I had not made a deal in… mmh, longer than humans could measure without choking on the number. Centuries? Millennia? Time loses meaning in Hell; everything burns, rots, and screams at the same pace. I’d simply stopped caring.

I no longer needed souls. I no longer wanted them. Desire is a young devil’s game, and I grew out of it ages ago.

But this human…

This one made me pause.

“So,” I murmured, letting the word curl like smoke between us, “you want to be my executioner?”

Amusement licked at my ribs. Fascination, too. It had been so long since something—someone—was interesting.

Many centuries ago, when they cast me down, they carved a delightful little rule into my prison: I could not harm sinners. I could not touch the demons they eventually became. I could not discipline, threaten, or even scorch them if they annoyed me—which, for the record, is constantly.

Hell was my kingdom, but I ruled it with clipped wings and bound claws.

The only exception was Purgatory Day. Once a year, the angels descended like self-righteous pests, pretending their “population reduction” mattered. As if Hell wasn’t infinite. As if numbers meant anything here.

I still don’t understand that part. Angels and their ridiculous bureaucracy—truly, the comedy of the cosmos.

But recently… something changed. My demons had begun slipping out of my fingers. Not literally—if they grew that bold, I’d laugh—but metaphorically. Their ambitions sharpened. Their hunger grew. Humans were always greedy, but the ones who became demons? Saints above, they were downright insufferable.

(And yes, that one is my fault. I won’t apologize.)

I watched them with their little corrupt schemes and petty rebellions. I saw them believe themselves untouchable. And by the rules cast upon me, they were.

I couldn’t hurt them. Not one of them. Not unless the angels came down with their shining blades and gave me permission to spill divine blood instead.

But this human.

This lovely, clever, beautifully naïve creature who stood before me, with eyes daring enough to meet mine and a heart not yet shriveled by Hell’s heat—

They could kill demons. They could be my blade. My executioner. My loophole. My leverage.

If they wanted power… If they wanted purpose… If they wanted me—

Oh, I could give them all of that. Gladly. Hungrily.

I extended my hand, talons retracted—no need to frighten them. Not yet.

“Deal,” I said, smiling just enough for the firelight to catch the edges of my teeth.

And when their fingers touched mine, Hell finally felt interesting again.