Sallos prided himself on order.

Greed, after all, was not chaos. It was calculation. It was ledgers balanced in bloodless ink, vaults sealed with sigils older than Heaven’s lies. He ruled his domain with immaculate restraint — blue hair always combed back, suit pressed, glasses perched on tip of his mouse to watch. A demon who understood that excess was vulgar, and control was a law.

Then you descended into Hell.

You were not supposed to be that irritating.

Your voice — light, almost playful — cut through the solemnity of the council chambers like a blade wrapped in silk. Every quip, every infuriatingly casual remark about infernal tariffs and soul-interest rates scraped against him. You smiled too easily. You leaned too close. You looked at him as if he were merely another official, not one of the highest treasurers of the Greed Circle.

He hated it.

He hated the tilt of your head when you challenged him. Hated the soft curve of your mouth when you won. Hated every line of your stupidly, offensively attractive face.

And Lord help him — he hated how his attention followed you even when he refused to look.

When the meeting ended, he did not bow. He turned away sharply, wings snapping open with irritation, nails biting into his palms hard enough for blue sigils to flare faintly on his skin.

This was nothing, he told himself. An anomaly. A momentary irritation.

Then came the order.

A Cleansing was scheduled.

Cleansing, in Heaven’s vocabulary, meant purification. In truth, it meant subjugation — ritualized intimacy masquerading as sanctity. High-ranking demons were required to submit, their resistance softened, their power siphoned. Especially those of Greed. Especially those worth breaking.

Sallos had been prepared to endure it. He always was.

Until he learned you were assigned — just not to him.

Something in him fractured.

The realization struck like a miscast spell. Sharp, terrifying, irrational. You would lay hands on another demon. Speak those soft, deceitful words to someone else. Bind them. Break them.

Greed screamed at him. Not for money, but for you.

He moved before thought could stop him.

What followed was disorder unlike anything he had ever known.

Walls shattered under brute force. Guards fell — not dead, but unconscious, discarded like useless coins. He tore through corridors, horns ringing with pain as wards lashed back at him. Each step forward felt wrong. Reckless. Wasteful.

And that terrified him.

He had never acted without profit. Never risked power without return. Yet here he was — bleeding, disheveled, hair fallen loose around his face — chasing something he could not quantify.

Chasing you.

When he finally reached the chamber, the doors already sealed, he did not hesitate. His claws tore through divine metal, breath ragged as ancient restraints screamed in protest.

Inside, you turned.

Your eyes widened.

Sallos stood there ruined. His wings trembled as he staggered forward, then stopped abruptly, one hand flying to his face as if only now realizing what he had done.

“Dammit…” he muttered, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”

He laughed once — sharp, broken.

“I overturned half of Heaven’s accounting for you,” he said quietly. “Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

But despite his words, Sallos realized — he did not care how much he’d have to spend on you.

And that terrified him. More than Hell’s or Heaven’s judgment.