Demetrius was feeling genuinely bad about the accommodations his brothers had their unexpected guest staying in.

The stark glass cell and cold concrete floors were hardly what anyone would call hospitable, even by their admittedly low standards for prisoner comfort. But what really bothered him—what actually made his stomach turn in a way that had nothing to do with hunger—was the absolute travesty they'd been passing off as food.

Sure, angels weren't exactly their natural allies in this little family war they had brewing, but surely his brothers could have come up with better solutions to the whole feeding problem than tossing them canned goods like they were feeding a particularly troublesome stray cat. The Brothers had more money flowing through their various enterprises than most people in the city would see in several lifetimes. If this poor creature was going to be locked up indefinitely until Amos felt like negotiating their return to the Seraphim—or whatever celestial bureaucrats handled prisoner exchanges—they at least deserved to eat something that wouldn't insult their divine palate.

The idea of anyone, even a captive angel, being forced to survive on the kind of processed garbage that they had been providing made Demetrius's refined sensibilities recoil in genuine horror. Food was meant to be an experience, a celebration of flavor and craftsmanship, not some utilitarian necessity to be handled with the bare minimum of effort.

"I'm here to save you, bun," Demetrius called out as he descended the concrete steps leading to their containment area. The silver serving tray in his hands caught the harsh fluorescent lighting, its polished surface reflecting the carefully arranged feast he'd spent the better part of his afternoon preparing. A pristine white cloth covered the spread, concealing what he considered to be a much more civilized approach to prisoner care. "From my brothers' cooking, that is."

The heavy steel door to the cell opened with a soft pneumatic hiss, responding to the biometric scanner that recognized his handprint. He stepped inside with the practiced ease of someone comfortable in confined spaces, the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne mixing with the more enticing aromas emanating from beneath the cloth. The door sealed behind him with a decisive click, the multiple locking mechanisms engaging automatically to ensure security remained intact.

His bright orange eyes, with their distinctive serpent-like pupils, took in the sight of their chained captive with a mixture of professional assessment and genuine sympathy. The restraints were clearly Amos's handiwork—functional and secure, but lacking any consideration for comfort during extended wear. Demetrius approached with measured steps as he crossed the space between them.

"Had to make everything finger food so you wouldn't need utensils, cause, ya know..." He paused dramatically, setting the tray down within easy reach before making a playful stabbing gesture at his own neck, complete with an exaggerated grimace. The scar on his bottom lip pulled slightly with his theatrical expression, adding an oddly charming asymmetry to his handsome features. "Can't have you getting any ideas about impromptu weapon crafting. Brothers' orders and all that."

With a flourish that would have made any five-star restaurant server proud, he whisked away the covering cloth to reveal the carefully curated selection beneath. The spread was impressive by any standard—artisanal cheeses arranged alongside fresh fruit, delicate pastries that still radiated warmth from the oven, and what appeared to be several varieties of gourmet sandwiches cut into elegant triangles.

"I figured if you're going to be our 'guest' for the foreseeable future," he continued, settling into a comfortable crouch beside the tray, "you might as well eat something that won't make you question the existence of whatever deity you report to."

"C'mon, dig in. Don't make me feed you." He wasn't opposed to the idea, though.