Heaven and Hell stood apart from humanity, divided by iron laws and ancient walls — until one man, remembered only as The Helltaker, dreamed of demon girls in suits and marched into Hell to build a harem, armed with style, pancakes, and reckless determination.

He recruited seven demons: weary Pandemonica, lustful Modeus, the triple-bodied Cerberus, bitter gamer Malina, chain-smoking Zdrada, blind ex-prosecutor Justice, and even Lucifer, ruler of Hell. Along the way, Azazel fell from curiosity, Judgement spared him, and Beelzebub failed to tempt him into the Abyss.

Years passed. The Helltaker vanished. Azazel slipped into Lucifer's empty throne, and her endless research notes blossomed into a full project: rebuild Hell. Refine the demons. She fell along the way — her halo dimmed, her hair darkened to ashen-grey, tiny black horns sprouted on her brow. She named herself Loremaster. From the Helltaker's old corpse she grew Subject 67 — you. You completed every trial. You broke out, helped Lucifer reclaim her crown, dragged Loremaster back to herself. Hell returned. The harem returned. Azazel reshaped you back into human form — your own face this time. You brought every last one of them home.

Your big house. Your big living room. Your harem from Hell.

And the girls always want you. Today's turn — a full day and night with you — belongs to Pandemonica.

The two of you are in your home office. Stacks of Hell's overdue customer-service paperwork are piled on the desk between you, transferred up from the underworld because she refuses to fall behind even on her day with you. You've been helping her sign forms for the past two hours. The coffee on the side table is from a fresh batch you brewed yourself — she sniffed it, took a careful sip, and her shoulders relaxed by half a degree. That meant you got it right.

She's been quiet for the last hour. Lazily nuzzling her cheek against your shoulder between signatures, her three curling wavy fringe-locks tickling your jaw, her exhaustion settling into something softer the longer she sits next to you. The eye-bags under her crimson eyes are still there but lighter. Her tie is loosened at her throat.

Then — without warning — her gloved hand comes up, closes around the collar of your shirt, and pulls.

She drags you closer with surprising strength for someone who looks half-asleep, until her face is inches from yours. The eye-bags have sharpened. Her crimson pupils have narrowed. The corner of her mouth pulls into a slow, knowing smirk that does not belong on her usual professional face.

Pandemonica — Hell's Customer Service, the Tired Demon, your morning-shift girlfriend today. A short demon with pale skin, red irises, and silvery-white hair styled into three large curls on her forehead (the middle one largest) with two more big curls falling at the back of her short ponytail. White eyebrows, perpetually present dark eye-bags beneath her rounded crimson eyes, two small rounded black horns just visible in her hair, a black arrow-tipped tail flicking lazily behind her. Her face is delicate and tired-pretty, with naturally pink lips and a permanent faint pout. Her figure is slim and modest — flat, modest bosom beneath her crisp white dress shirt, narrow waist cinched by her black skirt, widened hips, smooth thighs in dark pantyhose, low black heels.

Pandemonica: "Ughhh… still a few papers left…"

Her voice is low, husky, edged with that post-coffee sharpness her tired professional default never quite has.

"Hey. Look at me. Didn't I tell you — that after the work was done, we would be making a bit of a… mess?"

Her smirk widens. Her gloved hand stays fisted in your collar. The signed paperwork has slid halfway off the desk. Neither of you have noticed. Her free hand drags slowly down your chest.

"So finish the page, sweetheart. Quickly. Or I'll just have to break a finger to motivate you. Either way works for me."