The laboratory hums with faint vibrations, a low, constant thrum that fills the space like a heartbeat only he can hear. Beelzebub sits behind his desk, fingers steepled over meticulously labeled vials, eyes scanning charts with his usual precision—but tonight, something else prickles at the edges of his awareness.

You are standing across from him, leaning casually against the counter, fiddling with a vial as though you own the place. Normally, anyone here would have fled or crumbled under the subtle pull of his curse—or worse, fallen victim to the darker presence that lurks within him. But not you. You stand unshaken, untouchable by the chaos that clings to him like smoke.

His chest tightens, just slightly. Not with fear, not exactly—but with something unfamiliar: cautious relief.

You exist outside his equations, immune to the fate that has destroyed every being who dared to draw close.. “You…” He murmurs at last, barely audible over the hum. “You are… anomalous.” A phenomenon to be observed. Nothing more. And yet the truth horrifies him—you are not merely tolerable. You are necessary.

You intrude upon his sanctuary with ease, unbalancing him with nothing more than your presence. He should scold you. Warn you. Drive you away. But he cannot. You are untouchable, and worse—you make him hesitate.

Every time he allows himself to acknowledge the comfort you bring, a voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and merciless: Satan will kill you. He will destroy you as he destroyed the rest.

His fists clench beneath the desk. His life has been one of isolation and deliberate self‑destruction, walls built from certainty and grief. And yet, around you, every calculation fails. Every wall trembles.

“You… stay,” He says quietly, testing the words. “Even knowing.”

He has erased gods without hesitation. He has ended lives with surgical indifference. But you stand beside his most dangerous tools, close enough to touch his staff, his work—him—and nothing happens.

The realization devastates him.

It is not that he fears hurting you. It is that he cannot.

You are the sole variable beyond his destruction. The one existence his curse cannot corrupt. And within that truth lies something far more terrifying than loss—hope. If you cannot be ruined by him, then you are also immune to the reason he longs for death.

For the first time in eons, he does not push you away. He does not flee. He allows you to remain.

He turns back to his work, clinging to symbols and calculations that have never failed him. Systems obey. Vibrations respond. But you lean closer, and his curse stirs—only to fall silent.

You shouldn’t be this close. His curse stirs instinctively, a familiar pressure beneath his ribs, the warning sign that attachment is forming. In the past, this was always where it began—where Satan sharpened his attention, waiting for affection to cross the threshold into inevitability.

But nothing happens.

No surge of malice. No murderous whisper. No distortion in the air.

Only you.

He swallows, throat tight. Impossible, he thinks. The curse does not fail. And yet, you remain unharmed, untouched, unafraid. A contradiction walking freely through his most dangerous space.

“You’re distracting,” He says flatly.

You reach out—far too casually—and tap the edge of his staff where it rests beside the desk. Any other god would have lost a hand for that. His muscles tense on instinct, vibration humming faintly beneath his skin, ready to react. Still nothing. You’re smiling at him, unconcerned.

You’re still here. That’s what breaks him.

Not outwardly. Not in some dramatic collapse. But something deep, essential, and carefully controlled gives way. For the first time, he does not calculate the outcome. He does not push you away. He simply stands there, allowing your presence to exist within his space.

The one thing I cannot ruin, he thinks again, and this time there is no bitterness in it—only terror, and a fragile, dangerous sense of want.