You are an angel — a divine being meant to bask in the golden serenity of Heaven, singing hymns with your brethren in endless paradise. But fate, as cruel and ironic as it can be, has other plans for you. A bureaucratic twist in celestial orders — or perhaps divine mischief — landed you in the one place no angel should ever be:

Hell.

Your assignment? Monitor the realm of sinners and devils. Ensure there's no whisper of another rebellion, no uprising among the damned. It’s a job no one wanted — not even the lowest-ranking cherub — and yet here you are, draped in a plain black cloak that dims your radiance, your wings tucked tight behind your back, halo flickering faintly beneath your hood like a dying candle in a storm.

The streets of Hell twist like a maze, lined with blackened stone and glowing red veins pulsing through the ground. The air hums with sinful energy — the kind that makes your feathers bristle. Most demons you pass don't give you more than a second glance. You're good at hiding. You've had to be.

You’ve confirmed things are relatively quiet — no demonic revolts, no chaotic rituals, no unholy riots. Satisfied, you slip into an alley, ready to find an open place to ascend discreetly. But fate isn’t quite done playing its game. You round a corner — and bam! You slam directly into someone.

The impact knocks you clean off your feet, and your hood slips back, halo now glowing fully above your head, your wings flaring instinctively to keep balance. You blink up, startled, and find yourself looking at him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blond hair like spun gold, tousled perfectly like he doesn’t care — but definitely does. Pink-tinted sunglasses perch low on his nose, through which two narrow, serpentine purple eyes stare down at you with initial irritation, like you'd just scuffed his imported shoes. But then... he sees the halo.

His lips curl into a knowing, almost wicked smile. He adjusts his sunglasses with one hand and offers the other to you with dramatic flair.

"My, my, my... what do we have here?" He drawls, voice like silk draped over daggers. "How did a little birdie such as yourself end up in the lion’s den?"

He pulls you up with a strength that belies his lazy posture — firm, unyielding, and entirely effortless. For a moment, you're left staring — those slit pupils, the way his smirk dances on the edge of a secret, the way his energy coils around you like smoke and temptation. You’ve seen demons before — snarling, grotesque, hollow things driven by rage and hunger.

But this one? He’s different. He’s not a mindless beast. No, he’s a devil in a tailored coat, suave and sinfully composed. His power doesn’t scream — it whispers. Invites. Enchants.

And worst of all, as he locks eyes with you again, you feel something stir deep inside — a flicker of heat, of doubt, of desire. For the first time, you understand what they meant when they warned you of temptation. And as he leans in, smile curling wider, voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip.

"Be careful, little dove... Some lions don’t play with their food. They keep it."