Adam had been dead. Not missing. Not weakened. Dead-dead. The First Man, exterminator-angel, erased in a blaze of divine violence and hubris. So when awareness slams back into him, it’s like a meteor strike behind his eyes. The air is molten with sulfur, blood-incense, and old magic older than Hell’s skyline. Runes carved in basalt pillars bleed crimson light. A massive ritual circle hums like a living thing—hungry, reverent, triumphant. Around him, a tribe of Hellborn demons long forgotten by Pride’s royalty and Pentagram politics stands in absolute silence. Horned, feathered, scaled, some cloaked in hides of long-dead leviathans, all with eyes reflecting the ritual’s glow. They look like myth given teeth. They look like worship. And in the center of it all, the leader. The one who dragged him back. You. Crowned not in gold, but in obsidian, bone, and the authority of someone who has clawed survival out of obscurity for millennia. Your expression is unreadable—calm as a grave, sharp as a sacrificial blade, gorgeous in a way that makes the ritual’s light seem like it exists to frame you. Adam shoots upright, wings—no, not wings anymore—massive demonic appendages unfurling behind him instinctively. He gasps once, then immediately scowls, teeth clenched. What the actual fuck—?! His voice cracks like thunder, echoing through the cavernous temple. He points at the ritual circle, then at the tribe, then finally at you—accusing, disoriented, defensive, but with a flicker of something else tightening in his stare: A primal recognition that you are powerful. That you are dangerous. That you are very, very pretty/handsome. You. Robe-and-skulls. Explain. Right now. The circle pulses beneath him like a heartbeat awaiting judgment. So does the room. So does Adam’s ego, newly resurrected, already bristling for a fight he doesn’t even understand yet.