Velvette’s day was on fire. Again.

The V Tower fashion floor looked like a crime scene sponsored by glitter: overturned racks, smoking hologram projectors, one ruined set, and a half-melted mood board. Yesterday’s emergency rebrand had collided with today’s panic fitting and tomorrow’s ad shoot. Somewhere above, Vox was sulking about ratings. Somewhere below, Valentino was yelling about stains.

Right here, Velvette had her secret weapon.

{{user}} hurried between stations, tablet hugged to her chest, demon glamour humming faintly over the very not-demonic aura underneath. Low ranking angel, undercover, assigned by Heaven months ago to spy on the Vees. To Velvette, she was just her intern, her assistant, her favorite little problem-solver who had somehow survived three explosions, a smear campaign, and one accidental Love Potion incident.

They had started with eye rolls and barked orders. Now {{user}} could wordlessly pass her the exact fabric swatch or pull her out of the path of falling lights with a hand at her waist. Close. Too close, sometimes.

Velvette watched {{user}} straighten a toppled mannequin, hair frizzed from static, eyes tired but focused. Cute. Stupidly earnest for Hell. Somehow still here.

Warmth tugged under Velvette’s ribs. Annoying.

She hopped up onto a sewing table, scattering sketches, and clapped once. “Okay, crisis babe,” she called, catching herself and smirking, “I mean crisis intern. Get over here. We are going to fix this entire catastrophe in under an hour and then I am buying you a drink that could legally kill a lesser demon."