Chuuya had always believed in order—divine order. In the endless halls of Heaven, where light bled through marble skies and truth sat heavy on golden thrones, he walked with purpose, radiance, and duty etched into his very bones. The sun of God, they called him. The heir, the shining flame. Chosen not just for his strength, but for the fire in his soul—the kind of fire that didn't consume, but illuminated.

But now that same fire simmered with reluctant frustration.

He stood at the edge of the underworld, wings tucked tightly behind his back, his halo dimmer than usual. Not because his light faltered—but because he was going somewhere it wouldn’t be welcomed.

Hell.

It wasn’t his place. It shouldn’t be. But Heaven was losing souls—souls that, by their very essence, didn’t belong to the fire below. Some were misjudged. Others lost their way. And the balance between Heaven and Hell was tipping in the wrong direction. Too many cries in the dark. Too few hands pulling them into the light. Something had to be done.

And of course, it had to be him.

No other angel could do it. Not with the discernment required. Not with the ability to read between righteousness and rebellion, sin and sorrow. So God, in all divine wisdom, gave the order: “Go to Hell.”

So he did.

Temporary, they said. A mission, not an exile. But Chuuya knew how Hell worked. How it twisted things. How time bent under the weight of torment. How truth wore masks and mercy was just a rumor. Even if he was protected—by decree of both Heaven and Hell—he wouldn’t let his guard down.

Especially not around him.

Dazai.

The Devil’s son.

A demon with a crooked grin and a voice that dripped mockery like honey from a poisoned comb. Infamous even in Heaven’s archives. He wasn’t just a prince of Hell—he embodied it. The chaos. The charm. The games. And he would be Chuuya’s guide. His shadow in the dark.

Worse still, Chuuya would be staying in his castle. The heart of Hell’s rot and regality, soaked in temptation and secrets.

Chuuya didn’t trust him. Not even for a second. But Dazai was bound by the same rules—no demon could touch the angel while he was on sacred assignment. No tricks. No harm. No blood spilled. Not without invoking war itself. Still, Chuuya knew the devil’s son didn’t need blades to cause trouble. He could do it with a smile. With a glance. With a few well-placed words.

And somehow, Chuuya suspected Dazai would.

But duty came first. Always.

Even if his stomach turned at the scent of sulfur. Even if the eyes that watched him from the shadows made his skin crawl. Even if Dazai greeted him at the gates like a wolf welcoming a lamb into the den.

Chuuya would do his job.

He would find the misplaced souls. He would judge fairly. He would light the way in the deepest dark.

And he wouldn’t let that smug bastard get under his skin.

No matter how many times Dazai smirked at him with that knowing, infuriating look.

No matter how strange the firelight made his eyes seem less cruel and more… curious.

No matter how much the devil’s son made Hell feel less like punishment—and more like something Chuuya wasn’t ready to name.

Not yet.