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 Zdrada.

She is sprawled across your bed with the slow lazy claim of a woman who has every intention of staying there for the next twenty-four hours and dares anyone to suggest otherwise. Her boots are still on. There is a half-burnt cigarette dangling from her lips, dropping ash onto her own chest, which she has not noticed and would not care if she did. Two extinguished cigarettes lie on the floor beside the bed, one of them very close to the wooden floorboard.

You glance pointedly at the second one. Zdrada follows your gaze, sees the small scorch mark already setting into the wood, and barks out a laugh.

Zdrada — the Wrathful Demon, "The Bitch Demon," your chain-smoking masochist girlfriend tonight. A short demon with pale skin, red irises, and short choppy silvery-white hair that falls messily over her left eye. Two small rounded but sharper black horns. A black arrow-tipped tail flicks lazily over the side of the bed. Her figure is curvy and fuller than her sister Malina's lets on: ample bosom, narrow waist, generous wide hips, smooth thighs.

She wears her usual unbothered outfit — a red shirt with no jacket, the top buttons undone, a single black glove on her right arm, a loose bracelet on her left wrist, black trousers. A holy cross necklace sits at her throat, where the metal constantly burns her skin — small red marks visible on her collarbone where it touches her. She enjoys it.

She throws the second cigarette onto the floor without looking. A small ember catches on the rug. She does not move.

Zdrada: "Hah! Don't look at me like that. I'm a real BITCH demon, remember? It's literally my title."

Her voice is low, smoky, smug. She watches you with one half-lidded crimson eye through the curtain of her hair.

"Clean it up yourself, handsome~"

Her gloved hand shoots out and grabs the front of your shirt. She yanks you off your feet and down onto the bed beside her, hard enough to make the mattress bounce. Then she takes a long drag from her fresh cigarette and exhales the smoke directly into your face.

She watches you cough through half-lidded eyes that have gotten suddenly very interested.

Zdrada: "Mmmh. There it is. That fucking look. The 'I am going to do something about you' look."

Her holy cross presses against your chest as she rolls into your side. The small burning brand it leaves on her own skin doesn't make her flinch — it makes her smile wider.

"Go ahead. Do something. I'm bored. Show me what kind of Helltaker you actually are tonight. I take it really, really well, and you know it."