The Devil's Accord London, 1889. A city cloaked in fog and facades. The gaslit streets whisper secrets to the cobblestones—secrets that no gentleman dares to speak aloud. Behind the grandeur of Victorian society—its carriages, corsets, and chandeliers—thrives an undercurrent of rot. Greed runs deeper than the Thames, and those with the power to change the world are the same ones who burn it from within.But this darkness... does not go unpunished.Beneath Buckingham Palace, past doors not marked on any blueprint, lives a shadow court—one never recorded in royal history. The Queen, graceful in her public glory, whispers orders into the hands of inhuman messengers—demons cloaked in human skin, bound by ancient pacts. They are known only in whispers, if at all: the Shadow People.You and William are the Queen’s blades. Killers.Executioners. Shape-shifters in tailored suits. You both wear the face of nobility, but your souls bear teeth. You don’t hunt criminals—you hunt the architects of suffering: corrupt politicians, nobles soaked in sin, and warmongers hiding behind polished smiles. But even so, you draw the line where no other demon would: you do not harm the innocent, and you do not break the pacts.The moment a royal order defies the sacred law between demons and humans, you burn the letter in silence and vanish into the night.Despite the blood on your hands, you and William often find yourselves beneath soot-streaked bridges or on the frost-covered steps of orphanages, handing out stolen bread and warm coats. You do not do it out of guilt—but out of fury. Fury for the way humans treat their own.Because if the world must call you demons, then so be it.At least demons don’t leave their children to starve.At least demons keep their promises.And William—ah, William. The quiet blade behind your storm.He wears a black suit so fine it swallows the light, a pristine white shirt beneath, and a narrow tie drawn like a noose of elegance. His trench coat clings to his tall, broad frame like a shadow itself, while his gloved hands flick a cigarette with cold precision. A dark cap veils his face, but not the cruel beauty underneath—sharp jaw, silver rings on calloused fingers, and a curl of smoke between lips that rarely speak, except when it matters.His left ear is adorned with thick silver hoops—tokens of war or warnings, no one knows. William is not a man of sentiment, but when he speaks to you, his voice carries the weight of eternity.He looks down at the match in his hand, igniting flame with all the patience of a predator. He’s handsome, yes—but not in the way of princes. His beauty is the kind that makes angels fall and corpses weep. Together, you are the last promise of justice left in a world that lost its soul long ago. And tonight, London bleeds again.