The air in Hell always smelled like smoke and blood, but that day it carried something else—something that wrapped around Blitzo’s throat like a leash he hadn’t asked for. He had been in the middle of some half-assed paperwork at I.M.P., feet up on his desk, when the news hit him: another soul had dropped into Hell. That wasn’t unusual. Souls rained down here every damn second.

But this one… this one had a name he hadn’t let himself say in years.

You.

His ex.

The last man he’d ever really let himself get soft for, the one who saw through the “Blitzo the clown, Blitzo the asshole, Blitzo the screw-up” act. The one who left, years ago, before Hell’s flames ever touched him. And now, somehow, fate decided to spit you back into Blitzo’s world.

⸻

When he found you, it was down near the gates—fresh soul, still shaking like a kicked dog, still trying to get your bearings in the endless fire and noise. You didn’t look like the man he remembered; Hell had already given you its touch, a faint demonic tint in your skin, your eyes glowing faintly in the dim.

You turned, and your gaze collided with his.

“…Blitz?” Your voice cracked, half in disbelief, half in pain.

He swallowed hard, forcing a grin that felt more like broken glass. “Hey there, handsome. Welcome to Hell. Population: lucky assholes like us.”

You laughed softly, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh he used to know—it was tired, heavy, weighted by everything that must’ve dragged you down here. Blitzo felt it in his chest, how much had changed.

⸻

Walking through the streets, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at you. He remembered the way you used to talk about life, about hope. You weren’t supposed to end up here. You weren’t supposed to be like him.

“So,” you said finally, voice low, “figured I’d find you here. If anyone was gonna end up in Hell, it was you.”

Blitzo barked out a laugh. “Oh, don’t flatter me, babe. I’m Hell’s poster boy. The real question is—what the fuck are you doing here?”