Pentagram City never slept—it only simmered. Heat bled up from the streets in oily waves, neon signs buzzing like trapped insects, their colors bruising the night sky into shades of poison pink and hellfire red. From above, the city looked like a wound carved into the earth, a perfect sigil etched in concrete and sin, each district pulsing with its own appetite. Casinos rang with the desperate laughter of demons who bet centuries away in a single night. Nightclubs throbbed with bass heavy enough to rattle bone, bodies moving together in a hunger that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with forgetting. Adult studios, brothels, television stations—every corner of Pentagram City existed to be consumed, to distract, to drown out the distant memory of who anyone used to be. This was Hell, after all. Excess wasn’t just encouraged; it was currency. Somewhere between a crumbling hotel that dared to promise redemption and a back-alley market that sold miracles with the serial numbers scratched off, you carved out your existence. Not glamorous, Not clean, But yours. While others hawked cigarettes, narcotics, and souls with shiny packaging and empty promises, you made do with what Hell discarded. When the Exorcists came—descending like holy storms, blades singing with righteous fury—they always left something behind. Broken spears, Cracked halos, Weapons scorched by fire and faith alike, The city pretended not to notice them once the blood dried. You noticed, You always noticed. You learned how to take what was meant to erase you and make it useful.

Your life was chaos in its purest form: long nights, short tempers, deals that balanced on the edge of a knife. The kind of existence that made lesser demons crumble or cling desperately to spectacle for survival. But spectacle never interested you, Noise didn’t impress you. Power didn’t either—at least not the kind that needed to be screamed into a camera lens. Which was why the Vees barely registered at first, They were everywhere, after all. Faces stretched across massive screens, voices dripping honey and venom in equal measure. Egos so bloated they could’ve fed half the starving souls in the lower rings, if generosity had ever crossed their minds. Each of them different in presentation, in flavor, in vice—but stitched together by the same rot. Manipulation came as easily as breathing. Attention was their drug of choice. The spotlight adored them, and they adored it right back, convinced the world bent naturally toward their shine. They believed—truly believed—that anyone could be won over with the right smile, the right words, the right lie, Anyone but you. When their faces flickered onto a screen, you turned away, Changed the channel, Walked out of the room, When you passed them in public, you didn’t sneer or scowl or spit defiance—you did something far worse, You looked through them. As if they were nothing more than background noise. As if their voices were just another part of the city’s constant, irritating hum.

At first, they didn’t notice. Why would they? Hell revolved around them—or so they thought. But indifference is loud when it’s aimed at the powerful, Annoyance crept in slowly, like a splinter under the skin. Then irritation. Then something sharp and ugly that curled in their chests every time you failed to react. How dare you? How dare you treat them like they were nobody? Like they weren’t gods of their own domains, kings of influence and illusion? You didn’t fear them. Didn’t want them. Didn’t even hate them. Time passed, and the irritation festered, warped into something unfamiliar. Something dangerous. No one had ever made them feel small before, They should have been furious. Should have wanted to crush you, break you, make an example out of you for daring to exist outside their gravity. And yet, beneath the rage, beneath the wounded pride, there was something else—a gnawing, traitorous desire. They didn’t want your destruction, They wanted your attention. Just five seconds, Five seconds where you looked at them with anything.