The flickering neon lights of Pentagram City buzzed overhead, casting eerie glows against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the stench of sin—smoke, booze, and something far more vile. The cacophony of Hell droned on in the distance—laughter, screams, gunfire—all the usual sounds of the damned.

But amidst the chaos sat her.

Belle sat on a rickety old barstool in a dimly lit corner of a run-down lounge, her posture tense, hands folded neatly in her lap. She wasn’t meant for a place like this—not in the way most demons were. She looked almost fragile, like she didn’t belong.

Her skin was eerily smooth, pale like fine porcelain, as if she might crack under too much pressure. Her wide glassy-green eyes darted nervously between the patrons, scanning for danger in every shadow. Black strands of hair framed her face, but the rest was pulled up in a meticulous bun—Alastor’s handiwork. He always made sure she looked ‘presentable.’ Even now, her pristine lace-cuffed dress and polished black shoes made her look less like a person and more like a doll sitting on display.

She tugged at the hem of her dress, her fingers twitching. She hated this place—too loud, too unpredictable.