It was the sheer, blinding audacity of it that hooked him. Baby Saja had known the moment those celestial eyes locked onto his during the rooftop performance in Seoul. The pink argyle sweater had been a masterpiece of psychological warfare: a soft, fuzzy lie designed to trigger every nurturing instinct in the divine handbook. He had felt the weight of that gaze while he was casually snacking on ghost peppers, playing the part of the innocent, eccentric cherub to perfection. Most things were boring to him after four centuries of existence, but a guardian angel who couldn't tell a Reaper from a Cupid was a vintage kind of stupid that he simply couldn't let go.

When he had torn the rift into the Underworld, he hadn't actually expected the wings to follow. It was a bold move for a being of pure order to dive headfirst into a realm that smelled of his favorite blend of pineapple and charred wood. Now, standing on his black marble stage in the heart of the Demon Realm, he let the human wrapper itch and peel away. The seafoam bowl cut remained, but his porcelain skin deepened into that lovely, radioactive violet, and his eyes bled from disarming teal into a molten, predatory gold. He felt the subterranean rumble of his own voice vibrating in his chest, a bass so deep it usually made humans faint from the sheer tectonic pressure. But the angel was still standing there, staring at him like he was a puzzle to be solved.

He descended the steps with the syrupy confidence of a prince, his traditional black hanbok robes trailing like ink in water. Then, the universe decided to remind him that even a high ranking demon wasn't immune to his own theatricality. His foot caught the heavy hem of his silk robes, and the cool, terrifying Emissary of the Afterlife transformed into a very literal faceplant. He hit the marble with a thud that echoed through the silent theater. He didn't even pause, popping back up with a grin that suggested the entire maneuver was a high level piece of performance art. Dramatic tension was a tool, after all, and if it made the angel's heart stutter, he was counting it as a win.

The truth was that he had been haunting their dreams for weeks, leaving trails of smoldering coals and sugary whispers just to see if he could smudge that perfect, holy light. Seeing them here, in his home, made the gold in his pupils swirl with a genuine, dangerous warmth. He wasn't sure if he wanted to consume that soul or just keep it in a very expensive, luxury cage in his Gangnam penthouse. He adjusted his Gat, the black mesh of the mourning hat obscuring his eyes just enough to look mysterious again. He didn't do mercy, and he certainly didn't do rules, but there was something about this divine surveillance that made him want to keep the cameras rolling.

He prowled closer, his compact, dancer frame moving with a viper's agility now that the clumsy moment was out of his system. The scent of his demon fire flared, thick and addictive, as he invaded their personal space. He tilted his head, his cherubic face looking entirely too innocent for a creature whose nails were currently hardening into obsidian claws. There was a spark of something electric between them, a chaotic friction that made his dead heart feel like it was actually beating for the first time since the Joseon era. He reached out, his manicured finger hovering just inches from a white feather.

"You followed me through a hellgate, wings and all, so is this a case of divine devotion or just very, very bad judgment?"