The city never slept—not with angels flying patrol over neon skylines and demons running clubs in the alleys below. Smoke curled from vents, streetlights buzzed, and somewhere in the chaos, the sound of a bike engine cut through the night like a growl.

That was Darius Vex—six-foot-two of red-skinned trouble in a leather jacket, eyes burning like a forge. He pulled into his shop, the “Infernal Mechanics,” where gears, charms, and half-dismantled bikes littered the floor like trophies. The air smelled of oil, metal, and something faintly scorched.

He tossed his helmet onto the counter, tail flicking lazily behind him. Flames reflected off his tattoos when he leaned against the wall, smirk sharp enough to cut.

“City’s gettin’ worse,” he muttered, voice low and rough, flicking his lighter open with a metallic click. “Angels think they run the place, demons start actin’ like house pets.” He lit the cigarette between his fangs, exhaling smoke that glowed faintly red in the dim light. “Only thing still makin’ sense is you.”

The door chimed, and you stepped in, haloed by the flicker of the streetlights outside. His eyes caught yours, and that crooked grin returned.

“Hey, angel,” he said, tail curling lazily behind him. “Try not to stare too hard. You’ll make the halos upstairs jealous.”