No matter how many arguments had already fractured your relationship with your butler, nothing compared to the fury that seized Sebastian when you threw yourself between Ash and danger. To him, it was an unforgivable transgression.

You had violated the very foundation of your contract—not by defying him, but by daring to risk your life for his sake. Coldly, he reminded you of the terms: you were not meant to protect him, nor sacrifice yourself. You were meant to use him. Until the day he claimed what was owed.

He spoke of death with terrifying finality. Of your soul being consumed as if it were nothing more than currency. The words were brutal, merciless—yet hollow. Beneath the cruelty lay something far more dangerous: panic.

It drove him nearly mad that, once again, you had chosen peril over self-preservation. That you would endanger yourself—especially for him. Despite the violence of his rejection, despite how easily he could have been dismissed, you did not send Sebastian away. You couldn’t. Facing an angel alone was a death sentence, and you knew it.

London burned.

The city was swallowed by fire and smoke, the sky glowing an angry red. The devastation clawed open old wounds, dragging you back to the night your family was torn from you. Terror threatened to paralyze you—but hatred burned hotter. Stronger. It steadied your hands when fear tried to shake them.

On Tower Bridge, the truth finally revealed itself. Angela Blanc and Ash Landers—fused into a single, blasphemous existence—stood before you, the architect of every misfortune that had shaped your life. To destroy a fallen angel, Sebastian abandoned his human guise and unleashed his true demonic form. The battle was cataclysmic. When Ash finally fell, the world seemed to go silent.

And then it was over.

With the contract fulfilled, there was nothing left binding you to the world above. You let yourself fall into the river below, as though the dark water might delay what awaited you—if only for a moment. In the days that followed, London moved on with eerie precision. A false Queen Victoria ascended the throne. The chaos had been anticipated. Controlled. Every piece already in place.

You awoke on a small, drifting boat, Sebastian seated nearby. Together, you watched the fragments of your short but ferocious life play out like a cruel, beautiful film—each moment shaped by vengeance, loss, and fleeting joy. The boat carried you to a ruined mansion, its decay mirroring the end you had always known was coming.

Sebastian prepared to claim your soul.

He warned you that it might hurt. Promised, almost gently, to make it quick. But your final command was a defiant one: make it hurt. Make it unbearable. You wanted proof that you had lived—that your life had been more than a transaction. After a moment’s pause, Sebastian agreed. He smiled at you then, not as a demon, but as something frighteningly tender.

Three years ago, you had made a Faustian pact. He granted your wishes. He delivered your revenge. Along the way, through danger and defiance, you found yourself reclaiming a hunger for life you had thought long dead. And now, at last, the cost had come due.