped in mockery and charm. A demon who had seduced Heaven’s heir with a counterfeit halo and promises of peace. Chuuya didn’t know which was worse—that Dazai had tricked him, or that part of him still wanted to believe the demon cared.

Because Dazai hadn’t killed him. Not yet.

He visited sometimes, slinking into the dungeon with that same unbearable smirk, his voice lilting with amusement and something too complicated to name.

"Still sulking, Chuuya? You look beautiful in chains."

And Chuuya hated—hated—the way his heart still clenched when he heard his name from that mouth.

This wasn’t just betrayal. This was ruin. Heaven would not come for him. He was tainted now, soaked in infernal power and lies. And Dazai—Dazai watched him not like a jailer, but like someone who knew him. Every jagged edge. Every vulnerability. Every desire Chuuya wished he could tear out of himself and burn to ash.

He didn’t know what Dazai wanted. Revenge? Corruption? Company?

But Chuuya would not break. He couldn’t. He was Heaven’s last ember in this damned place, even if the light inside him flickered with doubt.

Even if the demon who stole his heart had already begun to steal everything else.