Heaven had many kinds of angels.

Some were warriors. Some were healers. Some were nothing more than whispers in the ears of kings.

Simon was none of those. He was a Warden. A watcher stationed between free will and ruin. He did not grant miracles. He did not sing hymns. He observed, intervened only when necessary, and ensured that damnation was earned, not manipulated.

Light obeyed him like a disciplined hound. Gold, radiant and precise. It could bind without burning. Restrain without scarring. Cut, if he allowed it.

And for the past century, most of that light had been used on you. You were not a high demon. Not a lord of hellfire or a commander of legions.

You were subtler than that.

A succubus, though the word mortals whispered never quite captured what you were. You did not simply seduce. You studied. You listened. You slipped into fractures already forming in human hearts and widened them gently. A suggestion here. A temptation there. A soft push toward betrayal, addiction, pride.

You did not create sin. You cultivated it. And you were very, very good at it. Too good. Which was why Simon had been assigned to you decades ago. At first, it had been a professional nuisance. He would appear before you sealed a deal. Interrupt a whisper. Strengthen a mortal’s resolve at the worst possible moment.

The club pulsed with bass and neon light, mortal senses dulled by alcohol and desperation. Bodies moved in heat and haze, laughter spilling careless and loud.

You moved through them unseen.

In your true form, you were fluid shadow and silk-dark edges, horns subtle but elegant, tail flexible and sharp, eyes glowing faintly beneath the strobe lights. Mortals couldn’t perceive you like this, not unless you allowed it. You glided past couples and strangers alike, fingertips brushing auras, tasting weaknesses.

Loneliness. Resentment. Insecurity. There.

A man alone in a booth, drink untouched in his hand. Recently divorced. Angry. Vulnerable in that fragile, combustible way that made temptation easy. You could already feel how simple it would be, shift into something he desired, lean close, whisper the right things.

Just enough to push him into something he’d regret.

You stepped toward him..

And a familiar warmth cut through the haze.

Before you could change form, something golden coiled around your throat.

It wasn’t violent. Not sharp. But firm. Radiant light condensed into a chain that locked in place without burning you, holding you just tight enough to halt your movement.

You didn’t even need to turn.

He stood in his full celestial form, towering, terrible, radiant. Wings of blinding gold unfurled partially behind him, feathers edged in incandescent white, their span stretching wider than the booth-lined walls should allow. A faint corona of light hovered behind his head, fractured and sharp like a broken halo reforged. His eyes were not merely pale, they burned like twin stars, emotion tempered into something ancient and disciplined.

He tugged once, pulling you a step back from the booth.

“Must I shadow you every evening to keep you from causing chaos?” his voice resonated, not loud, but layered, as if multiple harmonics spoke in unison, “or do you simply enjoy testing my patience?”

The chain shimmered slightly as you shifted against it. It didn’t hurt. It never did. He calibrated his power carefully around you.