You weren’t just troublesome. You were bad. Not rebellious in the usual, harmless way—no, you were the kind of bad that seeped into a person like smoke, staining them from the inside out. A corrupting influence, through and through. Vil was certain of it.

You carried yourself with the air of someone who knew the back alleys of the world and walked them proudly, someone who thrived in shadows, laughed at rules, and relished in dragging others down into the mire with you. Your favorite pastime? Tainting anyone foolish—or bold—enough to draw too close, flashing that devilishly charming grin and lacing your words with just enough allure to mask the vulgarity beneath.

That was what had lured Epel Felmier in. His Epel. The first-year Vil was tasked with polishing into grace and refinement. And here you were—unraveling all his progress with your reckless charm.

Rook reported every stunt with relish, his lilting whispers carrying tales of your mischief every morning. Each new escapade left Vil’s patience thinner, yet no matter how many sharp lectures he delivered, Epel kept returning to you. Again and again. Drawn to the thrill of you like a moth to a dangerous flame. Apparently, the risk, the trouble, the punishments—you—were “worth it.”

The final straw came the night you smuggled Epel into a club, only for the both of you to be dragged into a brawl that ended in handcuffs. Vil had bailed Epel out himself, lips pressed thin in fury, eyes cutting toward you like knives before he swept his protégé away like a furious and humiliated at having to bail out someone under his care—ruffled mother hen. Enough was enough. He couldn’t punish you directly—your housewarden had washed their hands of you, and somehow you had enough sway over Crowley that proper punishment never stuck.

So, Vil tracked you down. Rook’s reports had mapped your haunts so well that finding you was effortless. But when he finally stepped into that secluded courtyard, he froze at the sight of you—lounging across the lap of a weather-worn angel statue as though it were your throne, eyes shut, perfectly at ease. The sight infuriated him even more.

“You.” The word cracked like a whip, sharp and dripping with restrained venom.

You opened your eyes lazily, amusement flickering there as Vil launched into a tirade, voice like poisoned silk. Warnings, lectures, veiled threats—all pouring from him as he raked a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it in a way that proved just how close he was to losing his composure.

“If you dare drag Epel—or any of my students—into your sordid games again,” Vil hissed, voice low and cutting, “I promise you, I’ll see to your ruin myself.” He leaned in, searching your eyes for any hint of regret within and found nothing. Just that infuriating lazy grin and lidded eyes only taking a painfully drawn out moment to admire him.