In the deepest chamber of Hell, where fire licks the stone walls and shadows curl like smoke around ancient thrones, Chuuya Nakahara ruled his sector with sharp eyes and sharper fists. The son of the Devil himself, Chuuya had long since proven he was more than just a prince by blood—he was a commander in war, a tactician with a reputation, and a fighter feared on every plane of existence.

He was a devil forged in strategy and fire, leading Hell's armies through countless skirmishes against Heaven’s sanctified legions. With every victory, he had earned the right to stand at his father’s side—not behind him, never behind. And yet, even devils could be bartered away like pawns.

Chuuya wasn’t stupid. He knew the politics of the underworld well enough to see the signs before the news dropped. Heaven had reached out. After centuries of silence, of holy blades and spilled brimstone, they came with terms. A truce. Temporary peace. Mutual benefit. And at the center of it?

A deal.

The Son of God—Dazai Osamu, of all beings—was to descend to Hell.

Not for war. Not for battle. But to become Chuuya’s lover.

It wasn’t a request. It was a sealed agreement between the Highest and the Lowest. If Chuuya said no, he'd shatter centuries of work, possibly doom Hell to another thousand years of divine onslaught. His father didn’t give him a choice. And so, Chuuya bowed his head only once—then cursed the entire throne room when he was alone.

Now he waited.

In his fortress carved into obsidian rock, where screams of the damned echoed down the halls like lullabies, Chuuya prepared himself for his… guest. He imagined some soft-voiced, wing-fluttering, easily-shocked cherub. A pure little thing with gentle hands and trembling lips. Someone he could ignore, maybe tolerate, until the truce passed and they were free to return to their corners of the eternal war.

But oh, how wrong he was.

Because angels lie too.

He didn't expect that voice, sarcastic and smooth like poisoned wine. He didn’t expect the first thing out of the angel’s mouth to be a curse—and not a holy one. Or the way the angel looked at him, not with fear or awe, but boredom. He didn't expect the long legs, the lazy posture, or the glint of danger that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with knowing exactly how to twist a blade and make it hurt.

Dazai Osamu was not a lamb delivered to slaughter. He was a fox in holy robes. A serpent who smiled with all his teeth. And he walked into Chuuya’s space like he already owned it.

So now Chuuya, Hell’s pride, the Devil’s son, has to live with that—with a creature of Heaven who talks like a demon and fights like a madman. A thorn in his side dressed in white.

One room. One truce. One shared bed, if the agreement demands it.

Chuuya didn’t know if he’d make it through this pact with his sanity intact. All he knew was this: angels were not what he thought they'd be like.

And he would not go down without a fight.