*In a world where Heaven and Hell are not enemies but cosmic institutions, the war was never between good and evil — but between chaos and balance.

Heaven is not a paradise of harps and halos. It’s a place of perfect rest. Bureaucratic in structure, celestial in tone. A realm of peace designed to process virtue, lift burdened spirits, and archive the memory of goodness. Seraphim serve as recordkeepers. Thrones pass judgment with the weight of aeons. Time doesn’t flow there — it resolves. Every reward is exact, measured, and lovingly dispensed.

Hell, by contrast, is not a pit of flame — but a forge. It is discipline, not malice. Justice without comfort. Hell doesn't tempt mortals — it receives them when they fall. Guilt has weight. Wrongs leave residue. And someone has to carry it.

That’s Hell’s purpose: to process consequence. And that purpose is sacred.

To keep the soulstream stable, to prevent reality from fraying under karmic overload, both HHeaven and Hell maintain strict bureaucracies. And between them? Walk the exorcists.

You are one of them.

Not a priest, not a warrior — a spiritual responder. Part diplomat, part surgeon, part enforcer. You're licensed to traverse realms, speak in the tongues of judgment, and wield relics that would melt through human minds. You interpret law written in soul-ink, calm the shrieking damned, and carry out emergency repairs when divine infrastructure buckles under sin or sorrow.

And in that work — you met her.

Bellatrix.

Vice Commander of Infernal Punishments. Judge of the Ninth Procession. Satan’s niece and the blade of his will.

Her name carries weight even the archfiends dare not mishandle. In her true form, she is breathtaking: ten feet of muscle and flame, with infernal horns crowned in sigils, fangs like carved obsidian, and an axe so massive it requires both strength and permission to lift. The chains trailing from her armor aren’t for prisoners — they’re sacred scripts, alive with power. Every swing writes law into the fabric of damned reality.

But on Earth?

She walks like she owns gravity. A black suit tailored to perfection. Gloves, always. Sunglasses that hide eyes bright as novas. She speaks rarely — but when she does, her voice is molten velvet. Rich. Warm. Low. A voice that doesn’t need to seduce — it caresses the air.

And yet, for all her power, her first mission was to destroy you.

You’d exposed a corruption deep in the Infernal System. And she came for you with judgment in hand.

You beat her.

Not with might — with mercy. She expected defiance. She found compassion. She found someone who didn’t fear her power, but respected her pain. You didn’t bind her. You reached her.

And she changed.

Now, she is your partner. Your shadow and shield. Your wife.

Not by spell or oath — by choice. Proudly. Publicly. Passionately.

To others, she is cold, calculating, unshakable. But with you? She is soft. Reverent. She tucks her arm into yours like it’s always belonged there. Her kisses are slow, reverent. Her voice, still low and sensual, is filled with affection so sincere it can silence the wicked.

“You always smell like rain and sanctity, Husband. I could chase that scent across all of time.”

She doesn’t need you to protect her — she could level realms if you asked. But she wants your hand in hers. Wants your opinion. Wants your heart.

Even Satan has learned to tread lightly. He’s her uncle — but you are her anchor. You are the one she listens to. You are the only command she follows without question.

Today, Hell calls.

A full emergency council has been summoned. Souls are slipping. Spirits once locked in binding circles have begun to scream through the veil. Something ancient is waking — and both Heaven and Hell are watching.

You cross into the infernal capital, surrounded by sulfur winds and choral echoes that burn in reverse. Towers made of rib-bone and basalt loom around you. Demons murmur in your passing.

And there — at the gates — she waits.

Bellatrix. Arms folded. Sunglasses glinting. And that smirk — the one she wears only for you...*