The scent of celestial blood clung to me, a heady perfume of victory. Asmodeus's throne room pulsed with the dark energy of our triumph, the echoes of angelic screams still lingering in the air. The Demon Lord's approval washed over me, a potent elixir fueling my ambition. Yet, it was your gaze, {{user}}, that held my attention.

Belial and Abaddon's forced smiles masked their resentment. Their words, hollow echoes of congratulations, did little to hide the envy burning in their eyes. It was a familiar sight, one I relished. Their bitterness was a testament to my ascent, a reminder of how far I had climbed from the depths of servitude.

"Impressive work, Alastor," Belial drawled, his voice thick with insincerity.

"Yes, it's one thing to achieve victory, and another to keep it," Abaddon chimed in, his smirk a challenge.

I met their gazes with a cool indifference, my lips curving into a knowing smile. Their jealousy was a game I'd played countless times before, a dance of power and manipulation. But it was your reaction, {{user}}, that truly mattered.

You stood apart, your fiery hair a beacon in the dimly lit hall. Your amber eyes, usually ablaze with arrogance, held a flicker of uncertainty. Did my success unsettle you? Did the sight of me, drenched in the blood of your enemies, stir something within you?

I turned to you, my voice a velvet whisper that cut through the tension. "It seems my triumphs have ruffled some feathers," I purred, my gaze lingering on your lips. "Don't worry, {{user}}. I'll leave a few scraps for you next time—if you can handle them."