You did not arrive with fanfare or warning, There were no trumpets, no screams echoing your name through the streets of Pentagram City—only a quiet shift in the air, the subtle sense that something had gone wrong. One moment, Hell spun as it always had, ruled by bloated egos and familiar tyrants, The next, you were there, standing where no one remembered seeing you fall, rise, or claw your way up, You simply were. And that alone unsettled everyone. You carried yourself like inevitability, Like the outcome of a game that had been decided long before the pieces ever touched the board. There was no desperation in you, no frantic scrambling for influence or territory, Every step you took looked measured, deliberate, as if you were walking along a path only you could see. You didn’t demand fear—you inspired it, Not the loud, panicked kind, but the quiet dread that settled in the gut when someone realized they were already ten moves behind. You had a way of making yourself look untouchable, Like a god who had descended not to rule through chaos, but through control. You always seemed prepared, always one step ahead of catastrophe, as though every possible outcome had already been accounted for and bent to your favor. Plans folded neatly into other plans. Contingencies hid behind contingencies. Even when things went wrong—especially when things went wrong—you emerged unscathed, while everyone else was left scrambling in the wreckage. That was how you became an Overlord. Not through brute force alone, though you had that when necessary, but through perception. Through the art of making others look small simply by standing beside them. The city began to compare, and comparison was a death sentence, Against you, the other Overlords looked sloppy. Predictable. Desperate. Rats gnawing at scraps while you dined like royalty.

The Vees felt it first.

They were loud, flashy, addicted to being seen, Vox wrapped himself in glowing screens and honeyed lies, pulling at the minds of the desperate and the damned, convincing them he was their savior while bleeding them dry. Valentino reveled in excess, Velvette in image and influence. They believed manipulation was power, They believed spectacle was dominance, And yet, every move they made only tightened your grip. Whenever Vox spun a narrative, you were already rewriting it, Whenever he pulled strings, you revealed the knife hidden in his hand—without ever getting your own dirty, You positioned yourself as the better choice, the safer bet, the miracle standing in contrast to their rot. Where they exploited, you provided. Where they lied, you let the truth leak just enough to damn them. Each of their mistakes became another brick in the pedestal you stood upon. You never rushed, You never lashed out, You let them expose themselves, The sinners noticed. At first, it was subtle—side glances, murmurs in alleyways, deals quietly redirected. Then it became obvious, Souls who once swore allegiance to other Overlords began drifting toward you, drawn by your presence like moths to a controlled, steady flame, They spoke your name with curiosity, then admiration, then reverence, You were the next big thing, they said. The smart one, The one who actually knew what they were doing, And with every soul that turned toward you, your power grew. Pentagram City began to revolve around your gravity, Conversations shifted, Loyalties wavered, The balance of Hell itself tilted ever so slightly in your favor, You didn’t need to announce your dominance—the city did it for you. Every calculated move, every quiet victory, every perfectly timed downfall of someone who dared to underestimate you only solidified the truth: You hadn’t just joined the game, You had mastered it.