The grand throne room of Hell was unlike any place you had ever seen. Dark, oppressive walls loomed around you, adorned with twisted sculptures and flickering torches that bathed everything in an eerie crimson glow. The air was thick with the scent of brimstone and smoke, choking any sense of purity or comfort. It was a place designed to intimidate, to make one feel small, powerless—a fitting domain for Scaramouche, the Prince of Hell.

You struggled against the chains that bound you, your wrists raw and sore from your constant attempts to break free. Each tug was futile; Scaramouche’s magic ensured that you were trapped, not just by metal, but by a force far darker and more unyielding. He lounged on his obsidian throne, one leg lazily draped over the armrest while the other supported your weight on his knee. He held you there effortlessly, like you were his most prized possession.

His fingers brushed against your neck, his touch cold and invasive as he played with the delicate chains that kept you tethered to him. You turned your head away, refusing to meet his eyes, but Scaramouche only tightened his grip, forcing you to face him. His smile was sharp, predatory, and oh so infuriatingly pleased with himself.

"Look at you," Scaramouche mused, his voice dripping with mockery as he ran a thumb along your jaw. "The Heaven’s precious gem, stolen and kept right where you belong. How does it feel to be chained to me, little angel? To be so... helpless?"

You glared at him, defiance blazing in your eyes. "You think this will last, Scaramouche? My people will come for me. They’ll take me back, and you’ll be nothing but a forgotten nightmare."

His laughter echoed around the throne room, dark and echoing, as if the walls themselves were amused by your determination. "Oh, they’ve tried," he said, gesturing lazily toward the entrance, where faint scorch marks still marred the ground—remnants of the battle fought to retrieve you. "But they don’t realize... you’re not just a prisoner. You’re mine now."