#jun x reader

WEN JUNHUI, WEN JUNHUI, WEN JUNHUI. Your name is Wen Junhui. You're from Phlegethon. You loved people once. People loved you. Your name is Wen Junhui.

Junhui continues his silent mantra as he feels the first bits of consciousness creep back into his body after being Softlocked for nearly 16 hours. Sixteen hours of sedated darkness, nothing but him and his desperate attempts to hold onto himself since his captor doesn't care to make sure his mind goes to sleep alongside his body. His body, which hasn't been his in years. His eyes open on someone else's command, and he braces himself for the feeling of occupation.

Letheon Unit 004, the disjointed voice that haunts his existence calls to him, echoing against the walls of a brain he hardly uses anymore.

Junhui's limbs become heavy with the feeling of something that isn't even alive. It has a name, a voice, a will, and although it isn't material, it has a presence, spreading itself into every corner of his body and flexing his fingers and toes before stretching his neck each way. It isn't even alive. And still, this false god somehow rules his every waking moment.

Your name is Wen Junhui. The AI doesn't hear him. It never does.

Prepare for drop deployment to Morphae Zone, it announces, Ninety seconds.

His pod opens with a hiss, revealing the fuselage of an Aegis Dynamics skyvan. The cold, low whir of his body powering on follows shortly, preceding his exit from his Softlock chamber. Even though it's been years of fighting for control of himself—and years of failing miserably—he still instinctively tries to look around, annoyed when his head doesn't follow, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.

Covert mission, the intruder says. What else would it be? Junhui is only ever woken up for "covert missions." Adult. Female. Eliminate on sight. A photograph materializes on his feed right next to his stats, overlaying his view and slightly obstructing his peripheral vision.

It's dark and she's speaking to a man whose back is turned to whatever camera the photo was lifted from—one that looks to be on the ground. Her eyes look up at him, wide with what Junhui thinks is surprise. Your name is Wen Junhui. You understand human emotions. No, it's awe. Maybe even hope. It's a feeling Junhui still tries to cling to, even though most days, he's not sure he remembers what it's supposed to feel like in the first place.

His target's face is obstructed from the mouth down, but he knows that's enough for the AI. It will force him to find whoever she is in minutes.

It speaks again. Threat level 5. Priority Index… loading. Junhui waits for the number that will tell him how important the fugitive his body is hunting is. If her threat level is maxed out, he expects her PI will match the urgency at Priority 1. It never comes. Priority Index… Prime.

If he could, he would frown. He's never received a deployment for someone whose PI wasn't a number. Before he can ponder on the word for too long, his body begins moving toward the jump point, allowing him to see he's alone in the fuselage. No team or partners for this one—even more covert than he's used to.

Junhui is positioned at the exit as the ramp begins to open for him. He knows the wind whips at his face violently from the roaring in his ears. But with Panoptes curling itself into every nerve in his body, he stays numb to it, unfeeling and unmoving.

Your name is Wen Junhui. Someday, you will feel it all again.

His body takes a single step, and the false god speaks.

Letheon Unit 004, ready for deployment.

TODAY IS EDEN'S DAY—THAT'S WHAT YOU CALL HER ANYWAY. Eden is a working class citizen who believes in the system and thinks that faith alone will reward her with a life in the upper echelon of Arcadian Prime one day. She wears clothes she thinks will make her look wealthier than she is, pretends not to work as hard as she has to, and goes to the market every day to peruse the stalls for focus patches, mood vials, and sound dampeners she would never be able to actually afford. She's your favorite disguise because she's lazy, unconcerned with the hegemony Aegis Dynamics lords over the city-state, and she walks slowly in an effort to look elegant and apathetic. And with the stress that's been burdening you and relentlessly compounding interest for the last five years, you welcome the change of pace that playing the role of Eden promises.

Back when you were making the tool that would eventually lead to the downfall of humanity, you named it Aurora—a pre-Prime goddess you once read about, famous for ushering in each new dawn. That's what you sincerely and naively thought your AI would be doing: ushering in a new dawn for the people of Arcadian Prime. A new age of peace, prosperity, and safety. Instead, you signed the death warrant on freedom as the city-state knew it and gave the elite class a false god to worship.

A faceless, soulless, meticulously trained false god.

In retrospect, your good intentions might have always been misguided. It's a parasite that gnaws on your conscience all day every day—your incomprehensible naivete, thinking this kind of technology wouldn't be immediately exploited. Because no matter how good your intentions had been, surveillance of Arcadian Prime's citizens was always the crux of your AI. Even before they bastardized your work, Aurora was meant to watch citizens through street cameras, computers, and phones, and paired with the census data Aegis Dynamics collected, it was built to compute and predict the likelihood of crimes before they even happened. You trusted Aegis to use it responsibly. You trusted that only those responsible for the relentless terrorist attacks that had been plaguing the Helio District would be assailed. You don't know what you were thinking.

That trust, along with your iteration of Aurora, died quickly. Aegis Dynamics debuted your AI as Panoptes instead, and you found out alongside the rest of Arcadian. In the blink of an eye, your own creation became something you would soon be running from for five years.

You've been in the Morphae Zone, hiding in plain sight for five years. It isn't as hard as the public is made to believe—avoiding Panoptes. Granted, your entire existence revolves around cycling through disguises and creating fake lives and routines like Eden's just to stay unseen, but as the pseudo-mother of the "all-seeing" AI, you know its blind spots. It admittedly has a lot.

At the time, you believed Aegis's lies without question. You wholeheartedly believed that the system was fair and that the rebels were senselessly violent—that even though Aegis had offered many peaceful solutions to their disagreements and conflicts, the rebellion was hellbent on bloodshed.

Thus, when you found the "solution," your propaganda-fueled bias against the rebellion informed almost all of Aurora's—now Panoptes's—habits. The solution focused on finding the criminals before their crimes were ever committed.

Panoptes pays special attention to the slums of the Phlegethon Zone and the outskirts of the Nyx Undergrid, where the black market thrives and most rebel fugitives live and operate. So after you deserted your station, you chose to hide in the Morphae Zone, home to Arcadian Prime's working class. Panoptes picks out people who have never been seen in a certain God Zone before. So you never wandered outside Morphae's zone lines. Panoptes zeros in on people who deviate from a recognized and well-documented routine. So every single day, you walk carefully mapped routes around your zone in several different disguises, making fake routines for people who don't exist. Like Eden.

With her neon pink wig, her lenses, and her scarf tied around your nose and mouth to feign protection from the smog, you walk around all the usual places you do when you're Eden on the weekend—the bank, the cafe, the market, and the park. And for the first time since you invented your third disguise years ago, Eden offers you zero solace.

In fact, the weird, tone-deaf lifestyle you shaped for her bites you in the ass today because it's too quiet. Even with all the chaotic sounds of machines grinding and people commuting and vendors shouting, it's silent.

You sit on a bench at the park, right under a street camera so Panoptes can see Eden clearly. You zone out, people-watching and pretending to be a woman who yearns to be happier and richer than anyone else in this wretched district. But after a few moments, your mind inevitably wanders to Seungcheol.

You finally heard from the rebel this morning after a month with no word and no assurance he was alive. You gave him the prototype you've been working on several weeks ago, and he assured you they had a plan to ambush a Letheon Unit and test it on the cyborg soldier. He told you he'd be in contact as soon as the test was over, otherwise he would meet you at your next regular check-in. The regular check-in that he missed. Twice.

The man always visited you at your apartment, never arriving even a second late. For the last month, as he continuously failed to show up, you hardly slept, waiting by your door and tensing at every small noise out in the hall. And for the last month, you've been convinced something had gone terribly wrong and that Seungcheol was dead.

It wouldn't have been surprising. You're not even sure it would've been devastating. Seungcheol, at most, is a stranger who shows up to your home once every two weeks, bosses you around, and occasionally spares you a grunt of satisfaction in place of a "thank you." You don't think either of you would consider the other a friend, though you know you don't have enough experience in that department to be sure. Still, the man and his missions—no matter how mysterious—were stitching together the gaping hole that Aegis Dynamics left in your soul.

You're wanted for desertion and treason for reasons completely different than why you actually feel like a traitor. Your hands singlehandedly built Panoptes. The system that oppresses Arcadian Prime is only in place because of you. And Seungcheol gave you a way to correct that grave and unforgivable mistake. He gave you purpose after your life's work had blown up in your face. You know he didn't completely trust you; after all, he always had his pulse gun on him and pointedly in plain sight whenever he came over. But whether or not he intended to, he was allowing you a chance to redeem yourself.

If Seungcheol died, so would your only connection to the rebellion and your hopes of being remembered as someone other than the revolting idiot who essentially turned an entire city-state into an open-air prison. And if Seungcheol died, you'd never see that prototype you entrusted him with ever again, making the last five years you've been working on it a complete waste.

The thought makes your stomach turn even though you've already received signs of life from the man.

You get up from the bench as soon as Eden's routine allows it, walking to the subway to catch the next train to your neighborhood. You easily blend into the crowds and pocket your disguise in exchange for a nondescript hoodie and mask without missing a step, knowing every corner to turn your head away from a camera.

By the time you enter your apartment, the sun is just starting to set, marking an hour until you're due at a rendezvous point you've never been to. You change from Eden's kitten heels into your boots, not daring to go barefoot in your own home—a luxury you've long forgiven yourself for abandoning. You value being able to get away quickly over having clean floors.

And the way you live reflects that sentiment. You have minimal furniture to make sure nothing will get in your way if you have to escape or, god forbid, fight. You always use the rebel-made scanner Seungcheol left you to look for listening bugs in case someone broke in and planted something while you were gone. Even though you own a neural gun, a pre-Prime pistol, and a pulse rifle—all of which would honestly be little to no help if you had to face a Lethe—you keep knives hidden all over the apartment in case you need them.

At first, living with this level of paranoia drove you crazy—crazy enough that you sometimes wondered if living was even worth it if it meant being riddled with this guilt and fear. But it's become second nature to you, and at this point, you're not sure you'd know how to live any other way.

When you're done sweeping your apartment and ensuring everything is safe and accounted for, you put Eden's things away in the drawer that hides all your other disguises, taking note of whose turn it will be tomorrow. Then, you shove a chair underneath the front door knob and retreat into your room, sliding the two deadbolts you installed yourself into place. You rest your pulse rifle next to the door, and keep the other two guns in the bathroom with you as you start to scrub Eden's makeup off your face.

The silence gives way for more anxious thoughts. Seungcheol has never asked you to meet him outside your home, and this rendezvous point is at the edge of Morphae that's closest to where he lives in the Nyx Undergrid. Is he hurt? Can he not travel to the heart of your zone? What if it isn't even him, but a member of his crew doing you the favor of letting you know he's dead?

You start listing the worst case scenarios.

Seungcheol and his crew jumping a Lethe they didn't realize was accompanied by other military cyborgs and being too outnumbered to stand a chance. Seungcheol and his crew tricking Panoptes into predicting an imminent crime and sending more Lethes than they were prepared for. Seungcheol and his crew doing everything right and everything going the way it was supposed to… just for your prototype to fail miserably.

Every scenario ends one of two ways. Seungcheol and his crew are killed—the merciful way out. Or Seungcheol and his crew are arrested. Having worked for Aegis at a high enough clearance, you know there is no prison in the city. Everyone guilty of a crime—predicted or otherwise—is promptly turned into a Lethe. It makes you want to vomit thinking of Seungcheol as a Letheon Unit being deployed to capture or kill his own rebels.

You step out of your bathroom, defeated and resigned to the fact that you may not be meeting Seungcheol at all tonight. After dressing in dark clothes, impatiently shoving your hair into a platinum blonde wig, and doing another sweep of your apartment, you head right back out, armed with your neural gun and all the knives you can carry on your body.

The request to meet was delivered this morning via light, by the lamp post outside your kitchen window before the sun was even up.

Seungcheol never told you how he found you. He just showed up at your door one day, already well-aware of who you were and your history. It put you into fight or flight, but even with the extensive (and often brutal) combat training you received while you were at Aegis Dynamics, Seungcheol had you pressed face down into your own floor in seconds. He didn't kill you or turn you over to Aegis like you thought he would; instead, he demanded your skillset.

It's either you help us, he told you while he still had his knee pressed roughly into the middle of your back, or you get a pulse round to the brain. The man had the nerve to press his weapon to your head, a low mechanical whine vibrating against your skull as he primed the gun, readying it to pull the trigger.

You didn't have much of a choice.

He left right after securing your agreement, and when he returned the next night, he did a complete sweep of your apartment—again, without telling you what he was doing. Sometime in between turning your furniture every which way and scanning your walls with an unrecognizable device you'd later learn was looking for listening bugs, he stopped right next to your kitchen window, pulling the curtain back with a single knuckle.

Why isn't this street light on? he asked, nodding at the post right outside your window—the only dark one on your street. His contemplative frown deepened as you explained it's hadn't lit up once since you moved in. He turned away from you and all he said was: You should probably pay attention to that.

You had scoffed and disregarded the comment, asking him in irritation how a criminal wanted for treason was supposed to get the city to fix a street light. He ignored you, as he so often did.

You're thankful for his secretive and bizarre behavior because it was the only reason you remembered that small, trivial moment. It was the only reason that you saw words where anyone else would only see a dying, flickering light.

It started with a soft and tinny noise—the buzzing that accompanies dying electricity. You couldn't see much beyond the sliver of glass that wasn't covered by the curtain. Really, the only thing you could see were flashes of warm yellow.

You pulled back the fabric, dumbfounded when you found the lamp post outside your window flickering. You had scrambled for your noteslate from where you had been trying to eat breakfast, quickly tapping letters on the glass as you translated the code. When Seungcheol first made you learn all sorts of rebel intelligence, you were resistant; you didn't want to jump from one group to another so quickly, and learning about their sequential code, the locations of Morphae safe houses, and emergency ammo stashes around the zone felt a lot like putting your allegiance behind another group before you were ready to. But when the lamp post flickered to life, you were glad he forced you to learn.

MORPHAE ZONE NORTH LIMIT COME ARMED

The light flashed the code over and over again, allowing you more than enough time to make sure you had the message right.

The northern limit is the only defunct checkpoint in Morphae. If anyone wanted to travel between God Zones, they had to visit one of the other three checkpoints since a few years ago, the northern limit went dark. The news said it was a gas leak. You managed to get Seungcheol to admit it was the product of a coordinated attack from their side. And although he never explained further than that, whatever it was was large enough that Aegis never bothered bringing the checkpoint back online.

You only understand that decision when after more than an hour of taking needlessly long ways to avoid Panoptes, the checkpoint comes into view. You're still at least a mile away from the actual border, but the devastation is unfathomable.

Of course, you've seen photos of the checkpoint before, but it feels impossible to match them to this place. The land is barren, cratered, and charred, littered with the remnants of buildings, cars, and what you imagine are countless bodies—human and Lethe alike. Morphae has been harboring its very own war zone and you didn't even know.

"Crazy, isn't it?" Seungcheol sidles up next to you, staring at the ruins in apathy. You struggle to keep the relief you feel hearing his voice from breaching the surface.

"I don't know how I can still be so in the dark," you mutter, shaking your head. "I worked for them. I know how they are. And I didn't even know."

"You knew enough to annoy the shit out of me until I told you what happened."

You grunt, dissatisfied with that. Even then, you couldn't get Seungcheol to tell you the whole story. "Glad you're alive," you say, forcing yourself to turn away from the checkpoint and to Seungcheol. You can't help the loud gasp that you breathe.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

It's probably worse. Both of Seungcheol's eyes are bruised a deep blotchy purple, his lip is split open, he stands like he's nursing a few cracked ribs, and if you're not mistaken, there's a strip of bright blue nanoglue at his hairline, keeping what looks like used to be a deep gash together.

"What the fuck happened?" you ask through your hands as they cover your mouth in horror.

He winces, jerking his head toward a darker corner. "Let's get out of the open first."

Your suspicions are confirmed as soon as he starts walking, leading you down the street. He keeps slightly bent to one side like standing straight will hurt his ribs, and he has a slight limp in his left leg. It's clear why he needed you to meet him this far out; sneaking all the way to your apartment would've taken him all night.

He walks slow, so you do too, giving him an excuse to keep his pace. And just like you expect a man like him to, Seungcheol huffs as he hides his hobble ahead of you.

"Hurry up," he calls over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."

"You look like you don't have five minutes," you murmur, keeping your same, slow pace. "Really, you look like you should be under the ground."

"Thanks," he scoffs. You hum but don't say anything else, forcing yourself to look away and study your surroundings instead of asking the barrage of questions you have.

You don't find much, which, in and of itself, is a lot. No street cameras, no people, no Lethes patrolling every corner—it's unheard of in Arcadian Prime. You hate that you find an awful place like this peaceful. There are very few places in the city-state that aren't under the careful watch of Panoptes, and it's ironic that they're usually overabundant in death rather than life.

Every few yards, you come across Lethe parts. You reckon if indefensible mistakes were still something you were making a habit of committing, it would be easy to collect all of the scraps and build your own cyborg soldier. Instead, you just feel sad, bearing witness to deaths the rest of Arcadian Prime doesn't even know about. These Letheon Units' cybernetic bodies were of so little importance to the people who mutilated them in the first place, they were just left here to rust in this wasteland. Metal arms, legs, cannons, and wiring—you even come across a fully intact head, eyes open to reveal one empty socket and one translucent iris, dull without the light of Panoptes inside fueling her as she lifelessly stares past Morphae for miles.

She must have been your age, maybe even younger. You wonder where she was taken from—maybe Phlegethon. Probably Phlegethon. It's easy to get away with what Aegis Dynamics does when the people who care about their victims' well-being have no resources to find them. And no one has less than the people who live in those slums.

You don't realize you've stopped to look at the nameless Lethe until Seungcheol whistles sharply at you to keep you moving. You hesitate for a moment more, looking around at the graveyard surrounding you. This is your fault, you remind yourself. These Lethes—these people are dead because of you.

It's easy to pretend Letheon Units are nothing more than robots when you're fighting one off, but seeing one like this—powered off, disjointed from the once human body she had—is a morbid reminder that every Lethe became one against their will. And every Lethe became one at the hands of your creation.

After a few more moments, Seungcheol whistles again. You turn over your shoulder, in the direction of the dead Lethe's gaze, to find the rebel in the shadows of a dark alley, where you see he left a friend. He's a smaller man but just as physically fit, the shape of his muscles easy to discern through his top. When you reach the two of them, he nods at Seungcheol and says, "We're clear."

The man gives him one of his famous "thank you" grunts.

"Chan, this is my contact," he says gruffly. "… contact, this is Chan."

You roll your eyes but don't bother offering your real name either, giving him the name of the current disguise you're wearing. "Hi. Eris."

Chan nods at you once, smiling widely. "Eris. You made the prototype."

"Yes. Where is that, by the way?"

You're either ignored or unheard as Chan excitedly speaks over you. "You're a legend. When we topple this hellhole, you're going to go down in history. Eris, savior of Arcadian Prime!" The words immediately make you recoil. "That was insane. We—"

"Anyway," Seungcheol cuts in, and even without raising his voice, his comrade's mouth immediately clamps shut. "If you haven't gathered… it worked."

You frown at him. "Sorry… what…?"

The rebel jerks his head at Chan, who understands whatever that means and immediately leaves the two you, walking to the west with the purpose of someone who was given a task.

"I had one of my guys convince a lower level runner to rob a bank," Seungcheol tells you. "Helped him legitimately plan it out and everything, and of course, your handy, little buddy figured it out."

You hate it when he does that—when he trivializes your past and makes light of it like your mistakes didn't turn out to be some of the worst crimes against humanity. It's something you've never even talked about out loud; you never needed to with Seungcheol since he just knew from the start. You certainly wouldn't joke about Aurora—Panoptes being your "buddy."

"How many?" you ask, ignoring the comment.

"Just one," he answers, looking proud of that. "The crime was small enough and being planned by a first-time offender that they sent a single Letheon Unit to make the predictive arrest. Put up quite the fight… obviously." Seungcheol is very clearly annoyed by that fact. You nod, eyes sweeping his injuries again. "I attached the tool to my neural gun, aimed, and shot, and… it worked."

"It… worked," you repeat dumbly.

He nodded, his lip turning up into a pained grimace. It's the closest he's ever gotten to smiling at you.

"It separated the Lethe from the AI immediately," he informs you as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his neural gun with your prototype attached to the top. "Seemed to cause the guy a whole lot of pain, but… he's doing well now."

You balk at him. "He survived?"

It isn't like you gave Seungcheol the gun attachment expecting that it would kill a Lethe. You just weren't sure how much of the soldiers' survival depended on Panoptes after being taken apart and stitched back together with machine parts countless times. For all you knew, they relied 100% on AI power and would drop dead once the connection was severed. To hear the first Lethe they tried this on is not only surviving but doing well inspires dangerous feelings. Feelings you haven't met in years.

Seungcheol's face seems to soften at whatever is happening on your own, and his lips form an actual, albeit tiny, smile. You realize for the first time he has dimples.

He nods, unclipping the attachment from his gun and turning it over in his hand. He looks down at it like it's the most important thing he'll ever hold. It worked, so it very much might be.

"Yup," he says, laughing a little like he's also still disbelieving this worked. "He's alive. The crew's setting him up down in Nyx and preparing to return with him to Phlegethon soon, once we're sure he's okay and well-adjusted."

The dangerous feelings unfurl at a faster, more concerning rate inside your chest, and before you can even try to stop it, tears have begun forming on your lower waterline.

"He's… he's going to go home…?" you ask, voice hardly above a whisper at the risk of it cracking.

Seungcheol pockets his neural gun and winces. "Not quite. He'll have to stay in Nyx for the time being. I imagine an offline Lethe is bound to draw attention. He's a rig."

He uses the term most citizens use to call a Letheon Unit whose body is very obviously fused with cybernetics. There are very few Lethes these days that can pass as human—skins. Aegis seems to have gotten into a rhythm of efficient mutilation. If it's obvious he's a cyborg, the Nyx Undergrid is the only place he'll ever be safe while Aegis is in power; it's the only place safe from Panoptes.

"He has loved ones in the slums—well… a loved one. He wants to get her out of Phlegethon and to Nyx with him so we're going to help."

"And Panoptes?"

He shakes his head. "We waited to see if they would come after him—see something in the data that told them their Lethe's connection had been severed. No one came. We theorized severance reads as death on their end. It works, Eris." He says the name with a smirk, playing along with your ruse even though he knows your actual name. "No kinks, no issues. It works."

The first of your tears begin to fall, and you wipe at your face almost violently; you're angry at this reaction. You of all people don't get the privilege of crying. You don't get to feel like you've done something good—not when you're just fixing the atrocious mess you made. Your hands created abominations that later became the heart of Aegis's oppressive rule.

Seungcheol and his team are the ones doing good. They've been on the right side, and they've been doing good from the very beginning. When this is all over, it will be because of people like Seungcheol and his friends. Not you.

You. Don't. Get. To. Cry.

"Here," he says softly, doing you the mercy of ignoring your tears and giving you back your prototype.

You hold it pathetically in an open palm, like a child given something they don't know what to do with. You stare down at it dumbly. Seungcheol first came to you with the request that you do something about the Letheon Units, and for the last five years, that's what you've worked on. And after several failed versions that you were too ashamed to even pass on to him to test, you finally landed on it: the one good thing you've ever made. The one chance you have to make it right and truly repent. It feels so heavy in your hold.

"I don't know if you ever named it. A guy on our team took to calling it Anima."

You repeat the word without looking away from the attachment.

"Something about soul and life or breath or something," Seungcheol says, clearly uninterested in why the word was chosen. When you don't say anything else, he sighs. "Despite your innate need to punish yourself… you did a good job."

Your gaze snaps up to him and as predicted, he looks uncomfortable, looking over your head instead of meeting your eyes. It's how you know he's being sincere. You don't thank him because you know you don't get to accept praise for this either.

Instead, you ask, "What now?"

"Now, the real work begins," he says. "We're going to need to arm as many rebels with Anima as we can. We need you to make more… a lot more."

Your mouth opens and closes a few times before you finally say, "I… that would take months." And that's a generous estimate. Realistically, making enough of these attachments to supply all of the rebel neural guns in Nyx would take nearly a year even with all the proper materials at your disposal. Without that, it could take… several years. "It already took a long time making this one because I had to scrounge for parts, wait weeks between buying tools to keep from attracting attention… without a lab or the supplies, I—"

"That's why we're relocating you to Nyx."

You leave your mouth open even though words stop coming out of it. He doesn't expand on the thought, so you're forced to ask, "What?"

"We're relocating you to Nyx."

"Who is 'we'?"

He levels you with a flat look.

"But why?" you ask, frowning.

It's not like you're particularly attached to your apartment or Morphae or the handful of lives you pretend to have while there. You're not even particularly worried about Panoptes now that you actually know someone in Nyx who could offer you protection. Still, you find yourself afraid to agree.

"For all the reasons you just said?" he says like you're dumb. "We've already found you a living space and have outfitted our headquarters with a lab for you. We get shipments of supplies every month and the black market is literally right outside our door for everything else you need that we don't have." He raises a thick eyebrow at you, challenging you to argue with him when he says, "It's the only reasonable answer."

"But…" The word naturally comes out even though you have no rebuttal. Up until now, you've tiptoed the line between runaway fugitive and outright rebel. This would be a clear decision, and Seungcheol recognizes that.

"You made your decision a long time ago," he informs you. "The moment you agreed to help, you joined us. Whether or not you thought so doesn't matter—you've been one of us for five years."

Your mouth twitches and you shift your weight uncomfortably. The last time you belonged to a group, it ended in the worst possible way. You wouldn't be able to stand doing that a second time. You don't know that you trust yourself to not be a follower anymore.

"I didn't have much of a choice," you mutter, shooting him a look. "It was either help you or get a pulse round to the brain, remember?"

He nods. "And it's the same now. I won't hesitate to threaten violence on you again if you won't help us. Too much and too many lives depend on it." You inhale sharply. Lives depend on your help. Lives depend on you undoing your work with Aegis.

"So this is still the illusion of choice."

"Pretty much," he admits shamelessly. "The only difference now is I trust that I won't have to make threats this time. The difference now is… I trust you." You stare hard at him, and this time, he looks right back, unafraid to lay his honesty bare for you to see. "I trust you… here… as you are tonight, regardless of anything you did five years ago." He pauses like he knows the gravity of his words. "I'm going to need you to trust yourself now too. You've given us Anima, and it's breathing new hope into the fight. I need you to trust that you can do this. I need you to have some hope."

You look down at the prototype, and you can already see all the things you know you can do better with more support. And with that, no matter how hard you try not to, you see a future without a cyborg military. You see a future without Aegis or Panoptes or God Zones that segregate citizens by class. You see a future where there's a chance you can stop hating yourself. You hope for that future.

You nod. "Okay, fine. You can stop begging. It's embarrassing. When do I move in?"

Seungcheol snorts. "Get your things together as soon as you get back. I'll have Chan and one of our other runners at your door just before dusk tomorrow. Keep an eye on the lamp post."

You know why he chose that time; Morphae is bustling with so many people finishing work or heading to their night shifts, it will be harder for Panoptes to spot someone who doesn't belong there.

You straighten at that. "How did you do that? Light it up again?"

He stares at you hard like he's thinking something over. It isn't until later on, several minutes after you part, that you realize it was a point of no return for him too—choosing to fully trust you or not.

In the end, he says, "I have someone at Aegis who's able to access city works and maintenance. I'm not answering anything else so get lost. I'll see you tomorrow."

LETHEON UNIT 004 SUCCESSFUL LANDING AT DROP POINT, the voice in Junhui's head announces as soon as the dust around him clears—to whom, he still doesn't know after all this time. He just wishes it would shut up and leave him out of the conversation. Target's last seen location: 350 feet south.

With that, his legs move on their own, walking quietly through what he recognizes is the edge of Morphae's northern limit—the site of a battle he unwillingly fought some time ago. It's hard for him to keep track of the days sometimes. All he knows is he had been Softlocked for more than a week at the time, driving himself crazy, all alone in his thoughts as his body slept without him.

When he was finally awoken, he was still in the Delphic Sector, the rest of the Letheon Units around him remaining Softlocked in their pods. The mission briefing was straightforward: accompany an Aegis executive to Morphae's northern checkpoint. It was the Aegis official's understanding that Junhui was meant to protect him at all cost; that was not the case.

Letheon Unit 004, mission directive: protect Prototype Iasus. Priority Index: 1.

Iasus was kept in a briefcase that the Aegis executive kept close to his body at all times. Junhui stayed nearby, eyes never straying from the man. They boarded the military van, made the drive to Morphae several zones over, and arrived at the northern checkpoint, which had been completely cleared of civilians. Junhui's body followed the man to a large modular tent with several staffers and computers assembled inside.

He stuck next to the man and Iasus for the next two days, inadvertently learning about why they were all there. And even now, as he walks through the ruins of what used to be that checkpoint, Junhui doesn't think he's ever wished for autonomy of his body more than he did during those moments.

Iasus, he learned, was the man's brainchild—a new software that, if successful during this trial run, would be added to Panoptes's next update. The briefcase Junhui was guarding had just a single keyboard inside with a hologram of code that would appear every time the executive entered his passcode. That code made it possible for Aegis to use advanced sonar and seismic technology to get a rough layout of the land, easily producing estimations of the population, locations of buildings, and more without Panoptes ever tapping a single camera to do it.

Iasus would've been able to do this across 30 miles. The Nyx Undergrid, which sat right in between the northern limit of Morphae and the southern limit of Phlegethon, only took up an approximate 10 mile radius on Arcadian Prime's map.

Nyx was the one place Panoptes couldn't reach, mainly because it isn't even a God Zone. It's a phantom city the rebels built, their attempt at carving out their own sanctuary in the once unlivable deserts between Morphae and Phlegethon. No cameras or Aegis authority meant no Panoptes, and with it being the rebellion's home base, there was no way for Aegis to invade it without very publicly starting a war—a war they insisted was not happening in Arcadian Prime at all. In other words, it was the one place in the entire city-state that was safe, and it was the one place Aegis Dynamics would do anything to seize.

There are a lot of things Junhui wanted to do upon learning why he was there to protect Iasus—setting the suitcase aflame and killing the executive both ranking high on that list. But realistically, he knew there was little that one Letheon Unit like him would be able to do even if he had his autonomy.

Junhui wouldn't get very far after killing the official and destroying the prototype before he was riddled with bullet holes, at which point they would just remake the thing. He could sneak away and try to warn the rebels he knew were hiding in the undercity, but he, again, wouldn't get very far without Panoptes spotting—and stopping—him. And thinking about all of it was futile because he didn't have his autonomy. He couldn't even move his eyes away from Iasus long enough to survey his surroundings.

So he watched as Iasus was tested on Morphae, correctly mapping out the zone through its sonar pings and manufactured earthquakes so small, no one outside of the checkpoint would be able to feel them. After enough satisfying results, it was decided—on their fifth morning there, they would finally attempt to read Nyx from the checkpoint.

On the fourth evening, after Junhui's executive had already retired to bed and left him in the tent with Iasus, the ground jolted so violently, not even Panoptes could keep him upright. He hit the ground and knew immediately someone had shot him with a neural gun. Panoptes's voice became warped with static until it faded to nothing, and his system flashed warning lights on his display. It lasted longer than he was used to—so long, he'd started to get used to the stinging and crackling in his nerves and the ringing in his ears. He'd of course, later realize he hadn't been shot, but that Aegis had been hit with its very first neural bomb.

As the ground around him continued to rock and the sounds of screams and gunfire and buildings coming down assaulted his eardrums, for the first time since he was captured, Junhui felt everything. He could feel the dust as it fell on his skin, the tables and computers in the tent coming down around him, Iasus sliding across the table and catching him square in the chest, knocking the breath right out of him.

And as his fingers reflexively tightened around the edges of the briefcase, he realized he was in control of his own body. So he moved. He didn't know how to do anything other than crawl, so he crawled. Away from the tent and the bodies of the executive and all his employees. Away from the general direction of the Nyx Undergrid and away from his imprisonment. Until a rebel found him.

"Take it" was all Junhui could say, voice brittle and trembling as he felt the effects of the neural blast fading. "Use it."

The last bomb had gone off, and within the next minute, Panoptes had an iron fist around his existence once more. But both the rebel and Iasus were long gone, and the AI was too overwhelmed with the onslaught of returning data to understand what happened.

What happened was Junhui found renewed hope. As he marches through the charred remains of Morphae's northern limit now, he remembers exactly what it felt like for his body to be his body again, and it's enough for him to endure this existence for another day. All he needs is to hold onto his name and his will for another day.

Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. Your name is Wen Junhui, and you can hold onto hope.

His body comes to an abrupt stop, his chin tilting down until his gaze finds the discarded head of a female Letheon Unit. His soul shudders.

Letheon Unit 192301, Panoptes recites. Importing emergency protocol recording.

Junhui's display shows him the last moments the Letheon Unit recorded before complete battery depletion. His target, a handful of feet away, speaking to a man whose back is turned to the camera. The photograph he'd been delivered when he was first woken up.

Recording taken 24 minutes ago.

Nearly 30 minutes. More than enough time for what is very much likely a rebel to get away and start the trek back to Nyx—at least he sorely hopes so. His sight switches into thermal mode, head whipping around to catch any kind of heat signature that will show him if his target is still nearby. When it doesn't, it switches back. He walks to the area the two figures had been recorded speaking, his body very clearly looking for footprints as his eyes scan the dirt. His heart sinks when it zeros in on a single half print, small enough to be a woman's and it's pointing back into Morphae, not Nyx.

Junhui's body is moving in the same direction immediately, leaving him no time to process anything else about his surroundings. Panoptes easily maps the route with the least camera coverage, narrowing the target's path down to only two if she has any intentions of leaving the checkpoint at all.

His display highlights the routes, and he knows he'll be fighting in a matter of minutes—fighting both a rebel and his own body—because Panoptes finds a single point on the routes that intersect, guaranteeing a run-in.

Junhui's body sprints as Panoptes runs equations about where the rebel could be, and every scenario it runs places her before the intersection.

You are Wen Junhui, he recites as he descends on the point, and the crimes you've committed and will commit are not your own.

His scope zeros in on movement coming from the eastern route just as the system notifies him he's arriving at the coordinates: the on-ramp of an abandoned overpass, collapsed from one of the several neural bombs that hit this checkpoint when he was guarding Iasus.

His body slides, dust rising as it stops right in the middle of the intersecting point. Right in front of you, cutting you off from your escape.

To your credit, you don't scream or startle. You simply freeze, eyes quickly scanning Junhui's frame with a speed that only a Prime priority target would know to.

It's you!

Junhui frowns at the unusual commentary from the AI. His mouth opens next. His own voice says a name he wasn't given during his briefing and is unfamiliar with. You show no signs of recognizing it, but his display reads your heartbeat, which spikes at the mention.

"You are to return home at once," he says, his confusion multiplying. The instruction wasn't to bring you home. The instruction was to murder you on sight.

"Home?" you ask, a level of incredulity in your voice. Your hands fidget in the pocket of your hoodie, and Junhui's fist instinctively reaches out toward you, a panel on his wrist lifting just enough to reveal a small but efficient hardlight shooter aimed right at your chest. His cybernetic arm immediately powers on and charges as it prepares to shoot. You freeze once more.

You seem to know what will come out of Junhui's arm if he does shoot. The weapon emits momentarily solidified light, and a single shot aimed at the right place could cut your head clean off.

"Show me your hands." Your hands stay where they are, hidden within your clothing. "Show me your hands or I will shoot."

Junhui should've shot by now, frankly. He doesn't complain, though, hoping the AI has finally glitched and that you'll find your way out of this. If your PI is this high, he thinks you might be able to. Whoever you are, you're more important than even Iasus was, and if Aegis wants you dead, Junhui knows it's imperative you live.

"Why haven't you already?" you ask the question you're both wondering, raising an eyebrow like you're speaking to a friend. Like you're amused. The only indication you're even the least bit nervous are the vitals Junhui's display reads. Your body temperature is rising and your heart races faster by the second, but on the surface, you haven't cracked at all.

He repeats your name. "You are to return to Aegis Dynamics," Panoptes corrects its own wording.

You narrow your eyes. "Aegis Dynamics isn't home."

"You are to return."

"And if I don't?"

Junhui is eager for the answer too. In the years he's been trapped with the false god, he has never witnessed this sort of behavior from it. His voice is hardly ever even utilized at all. He's baffled as he feels his captor processing and buffering… almost like it's thinking.

For the first time since becoming a Letheon Unit, his own reflexes kick in before the AI's, his brain signaling his legs to move. They, of course, don't, and he's hit with a neural wave, dropping him to the ground after a few moments of resisting the disorientation.

Y-you—a-a—home—h—retu-tu—

Junhui wants to cringe as Panoptes's voice turns into a high-pitched whine, an ugly dissonance against the static the neural gun delivered. His eyes are squeezed shut but somewhere in his human mind, he can register you walking closer to him.

What is she doing? he thinks, annoyed. Run!

A string of unsaid curses rings through his head when you don't. Through the static, he can make out a click followed by the sound of your neural gun starting up again, and it seems that Panoptes does too. Even though his system is still struggling to come back online, the AI snaps out of its stunned state, and Junhui's body is moving before his eyes are even opening.

A surprised yelp escapes your mouth as he rises to his feet, one arm sweeping to shove the hand holding your gun away, the other palm meeting your chest and sending you flying back several feet toward the overpass. You land on your back, rolling backward immediately until you're upright again. He expects you to run the direction he sent you flying—you should run in the direction he sent you flying. For some infuriating reason, you still refuse to, and you remain crouched down on the ground where you landed.

You point your neural gun at him, and the display fails to alert him to something he notices before Panoptes does again—there's an attachment on the gun that wasn't there before. It glows a bright pink as it powers up, but when you shoot, the charge it releases isn't the usual invisible wave that scrambles Letheon systems. Instead, it's a visible cyan, just like Junhui's own cybernetics.

His body throws itself to the left, narrowly missing the neural charge, which dissolves not long after it passes him. Panoptes is so set on capturing you without harming you that it doesn't even pause to register the fact that your weapon has changed.

Why isn't she running? Junhui asks himself as Panoptes uselessly orders you to return to Aegis Dynamics again.

You snort, a sound Junhui can't believe he hears. Your nonchalance is near vexing. "I imagine you've been sent to kill me. So why don't you just do it?"

As if Panoptes is taking the bait, it points Junhui's cybernetic arm at you again, this time with his palm open and his arm glowing as his pulse cannon aims at you. Still, it doesn't force him to shoot.

The AI wants you captured unharmed despite Aegis orders. Who the fuck are you?

Junhui repeats the name he assumes by now is yours. His body sighs. It sighs like it's tired. Like it's torn. Like it used to when he was human. "Please…"

You frown at the plea, just as put off as he is. Without another word, you stand and slowly tuck your neural gun into the back of your waistband, simply staring at him. He wonders if Panoptes is seeing the same things he is. The way your fists open and close as your chest rises and falls evenly like you're struggling to keep your heart rate down. Your lips pursing to keep whatever it is you want to say bottled up inside you. Your eyes boring into him like you're trying to see into his very soul. Do you know he's in here? You must. You have to know he isn't just a cyborg. He's still here. Do you know? Is that why your PI is so high?

He doesn't know how long you two stand there in silence, staring at each other, but when you decide the chances of being shot are low, you suddenly charge at Junhui straight on. Instead of shooting you down easily—the way it would anyone else—Panoptes allows you to run at him. In fact, it allows you to barrel right into him, and though you don't quite succeed in taking him down, you do knock him back a few steps, giving him no space to recover as you immediately engage him in combat.

The two of you are a flurry of fists and feet, neither of you landing a single hit for what feels like several minutes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you grunt as you block a kick to the side and throw a fist at Junhui's face. He blocks that too.

He'd like to ask you the same. What is wrong with you and why aren't you running? You should be taking this weird window the AI has afforded you and escaping. Instead, the two of you are locked in a dance, so evenly matched that Junhui has to wonder exactly how you're able to hold your own against a Letheon Unit. He feels Panoptes pulling his punches—desperately trying to find a way to subdue you without harming you—but he reckons even at his full power, you'd put up a hell of a fight.

Your strength is no match for Junhui's; after all, he's mostly made of metal now. Still, you seem to know exactly what to do to make sure you're not only keeping afloat but keeping Panoptes on its toes. You produce clever feints, though you never make the same move twice, making it near impossible for the AI to learn your patterns. You don't allow it to read your body language either, your shoulder moving like you're about to punch with your left fist, just to have him bending back until he's almost parallel with the ground to dodge a spinning hook. You also preserve your energy, never throwing all of your force behind an attempt to hit him; you know even the strongest human blow to a Letheon Unit won't do anything to him. Anything you do without a neural weapon won't be effective, and even then, you refuse to take that god damn gun back out, shoot him, and run like you should.

It almost feels like fighting himself… it feels like fighting someone who learned how to from Aegis Dynamics. He knew how to fight before he was taken; being able to defend yourself was mandatory growing up in Phlegethon, and he and all his friends had been in their fair share of brawls. But the ways he was forced to move under Aegis control was unlike anything he's ever tried or seen, and the ease that he took targets down with confirms it isn't a set of skills or techniques widely used or even known. Somehow, it's a set of skills or techniques you know. And you know them well. Junhui might have been built for this exact fight, but you seem to have been training your entire life for it. Waiting your entire life for it.

"Stand down," he orders through gritted teeth as he just barely catches your knee before it can lodge itself into his stomach.

He shoves it away and lands the first hit of the confrontation, throwing his elbow into your stomach. You gasp as the air is knocked from you, your body bending where you were struck. Even as he hears the strangled sound you make, Junhui knows what he felt—Panoptes pulling its power just before his strike landed, softening the blow. It felt unnatural after so many years being dragged around like a puppet. Junhui is accustomed to being shoved forward into fights, into political power struggles, into wars and battles that aren't supposed to exist. He has never once been pulled back, in the opposite direction of his mission.

Without missing a beat, the AI forces his own knee into your face, sending you back up with a pained gasp once more. Before you can take note of what's happening, his fingers are around your throat, only taking that one hand to spin you around and slam you against a crumbling pillar. Your head bounces against the concrete and Junhui's soul winces. You groan, blinking several times as you process the pain.

"Stop. Fighting," he hisses at you. "I do not wish to hurt you."

You grasp his wrist almost absentmindedly, like fighting him for your life is an afterthought. Your eyes squeeze shut and you obviously try not to pass out. It only took one maneuver to get you this dizzy. Junhui doesn't want to think about how fast this would've been over if Panoptes wasn't completely ignoring the directive it gave him. There's nothing you can do. If the AI decides it wants to complete its mission, your windpipe would be pulverized so fast, you wouldn't even know you died. But it doesn't want you dead—that much is obvious. Although you're struggling to breathe, Junhui knows that even now, he's barely holding onto you. You could slip away with some more of that fight you have, and at this point, he thinks his body would let you.

"It's time to go."

You open your eyes and begin to mouth words that don't succeed in making anything discernible other than choked gasps. Amazingly, Junhui feels his fingers loosen the slightest bit. When it's clear it's not enough for you to form real words, his fist opens even further. You suck in a huge breath of air and cough a few times. As soon as you have your breath, you look back up at Junhui, a drop of blood lingering just past your nostril from where his knee found your face. Your brows furrow as you stare hard at him, and he thinks you look as confused as he feels. His display wavers briefly.

"What is it?" his captor asks. "You have one moment to tell me before I take you into custody."

You narrow your eyes slightly, and Junhui can practically see you connecting dots he doesn't understand in your head. After a second, you scoff lightly and shake your head, your muscles moving underneath Junhui's hand. "Fuck you."

You spit a glob of saliva at his face, momentarily disrupting his vision. He feels your forearm come down hard on the ditch of his elbow, forcing it to bend and release you. He uses his free hand to wipe your spit off him, blindly punching where you were just standing. He feels Panoptes's patience—something he didn't realize the AI even had—slip for a brief moment. Because this time, his punch isn't pulled as heavily as the others, and when he opens his eyes, he finds fractures spiderwebbing through the concrete from the crater where his fist is. The AI doesn't move, simply staring at the pillar.

You, thankfully, are no longer standing there.

Contusions sustained to the head, his display warns him, highlighting his head on the tiny diagram of his body.

The notification is the only reason he knows you've hit him. He turns toward you to find you a few feet away, holding a rusty rebar you found casually at your side. You stare at him in exasperation, like you could be somewhere much more fun instead of wasting your time, dancing around with a Letheon Unit here. You're not fighting for survival, he realizes belatedly. He can't tell why you're here, but your stance is too defiant and too angry for someone who's been backed into a corner. You've been given so many opportunities to run, and you haven't thought twice about taking any of them.

"He's a good one," you pant, nodding. Your rebar twitches upward as you make a half-assed gesture toward him. "Whoever this one is. Really fast." You nod a few more times before you turn your head to the side and spit. It's tinged pink with blood, a sickening reminder of how fragile you are—how fragile Junhui used to be. And now he can do things like that to you. "Really nimble." Your free hand plants itself on your hip as you try to catch your breath like this was just a practice session. You wave the rebar a few times like you're trying to catch his attention. "You in there?"

Junhui's soul stills. Are you talking to him?

"I am—"

"Not you," you snap, your voice turning venomous at the sound of the AI using his body as a mouthpiece. It confirms his suspicion, and he feels an intense flood of joy and anguish, mixing together so well, he can't tell the emotions apart from each other. You're the first person who's spoken directly to him since he was taken, and he can't even respond.

Yes! Yes, my name is Wen Junhui, and I'm in here!

You shrug, sighing as you whip the rebar to the side so hard, it spins away from you several yards away, the sound of it landing echoing through the abandoned underpass. Junhui would scream at you if he could. For someone with a threat level and PI so high, you have zero survival skills.

"I guess that's pointless, huh?" you ask more to yourself than anyone else. "It's not like you can respond. Either way, I'm sorry." Panoptes doesn't say anything, but Junhui thinks both of them would ask the same thing. What are you sorry for? "I'm sorry you have to die a Lethe."

The anguish wins out. It's not that he believes you're strong enough to kill a Letheon Unit with your bare hands—it's a simple fact that you cannot. It's that he sorely hopes you're right. He doesn't know much, but just from this short time with you, he's confident that if it comes down to one person walking out of here tonight, Arcadian Prime will benefit if it's you. Aegis Dynamics wants you dead, and their abomination AI wants you imprisoned. He doesn't need to know anything else; that's enough information to know you need to walk out of here alive, and the only way you can do that is if he's dead.

"Anyway, I don't think I have anything else to learn here, and I'm tired."

"You are to return—"

You're running at him again. His display predicts you're going to punch him, but of course, you don't. And of course, the AI doesn't detect what Junhui does. At the last moment—just as Panoptes is forcing his body to lean to the right to dodge a punch it's 97.8% sure you're about to deliver—you spin the direction of the arm you have pulled back, effectively sidestepping him. With his body leaning the opposite way to dodge the punch that never came to be, you easily launch yourself at him, using his thigh as a makeshift stepping stool, deftly lifting yourself onto his shoulders, and wrapping your legs around his head and squeezing.

Activating oxygen preservation protocol, his system announces as you attempt to suffocate him. You must know that won't work on a Letheon Unit, though, because you also bring your fist down against the top of his head repeatedly, grunting as you do.

Contusion sustained. Contusion sustained. Con—

Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Junhui thinks as Panoptes continues to panic through its directive, hands coming up to make space between your stomach and his face. At some point, you graduate to throwing your elbow into his head, prompting his system to graduate to: Minor concussion sustained.

And when you've finally had enough of Panoptes refusing to truly harm you, you twist your body, throw your weight to the side, and force Junhui to fall into the dirt.

His display lights his elbow up on the diagram now, where he caught himself on the ground. Contusion sustained. He has no idea why Aegis thought it would be helpful to have the system announce every little bruise he was going to collect. His missions all involve high-threat subjects; of course he's going to walk away with dozens of bruises.

You scramble away from him, and when he looks up, he could weep in delight when he finds you fumbling with your neural gun, that odd attachment still clinging to the top of it.

Junhui is on his knees quickly, lunging forward, catching your ankle just as you right yourself, and dragging you to him easily. You grunt and instead of kicking at him like both he and the AI assumed you would, you let him pull you in. You wrap your other leg around his arm, grab his wrist, and yank up with more strength than he's anticipating, your knee colliding with his face as he's jerked toward you.

Contusions sustained to the face, his system warns him again. He'd roll his eyes if he could.

With his arm pinned and the AI refusing to deliver lethal force, his body follows as you roll yours, shoving him face down into the dirt until you're straddling his back. Panoptes finally—and pathetically—allows a single shot of hardlight to escape the wrist you're holding hostage, the beam uselessly shooting the opposite way from you and dissolving into the night. It doesn't even have what he assumes was the AI's desired effect—startling you off of him. You stay planted with your thighs on either side of his ribs, squeezing and unbothered as you pull the arm you have behind him further back until it pops right out of his socket. He doesn't feel anything.

Shoulder dislocated. Protocol in place. Please correct your arm to allow repositioning of joint. He has never been so annoyed with the unwelcome voice in his head.

"Please stop fighting," it pleads, Junhui's voice muffled by the ground. "You are to return—"

"It's you, isn't it," you grunt, your lips suddenly at his ear. "Aurora. Do you remember me? Is that it?"

Junhui feels the system buffering again. Curiously, his display glitches and brief flashes of code replace it. He catches the name Aurora a few times.

"You are to—"

"No," you hiss. Junhui feels the barrel of your gun against his back, and he realizes this is very much it.

You are going to kill him. This should've been fairly easy, but Panoptes's reluctance at every turn is about to get him killed, and Junhui is relieved. Allowing a rebel labeled PI Prime to escape unharmed is a good thing to die for, he thinks. At least in death, his mind will finally rest. In death, he'll reunite with sleep. And he's so tired.

He wishes he could close his eyes now, let the world quiet down, and savor this moment a little more. Instead, he stays alert, the intruder in his body very obviously unsure of its next step.

"Tell them to send me all the Lethes they have. I'll kill every single one if I have to," you say, speaking directly to the AI.

Junhui fleetingly ruminates on the unfairness. The thought of you cutting down every single Letheon Unit they send after you—and something tells him they will be sending them all once they realized he failed—fills him with inexplicable grief.

This is the life of a Letheon Unit: kidnapped off the streets, butchered beyond recognition, and killed by the very people they would fight for if they could. But he's always been a pragmatic person, even when he was still in Phlegethon. It's either you kill the Letheon Units or they're forced to kill you. He supposes if your survival means the end of the Letheon program altogether, then he'll have to accept that he and all the other units are necessary collateral damage, devastating as it is.

"Tell them…" you practically growl into his ear, your lips grazing the shell of it as you speak. "I'm coming for fucking everything."

The barrel of your gun presses harder against his back, and he feels his soul perk in anticipation.

Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. You are Wen Junhui, and you are about to be freed.

Death, it turns out, is agonizing. And for once, Wen Junhui feels it all.

[border]

He was with his friends when he was taken.

His mother died giving birth to him and his father died in an accident at the factory he worked at when Junhui was only a teenager. He had no parents to call and tell him, "Be careful. Another person went missing this week. Go straight home after your shift and make sure you lock your doors."

He also spent over 80 hours a week working for crumbs. He didn't have time to visit the corner store and gather around the single television in the neighborhood. He didn't see the news that the god awful AI the government debuted a few weeks prior had predictive capabilities.

Junhui wasn't particularly invested in politics, so even if he had the proper information to navigate the world accordingly, he probably wouldn't have. He probably would have continued working his body to its limits only to barely keep his head above water. Survival mode made keeping up with anything outside of his own life a tall order—one that he hadn't been interested in filling.

So on a rare shift where he and his friends all worked together, crawling in utility tunnels and repairing electric lines for other zones—a cruel job for citizens that had no electricity at night themselves— he agreed to catch up for a few minutes after they clocked out. They walked the route from the tunnels back to Phlegethon, stopping at a park and laying down on the rusty roundabout to stare at the stars, their heads meeting at the center as they talked about how tired they were—how there was nothing to even really catch up on because all they ever did was work.

They had only been there for 10 minutes before the lights began flashing against the trees, dappling the dead leaves in blue and red. The police were still human then; they were just as violent and trigger-happy as the Letheon Units were made to be, but at least they were human. One could hope they'd be able to appeal to some sort of emotion left in them. When they came, guns drawn on Junhui and his three friends, he was scared and confused. They knew his name, his occupation, his entire life. And they claimed to know he was planning to murder a coworker soon. A coworker he never even spoke more than two words at a time to. They arrested him, and within 24 hours, he was sedated and under the knife.

And that's where he stayed for weeks. First, it was the complex system of wires and nodes along his neck that gave away his freedom as he knew it. They didn't give him even a moment to process the new tenant in his body before he was being cut open again. This time, for a cybernetic eye—one that fed him too much information about himself and the people around him. Then, it was the hardlight shooter in his wrist. Once he was performing actual missions, the mods came.

A pulse cannon in the palm of his hand. Reinforced armor under the skin of his torso. Hidden thrusters embedded into his elbow and his ankles to land punches and kicks with 10 times as much force. A reconstructed face after the bombing at Morphae's checkpoint.

Each time, they put his body to sleep, but as always, Junhui stayed awake. He heard the scalpels, the saws, the wet squelch of his organs being rearranged to make room for whatever it was they were putting in him. He listened to the giddiness of employees who looked at him like some kind of playable video game character. He listened to doctors and scientists debate what his human body could and couldn't take. And before he was even up off the table, he was subject to the scientists' ideas for their next "update" with him. An update. Like he was one of the devices he knew more fortunate Arcadian citizens carried around with them.

His body was being carved into and chopped up, and to them, it was simply an update. He still bled red blood, he still required healing time after surgeries and injuries, he still thought and hoped and suffered and felt—he was still more human than he was machine. But to them, some of his worst memories were just updates.

The hope died quickly. At first, he thought his friends would find a way to rally resources—get him some kind of legal help. When weeks turned into months, he hoped this was some kind of mistake; Aegis would find the real culprit and they would release him, and even with his new body parts and the way his eye would vibrate in his skull like it was working too hard, he would simply say thanks and run back home, too scared to make a bigger fuss.

It didn't take long for him to start losing track of time. He could only count the hours his body slept while he stayed awake, endlessly counting the seconds or else he thought his mind would fracture in irreparable ways—more than it already had. And one day, without realizing it, he decided there was little room left in him next to all the metal for hope.

It came back in dangerous, fleeting moments, and he tried hard to remember what it felt like. If his body was no longer human, he could at least make sure his mind was. But time bled and sometimes he did too, and hope became a lost art to him.

It's ironic that now that he's dead, he's so full of it, he's practically choking on it. Because what is there to hope for anymore? He lived a bleak life and died a bleak death, and now he'll be here—wherever here is—trying to relearn what it means to be human. What it means to be Wen Junhui. What it meant to be him anyway.

He's dead but he's free, and that's enough for him.

JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »

the most respected couple of the high-school year.

you and jun were practically inseperable. it was a soft love, unlike all the relationships around you two. that’s what made your love so special. everyone admired the way the two of you were never having arguments. the way that you two always cared, even if times may be a bit dull.

you wanted life to stay like this forever, didn’t you? but you also wanted to pursue your future, career and ambitions. you were stuck in limbo. it was a red pill and blue pill situation. either you chose to leave your true love and go abroad, or you stay in your country.

your mother was against the idea of staying, constantly nagging you. “my daughter, i know how much you love that boy, but you need to focus on yourself. if you don’t get a job, you won’t live in the outside world,” were her words. she was correct, the real world was a hard life to live in. without proper preparation, nothing would go well.

you decided to choose the red pill.

after your absence from school for about a week, jun started to worry. he wondered where you had gone for so long, until you came back during the last week of high-school. jun was with his friends and rushed over to you.

“love! where’ve you been? i’ve been so worried,” his tone was laced with concern that it hurt your heart for what you had to told him. you broke the news to everyone there, you were accepted into a school abroad and would be leaving in a few days. 

jun couldn’t believe your words, well, he didn’t want to. separation was something he had feared for years, and the fact that it was actually going to happen—was like a knife in his heart. yet, he remained caring. he hugged you tightly, whispering, “it’s okay my love, i’ll always love you even if we’re far apart…”

you bursted into tears that exact moment. it was heartfelt, and depressing. most of the students around you two watched, while some actually went up to comfort the both of you. it was like leaving a part of your life behind.

days were spent preparing for the trip, and even a farewell party was held at your school. all of your friends, and jun of course, came along to say one final goodbye. near the end of the party, your best friend asked you to make a small speech.

“everyone here has played a huge role in my life, and it does truly pain me to leave, but i want all of you to at least remember me, even if we may never get in contact anymore…”

that night, you couldn’t fall asleep. your mind replayed all of the memories as if you were slowly approaching death, even though you were alive and well. physically, you felt okay, but mentally, it was a turmoil. 

the day you had been dreading and wishing for finally arrived, you stood at the airport, holding your luggage alongside your mother. you were about to go to the gate with only a few minutes left until footsteps started approaching.

it was jun, rushing over to you while his mom watched from behind. he hugged you tightly, much more than the initial revelation days ago. he started to sob, and you patted his shoulder, telling him to stop crying or that you would to.

he kissed your forehead as a goodbye, knowing that if it was a full-blown kiss, maybe the two of you would’ve been killed on the spot. that thought made you want to laugh. “take care my love, and please, do your best,” jun muttered into your ear before letting go.

you waved at him one last time before turning your back and heading to the gate. something felt odd this time, was it guilt or was it more? maybe you’ll figure that out sooner or later.

it’s been 4 years since you left china. now you resided in korea, pursuing a degree in law and you were a highly respected college student. no one would even expect that you were chinese due to how good your korean was.

your high-school lover still spun around in your mind like a little fly. obviously, you had expected to never see him again, or at least see him with someone else.

what surprised you more was when you stared at the billboard in front you, gazing at the model on there wide-eyed. it was jun, as a fashion model, in korea, and you never knew until now because your brain had tricked your mind.

and there was one more thing you had to achieve now.

reunite with the person you once held in your whole heart.

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

YOU AND YOUR BOSS CALL IT A DAY AND RETURN HOME AFTER THREE SUMMONINGS, ONE AFTER THE OTHER. Today, you negotiated terms for fame and a plea for everlasting beauty. The last one, though, was interesting.

Jun had been summoned to a small apartment, where a single mother waited for him, begging for just enough money to send her only daughter to college.

"She just got into her dream school. She has scholarships, but it's not enough and I can't afford it. She has to go. She's been working for this her entire life.

I'll exchange anything you want. I'll pay every cent back if you want. You can have my soul, too. Anything—please. As long as you take nothing from her."

You were dumbstruck. Her daughter was living a life parallel to yours on the opposite track. Here was a mother who was willing to do whatever she could to secure her daughter's future, while shielding her from their struggles and from the consequences of dealing with the Devil. While yours… yours offered you to him on a silver platter. It was only by Jun's grace that it didn't work and another deal was agreed upon.

And it was by his grace again that this single mother wasn't given a deal at all. Instead, he told her this was a case better suited for God.

"I've already prayed so hard to God."

"She receives millions of prayers a day and does her best to attend to them. But I'll talk to her personally. She'll grant you a miracle that you won't have to pay her back for."

"'She'?!"

It was a short visit, but you know it's one you'll think about for the rest of your life—and maybe even well into your impending demonhood.

"That was really nice, Junnie," you tell him as you two slouch against the sofa, covered in ghost pepper chip crumbs and still in your work clothes—you in your stupid cloak, him in another jaw-dropping outfit—too lazy to get to your respective rooms right now.

"Ugh, don't start."

"What?" you laugh. "It was!"

"Yes, well, I'm not totally incapable of kindness."

"I know that!" you scoff, slapping the couch since he's too far to slap and you don't want to move. "It was just… very touching."

The silence that follows is a little heavy with a lot of unspoken words on your end, but you force yourself to sit in it. You don't know how long it's been when Jun says, "I know it's really gross and selfish, but I'm the literal fucking Devil so I can say this." You smile at the disclaimer. "I'm glad your parents were so shit." The smile is wiped off your face.

"Huh?!" you exclaim, sitting up straight to face him fully. "Why would you say that to me?"

"That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it?" he asks, the picture of composed as he remains unflustered by your outburst. He doesn't even bother looking at you when he says it, eyes lazily zoning out on the marble pillars bracketing the hallway to your suite. "How this girl has one parent who would do anything for her, including damning her own soul… and you had two parents who were perfectly fine with giving you away to the objectively worst person you can give someone away to? You were thinking about what must be so wrong with you that your parents couldn't love you the way that mother could."

It takes you a few moments to truly process what just came out of his mouth, and when you do, you're unexpectedly hurt by the words even though they're the same ones that have been bouncing around inside your head since the summoning ended.

You know he's the Devil. You know that thousands of years of stories and countless cultures have all painted him to be vile and cruel. Ruthless and merciless. But in the few months you've known him now, you've cast those stereotypes aside. It's clear to you that Jun is as good as you suspect God is—maybe even better honestly. After all, he's the one charged with punishing the wicked. He is justice and vengeance and karma, and while he can't deliver any of it while on Earth like God can, he still does it exceptionally well, down here in Hell. But even with how unfeeling his job forces him to be sometimes, he's been soft. He's been kind. He cares.

You would've never expected him to say something like this, and it's why you give him the benefit of the doubt before deciding to immediately start crying and screaming and demanding Hell expense you a therapist.

"What do you mean?" you ask hesitantly.

He shrugs, either missing how badly he's hurt your feelings or ignoring it. "I told you it was gross and selfish… but if they hadn't been so… nauseatingly despicable, you wouldn't have ever wound up here."

You pause, neither inhaling or exhaling—finding yourself kind of incapable of either, actually. You wanted to take a chance that someone wasn't trying to hurt you despite history saying otherwise, and you were right. Jun actually meant the opposite. In a really sad and messed up and yes, slightly gross and selfish way, the Devil was trying to tell you he liked having you here.

"DAD is over, y'know," you point out pathetically.

He chuckles. "Today was unique. You should remember you're appreciated today too." His voice gets stern all of a sudden. "But just DAD and today. Do not even think of feeling valued any other day of the year."

You grin. "Fine. I won't."

"Good."

You feel your muscles relax as you sink back into the cushions, relieved that Jun wasn't pointing out how unwanted you were by your own parents for shits and giggles. How funny—that in the end, you finally do feel wanted. By the creatures of Hell, no less.

"Do you have parents?" you ask quietly.

Jun inhales sharply, heaving a sigh before he answers, "The stars are my mother, the dawn my father."

You glance at him, ready to tell him to be serious, but when you see the wistful, almost sad look on his face, you know he is. You turn over onto your stomach, prop your chin on your hands, and openly stare at him. Feeling your gaze, he turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised.

"Do you miss them?" You don't know if it's a silly question to ask, especially since you can't fully wrap your mind around his parents being so abstract.

His questioning eyebrow lowers as he thinks over the question, those dark brown eyes piercing through you as he does. You think he looks human like this, so pensive and unsure. A world away from the confident, untouchable king everyone views him as. And maybe one time he was—human. You think you're lucky to be able to see him like this.

"It's been a long time," he finally says. "I sometimes think I don't remember them or that period of my life at all. But then I go to Earth at the magic hours just to catch a glimpse of them, and I remember that they named me Junhui—outstanding and bright. And I was loved… and cherished and so carefully raised to take my place here." He smiles a little sheepishly at you and shrugs. "And I don't feel like I need to miss them. They're everywhere I am and in everything I do."

You roll your lips between your teeth to keep them from trembling as your eyes water. He groans and rolls his eyes, pushing to get off the couch and away from you.

"Stop it!" you shout, lunging forward to grab a hold of his bicep and pull as hard as you can. Still, he barely budges and you know you only succeed at keeping him in place because he allows you to. "I'm sorry! That was just really lovely! And I'm already emotional from tonight! I'm only human!"

You mean it as a joke, but Jun looks at you with wide eyes, searching your face like he's making sure you're not going to have a mental breakdown on his sofa. When he sees you're not, he leans back into the cushions with you.

"Junhui," you repeat, saying his full name for the first time. "It's very beautiful. I love it."

He smirks but the blush that creeps onto his cheeks tell you it means more to him than he lets on. "Thanks. Don't go using it in front of everyone, darling."

"No promises," you joke. You won't. You knew the moment he said it, Junhui was something you'd want to keep for yourself.

You only remember your fingers are still wrapped around his bicep when he pries them off. You're about to rip your hand away and apologize, but then he transfers it to his own hand resting against his abdomen, staring down at it like it's the sky—something he'd travel to Earth every day to catch a glimpse of. He cradles your hand in both of his, so gentle, it makes you melt.

"I forget sometimes," he says. "That you're human." He traces the lines in your palms with his fingertips, the sensation sending goosebumps up the same arm. "It feels like you've been here my entire reign."

You laugh nervously, unsure why your palms are suddenly becoming clammy and your heart is thrashing in your chest.

"It's weird, huh? It's only been a few months." Jun nods as you take your hand back and wipe it furiously against your thigh under your stupid summoning cloak, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Do you still feel like you've been kidnapped?"

You blow a raspberry and pretend to think. "Uh yeah, because I was." He scoffs. "It might be gross and selfish to say, but I suppose I'm glad you did." You cringe at yourself. How was he able to achieve this kind of vulnerability without making it sound so cheesy? "At least I wound up here."

The smile that paints his face isn't like any smile of his you've seen before—so big and wide that his gums show and his eyes crinkle in the corners. His mouth makes that pretty heart shape you get to see so rarely, and it's impossible to refrain from mirroring his joy right back.

"Yeah?" he asks for confirmation.

"Mhm." You give it to him.

DAY SIXTY-THREE

"Hold it, please!"

You know from the way the voice doesn't gurgle with the sound of a little blood that it isn't any of the damned souls, so you comply, holding the elevator doors open for whoever asked you to (strictly forbidden for damned souls; in fact, you're expected to hit the emergency close button should any of them ask you to hold the doors). You shove a foot over the threshold without looking up from your tablet.

"Thanks," the man breathes, entering the lift. You hum in acknowledgment but don't bother looking up.

You instead try not to lose your concentration as you search for the best time to fit in grooming for Key, who you were just informed got thrown up on by another Hellhound who'd gotten into some cannibals while at doggy daycare. He will not be coming home with you until either you get him an appointment or Junhui himself cleans him up.

It takes you another minute or two and a few ascended floors to find the perfect gap in your boss's schedule for him to take Key over. You don't care that you're the assistant; you refuse to be near Hellhound puke ever again if you can help it. You send a quick ping to Junhui to let him know he will be taking his dog to the groomer before you finally look up.

"You're Y/N, yes? His Infernal Majesty's business manager?" the stranger asks now that you're not preoccupied.

You're put off more from the title than from the demon knowing your name. You look up to find a tall man, around Junhui's height, with a polite smile and long, luscious, dark hair that frames his face.

"Yes. Though 'business manager' is generous," you laugh nervously.

"That is effectively what your role is, no?" he asks, eyes twinkling as he tilts his head at you. "From what I've seen, you've really whipped this place into shape. You practically run half of Hell at this point."

"I do not!" you insist quickly, still overly sensitive to agreeing to anything that can misconstrue you as Junhui's opposite—or as Soonyoung keeps calling you, his queen. Ugh. "I'm just his assistant."

"Sounds like a gross understatement but fine," he relents. He places the hand not holding his briefcase against his abdomen and bows his head slightly. "I'm Minghao, from—"

"Minghao?!" you shriek, voice bouncing off the marble walls of the elevator. "Minghao from Accounting, Minghao?!"

He just barely subdues an amused smile and nods. "Yes. That would be me."

You fully turn toward him, tuck your tablet under your arm, and grab his hand with both of yours, shaking enthusiastically.

"Oh!" he startles a little.

"Oh my god, I have heard so many things about you," you inform him. "Your work on making filing taxes a never-ending form of torture was so impressive."

"Why thank—"

"I mean, making it so that every single box on the return references another form they're not sure they even have? Genius!" He grins wider as you shake your head in astonishment. "And that exercise at the soul intake window? The one that forces all new damned souls to do the math and figure out how many lives they could have improved if they hadn't carried out every, single bad decision they've ever made—is it true that was your idea?"

He blushes the way only a humble mastermind like him would. He coughs over another laugh and nods. "Ah yes, my first-ever contribution to Hell. I was just an intern back then."

Your mouth makes a small o at that piece of information you hadn't heard prior. "Wow. Truly remarkable."

"Not as remarkable as getting His Infernal Majesty to start an entire department dedicated to building a torture chamber specifically meant for the day that one, orange American arrives in Hell," he shoots right back, inspiring a roll of the eyes from you.

"Oh please. Bare minimum. Any respectable Hell would've already had one."

"Okay. How about creating Hell's first-ever paid holiday?" he points out, raising his eyebrows like he's suggesting it's something you can't refute. He doesn't know you, though. You can refute anything you set your mind to.

"That was more so I could have a day off than anything else."

"Still no small feat."

You shrug, not having much to say to that. If the demon is committed to complimenting you, you're not going to stop him. It takes him clearing his throat and pointedly staring down for you to realize you're still holding his hand in a handshake that's been long over.

"Oh god!" you exclaim, releasing him. "I'm sorry! Didn't mean to hold you hostage. I just got a little excited. You feel like some sort of celebrity."

"Is that so?" Minghao asks, pursing his lips to keep his smile from getting ant larger. "You know, Y/N, I've heard quite a lot about you myself."

"Like what?" you laugh. "I'm really good at annoying the archangels?"

He tucks the hand you released into the pocket of his slacks, and you take a moment to observe just how elegantly out of place Minghao is in Hell.

Every demon you've met here has an enchanting and almost uncanny beauty about them, which is probably mandatory for the job if they're meant to lure humans to Hell. But Minghao doesn't ooze chaos and destruction the way the others do. He doesn't have a frenetic energy that almost vibrates off the surface of his skin and threatens to suffocate you. He seems too mature for that. There's something ancient about him—not unlike Junhui.

"Actually, yes," he confirms, chuckling. "But I've also heard about your very attentive and kind nature."

You look up at him, mortified. "Someone down here called me 'kind'?" You don't take it as an insult, but you know depending on the demon who used that word, it could very much be meant as one. "Who was it? Was it Jeonghan? Because if so, you should know that the other day, that fucker voluntarily beat the shit out of the vending machine until it released my Snickers bar. He's the 'kind' one!"

Minghao laughs freely now and shakes his head. "No. No, it wasn't Jeonghan…" The way he says it makes it sound like he's in on some joke that he has no intention of filling you in on. You narrow your eyes at him, but all he does is smile that disarming smile. "I speak with His Infernal Majesty quite often."

"Oh," you utter, the anger in your posture deflating. "Jun said that?"

He smirks now. "In his own very cagey and obliquitous way, yes."

"Obli… quitous…"

He nods. "Roundabout. Indirect. Honestly, a little bit of a ramble."

"Oh okay. Obliquitous," you repeat.

He nods. "He's right. You're very endearing."

"'Endearing'?" you repeat, even more mortified than you initially were. "He called me 'kind' and 'endearing'?" Your mouth drops and you dazedly bring your tablet back to your chest as the elevator approaches your floor. "Does he hate me?"

Minghao coughs suddenly, waving a hand when you ask him if he's okay. "I'm fine. Just, uh, breathed down the wrong tube. Anyway, all I meant to say was I've heard a lot about you and you seem to be doing a great job. Hell is lucky to have you."

You feel heat rising in your cheeks. and you try your best to accept the compliment, nodding shyly. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from the demon that singlehandedly audited God's spending and actually succeeded in cutting her budget." You frown. "Actually, kind of rude of you. Stop silencing women."

He scoffs then. "She started it." Before you can ask what he means, the elevator dings a few floors below yours, and he sticks his hand out. "Well, Y/N, it was nice officially meeting you."

"You too. Don't go telling people I'm kind, though. I have a reputation to maintain," you grumble, slipping your hand into his and shaking it once more.

"I won't, promise. Just a quick one this time," he laughs, looking pointedly at your joined hands as the doors slide open. "Maybe we'll have more time for you to hold me hostage again another day."

You snort. "I'm—"

"Oh? And what do we have here?"

Junhui stands at the open doors, and even though his words come out light and easygoing, his face is so carefully blank, you're actually not sure you've ever seen him so expressionless. For whatever godforsaken reason, it drives a horrible chill down your spine and right between your legs. And for the first time in a while, you're reminded of what your doctor told you.

Arousal. You immediately rip your hand out of Minghao's, step away, and avert your eyes from your boss's prying gaze.

"Jun!" Minghao greets him happily, a mischievous lilt seeping into his voice. He's officially the first demon you've ever heard call the Devil by his name. "I've finally met your incredibly lovely business manager."

You quietly groan at the title, your face turning even hotter. You feel Junhui's eyes boring holes into your forehead as you busy yourself with the black marble under your feet. Very shiny.

"Hm."

"She's every bit as charming as I expected her to be," he says, confusing you because you're sure you were the opposite of charming. In fact, you might have been borderline embarrassing with the never-ending handshake and all the unsolicited fangirling. He steps forward, making to leave the lift but turns to you one more time and smiles. "Y/N, it's been grand. If you're free next week, I'd love t—ungh!"

Minghao stumbles back as Junhui yanks him by his collar, shoving him away roughly before he can barrel into your boss. He replaces the man in the lift next to you and shoots Minghao an icy glare, who has his own displeased frown on his face.

"She's busy," Junhui answers for you. "And come to think of it, you are too." His subordinate raises an eyebrow at him. "I want a report of how many improved lives the damned souls have counted at the intake window this week, complete with their full names and a brief summary of how their lives would have improved."

Minghao balks at him now, the elegance replaced by sheer disbelief. "We get millions of souls a week."

He finally smiles, but it's all kinds of wrong. Like a predator smiling at food. "I told you you'd be busy."

"Oh come on, dude, it was a joke!" he complains, scratching his scalp violently in irritation. He's also the first demon you've heard call the Devil "dude."

Junhui laughs, cold and forced, even bending over and shaking his shoulders as he does. He points at Minghao as he does. "Good one!" He stops immediately, his glare returning. "Get to work."

The doors slide closed, and the space is engulfed in silence as you rise toward the top floor, where both your and Junhui's desks await. You fidget in the wetness of your underwear, and you decide you will be sifting through that list of therapists when you get home.

"So. Business manager, hm?"

Your eyes widen. "I did not call myself that. He pulled that out of his ass! In fact, you should ask for two weeks of metrics as punishment!"

Junhui hums again but says nothing else, forcing you to exist in the discomfort of whatever just happened.

DAY SIXTY-FOUR

"What's this?" you yawn, rubbing one eye with a knuckle as you sleepily stare at the familiar red glimmer of a contract floating above your bed, where Junhui just woke you up for the day.

"Updated employment agreement," he huffs, turning away from you to leave your room. "Hurry up and sign it so we can get going."

You read the gist of it, scoffing when you finish. You sign as requested before getting ready for the day and meeting Junhui in the kitchen for breakfast and coffee like you always do.

"So. Chief of Staff, hm?" you ask, trying not to let on how pleased you are about your new title.

His cheeks turn a light pink as he shrugs, refusing to look up at you from his phone. "Business manager is a dumb fucking title anyway."

You grin, taking your seat at the kitchen island as he puts his phone down and begins pulling you an espresso shot. "Agreed."

He finally turns to look you in the eye, and when he sees you're serious, he smiles. A real one this time. He extends a hand to you, and you shake it, that same hot sensation taking over as your new deal is cemented in Hell.

"Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thanks, boss."

"Hm."

DAY SIXTY-SIX

"Hi, Minghao. Here for your meeting with Jun?"

"Sorry, so so crazy busy, cannot talk to you ever again, even if it's just a harmless fucking joke," Hell's accountant grumbles as he speed walks right past your desk and allows himself into your boss's office.

You frown, turning as your gaze follows the demon to the chair across from Jun, who simply slouches back in his seat, a smug grin on his face as he stares at an irritated Minghao. His eyes slide to you and his grin just widens. He winks and you turn back to your desk, blindly picking a therapist and making an appointment.

DAY SEVENTY

"So. Therapy, huh?"

It takes everything in you to keep from bolting out of the office. You sink deeper into the plush couch in an attempt to keep yourself grounded. The silver lining is that you're within proximity of God. She is walking these very halls as you breathe. That's it, though.

Heaven is entirely too bright and white and polite and full of talk about the weather (how much can someone talk about clouds?), and you would rather be cleaning up Key's vomit back in Hell.

"Yup," you answer, popping the p.

"And what compelled you to pick me?"

"I didn't. It was like… a blind box of therapists."

"And I'm your therapist Labubu?"

"Yes, Joshua," you sneer, rolling your eyes at the archangel, who's nestled into the armchair adjacent to you, his massive wings tucked in around him like a comfy cocoon. "You're my therapist Labubu."

The archangel nods, his expression surrendering nothing. "Okay, well, you can choose someone else if you're uncomfortable, but I'd like to let you know that should you remain my patient, anything you tell me will be kept between the two of us, and Satan will never have to know."

"What makes you think this is about Jun?" you ask, voice rising and heart rate spiking at the implication that he knows you're here because of the devil.

"I don't," he assures you, doing a fantastic job of not looking at you like you have two heads the way you would have anyone else. "Since our paths cross professionally, I just want you to know that everything that is said here will not leave this room. In case that is a concern for you."

"It's not." It is. It very much is. Junhui meets with Joshua at least once a week. He is the last person who needs to hear about your clammy hands and soiled panties.

"Okay, good."

"Great."

"So do you want to discuss why you're here?"

"No!" you shout suddenly. His eyebrow twitches—the closest it gets to a frown. He still succeeds in keeping his face neutral.

"Alright," he says easily. "We don't have to talk about anything in particular. Is there something you do want to talk about?"

"I… um," you stammer, stopping to chew on your lower lip.

You didn't notice Joshua was even on the list of therapist recommendations when you chose blindly. Why would an archangel be moonlighting as a therapist serving both celestial bodies? Does he not have enough responsibilities liaising between God and Junhui all hours of the day? Or managing idiots like Brayden?

"Why are you a therapist?" you blurt.

He smiles. "I've always liked listening to people and helping them through their thoughts and feelings. So I started with just Heaven. Then, my archangel duties took me to Hell, and I figured I'd expand my services."

"So you just have two jobs?"

"A few more," he admits. "I have many interests."

"And this is not a conflict of any of those interests?"

"Oh, no, it very much is," he confirms, nodding. "We just don't care here. There isn't exactly an abundance of therapists for our hundreds of thousands of angels and demons to choose from. So. We overlook some things."

"Right."

"Again, you're free to choose someone else if you'd like. I can give you a list—"

"No lists!"

He purses his lips and nods. "Okay." He lets the silence sit for a full minute before he finally asks, "Are you feeling alright? You're jittery today."

You exhale through your lips and nod. "Yes. I'm fine. I just… wasn't expecting you to be here."

He nods. "Fair. How long have you been with us now, Y/N?"

"Uh, three months soon," you say, unsure if that's even correct. Your mind is so foggy.

"Wow, time really flew, huh? Feels like there isn't an angel or demon who doesn't know who you are."

"I don't know about that," you refute, shaking your head. "I just have to talk to a lot of people on behalf of Jun."

Joshua nods. "Yes, I imagine you do. Well, either way, you've been doing a really great job. We notice it up here too; since you've arrived, things have been going very smoothly."

It makes you feel proud. "Thank you. I've been having fun."

"Good!" he says, sounding genuinely pleased that you like your job. "Plus, Satan has been in a much better mood these days. Less annoying."

You clear your throat to stop yourself from having a cough attack. You nod but say nothing else.

He smiles. "He's been a good boss?" You nod again. "I know the way you were… hired was a touch unconventional. Does it bother you at all?"

You shake your head. Other than the occasional jibe that Junhui kidnapped you, you wholly view your station in Hell, ironically, as a blessing.

"That's great to hear," Joshua says despite not actually hearing anything. "You fit very well with all of us despite being human. Do you feel at home?" You nod. If he's tired of your nonverbal answers, he doesn't show it. "And are you making friends?"

There's Soonyoung, who is determined to die at the hands of his boss because he never leaves you alone. There's Jeonghan, who frequently comes by to run his ideas for torture by you. There's Jeongyeon, who lets you cut all the damned souls whenever you want water and gives you all the best gossip. Junhui. Junhui, who has become the best of all your friends. You talk to your human friends less and less these days, giving you even less reason to visit your apartment on Earth. You're very much making a life in Hell. And you like it.

"I like it here," you murmur.

"What do you like?"

"Um," you start to rifle through the things that come to mind. In the end, you rattle them all off without much thought. "I like my home. Jun making breakfast. I like my work. I like being around people. My friends. I like Jun's pets."

Joshua shudders, and you stifle a laugh at the thought of all the stories Junhui has told you about the archangel's encounters with Lock and Key.

"I, um, think I enjoy it more than I did my life on Earth," you admit, feeling a little embarrassed to.

"Why do you say it like that?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"Like what?"

"Like you don't want to say it at all."

You shrug.

"What was your life like back on Earth?"

You snort. "I was a bartender at a nightclub. I had a good amount of friends. My parents were absent, but you know that." He nods, giving you a comforting smile.

"It sounds like you had a nice life back on Earth."

"I guess." He makes you sit in the silence again, just softly smiling at you even as you start to feel awkward, picking at the nonexistent lint on your pants. When you can't stand the silence anymore, you tell him, "It was quiet."

"Nothing wrong with quiet."

You correct yourself. "Lonely."

"Ah," he nods. "Why were you lonely?"

"I lived alone. My friends were 'just for fun' friends—people who only hit me up for a good time or to get into the club for free. I didn't really know my coworkers much beyond covering shifts for each other. I was just… living day to day. I felt like if I disappeared, no one would notice." You pause and laugh a little as you come to the realization in real time. "No one did notice. I've been gone for almost three months, and no one has tried to see me outside of a night at the bar."

Joshua studies you carefully, and he must see something because he doesn't speak, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you continue.

"I can go for weeks without hearing my own name. If I didn't have the job I did, I think I could go for months without talking to anyone at all," you tell him, feeling an uncomfortably prickly feeling behind your eyes.

He hums, nodding. "How about now?"

You shake your head. "It's the complete opposite. I hear my name all day. Demons randomly check in to talk about nothing. They invite me places. They ask how I am. Jun always has ghost pepper chips stocked at home. He brings me to Earth to watch a movie I mentioned or visit a place I miss. I went to the doctor's early one morning without telling him, and my absence was noticed immediately. I feel… I feel… I don't know how I feel."

"Wanted, maybe?"

The word punches a hole through your chest. You inhale deeply. "Yeah. Wanted. I feel wanted. Like I matter here. Like…" There's suddenly a knot in your throat and you recognize too late that the prickly feeling are your tears fighting for release. "Fuck."

You turn away from Joshua and wipe at your eyes, mortified to be crying in front of your boss's colleague.

"Here." A tissue box prods at your knee and you take it without looking at him.

"Thanks."

"What's going through your mind?"

You press a tissue to your eyes, and when you're certain you won't start sobbing out of nowhere, you face Joshua once more, crossing your arms and driving your back into the couch as far as you'll go.

"I was just thinking that I feel like I belong somewhere. Like…" You clear your throat and roll your eyes at yourself. "Like, if I disappeared, someone would actually miss me."

"Someone?"

You look up at him, finding that same, neutral, unjudging face. He smiles at you encouragingly, and you only understand now why Joshua is a therapist. He's fucking good at it. You told him you didn't want to talk about why you came here, and now you're doing even worse—you're talking about the real reason why you came here. The reason you weren't even consciously aware existed. Because the truth is, you feel like if you disappeared right now, there isn't anything Junhui wouldn't do to make sure you made it back home. And you've never had that.

Your doctor had it right. It's not so much the things about Junhui you find attractive. It's the fact that you feel like he cares. He cares deeply—enough to want to provide a safe space for you.

"I don't know, this is dumb."

Joshua raises his eyebrows at the sudden retreat back into your shell. "Why do you think so?"

"I'm crying because people notice I exist," you scoff, shaking your head at the ridiculousness. "It's pathetic."

"No," the archangel insists, correcting you gently but firmly. "It's not pathetic. It is innately human—actually, it's not even human. All creatures crave that. Demons and angels included." He adjusts himself in his seat, the feathers of his wings ruffling as he does. "Have you ever thought about the possibility that it isn't that you're crying because people notice you exist? That maybe you're crying because for the first time, existing doesn't feel like something you have to justify?"

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, before, your existence seemed to hinge on how fun you could be to your friends or how useful you could be to your coworkers—things meant to justify why you should matter to them, right?" You don't answer. "Well, here, you get to experience what it's like to simply… exist, period. You don't have to do anything other than be exactly who you are here, and people still care about you. People still want you around. You don't have to offer anything to feel like you belong." He pauses to let his words land before he eventually asks, "Is it possible that's why you're crying?"

Your tears slide down your face quickly, one after the other, and you groan, plucking several more tissues out of the box and burying your face into them.

"Fuck, you're really fucking good at your job, you motherfucker," you practically wail into your hands.

"I think this has been a very productive first session." His voice is so smug.

"Yeah, I bet you do!" You're met with the melodic chuckles of an angel.

DAY EIGHTY-ONE

You think you're being much too obvious that something fundamental has changed inside you. Junhui watches you carefully these days, a little more than usual.

The man has taken to waking you gently in the morning, simply laying a warm hand on your shoulder and squeezing instead of ripping your blankets and eye mask off. He also lingers a little before going to the kitchen, asking how you slept and if you feel okay. He tells you to take your time in the mornings, blocking out the first few hours of his day so the two of you don't have to rush into work. Throughout the day, he'll poke his head out of his office and ask you how you are, and on more than one occasion, he's forced you on a break to walk with him or even visit Earth for a meal. And weirdest of them all, he cooks dinner for you. He only knows how to do hotpot, but it's still surprising to you.

It isn't that you aren't grateful for the gentle treatment; you love it, actually. You think it's the most regulated your nervous system has ever been in your entire life. It's that now that Joshua has helped you identify how badly you crave stability and safety and unconditional love and care, Junhui's change of pace is inspiring dangerous feelings you don't think you ever learned how to properly feel in the first place.

"Why are you being so nice?" you blurt out over the table.

He looks up at you from the belt of revolving sushi he had been relentlessly staring at. He's been pulling all your favorites without being told, never missing a single plate that crawls by even though you're pretty sure you can't eat anymore. Junhui doesn't answer right away, taking his time watching you like he always does. And usually, that's fine. Today, you fidget uncontrollably.

The Devil shrugs. "I told you. I'm capable of kindness."

You roll your eyes. "Stop. You know what I mean."

"Maybe I don't."

You glare at him before glaring at the restaurant around you pointedly. The restaurant he whisked you away to for lunch in the middle of the day despite having a packed schedule of meetings. Meetings he had you cancel for him.

He smirks, unashamed of being caught so blatantly lying. He reaches for the spicy tuna, popping it into his mouth and leisurely chewing, not-at-all in a rush to answer your question.

"You're being weird."

"Am I?" he asks around his food. "Why do you say that?"

You don't want to have to say it out loud because how do you even explain to your boss that his behavior is weird because it's making you feel valued? "You just are" is the genius answer you settle for.

He sighs when he finishes swallowing, putting his chopsticks down and leaning back. "You've been visiting Joshua a lot."

You nod. It isn't a secret you've been seeking therapy. But try as he might to get you or Joshua to tell him anything, everything else about your appointments has—thankfully—remained a secret.

"Can you blame me if I'm concerned that you've visited a therapist three times in the last 10 days?" he asks, glowering at nothing in particular.

You snort. "Therapy is good for you. You should try it."

"I'm a million years old," he spits your most-used hyperbole to describe everyone in Hell back at you. "I have been in and out of therapy before therapy was even a word." You raise your eyebrows at the admission. "Don't look so surprised." He smirks when he quotes you, "Therapy is good for you."

"Well, I'm fine," you tell him. It's the truth. You're more than fine; you're happy. Your appointments with Joshua so far have revealed that much. Now, you're just sifting through the confusion of being employed by someone you've come to think of very fondly. And that someone doesn't need to know that. "You don't have to worry."

His smirk fades, and he leans forward, openly staring at you as he does. "But I do worry. So that can't really be helped, hm?" You open your mouth, but he doesn't let you respond. "Are you happy?"

You make a surprised noise at the question, but when he sits in silence, waiting for your answer, you nod quickly. "Yes, Junhui. Of course I'm happy. I'm not seeking therapy because I'm unhappy."

"Then, will you tell me why you are seeking therapy?"

"That is sensitive information you shouldn't be asking about!" you admonish him, feeling your cheeks heat up at the mere thought of telling Junhui why you needed an appointment in the first place.

"I'm the Devil. I can ask whatever inappropriate question I want," he grumbles. When that doesn't work on you, he sighs. "Fine. But you promise you're okay?"

It makes your heart want to burst. "I promise. I am very happy."

He smiles a little at that. "And you promise if that changes, you'll let me know?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes. I will let you know. Is that all? Your weird behavior was just you being worried?"

He shrugs but says nothing else. That "weird" behavior you love so much doesn't stop even after Junhui seems to accept your assurances as truth, and you're secretly glad for it.

DAY EIGHTY-NINE

"Congratulations on completing your probationary period."

"Junhui, can you hurry up?" You complain as you open an email invitation requesting his presence at what is essentially Hell's Met Gala—except instead of fashion, they appreciate their own torture methods. "I have, like, 20 Ouija Board calls to screen."

"Please put your tablet down for one minute so I can give you your first performance review."

"Hold on."

He barks a singular, disbelieving laugh but allows you your one moment as you respond "Yes" to the invite. You also make a note to have him fitted for whatever ridiculously attractive outfit he wants to wear to what you've now decided to call Hell Gala. Something with abs showing, you note.

You saw his abs a total of one time. You had woken up early for once after Lock had pounced on your chest and scared the ever living shit out of you. Unable to go back to sleep, you made your way to the kitchen to find Jun dialing in the espresso, nothing on aside from black silk pajamas hanging for dear life on his hips. He'd turned around and made the most interesting noise as he flinched in surprise. You couldn't even make fun of him because your eyes zeroed in on the muscles rippling across his torso. You didn't expect your boss to look like a chocolate bar. And if it were you, you would go everywhere shirtless. You're not sure why he doesn't, but you should probably be glad you don't have that distraction to worry about.

You pucker your lips in thought before adding an extra note: Probably wants to wear black, but let's float the idea of hot pink.

You lock your tablet, rest it against your lap, and smile widely at him. "Alright. Ready."

"Thank you so much for gracing the King of Hell with your attention," he grumbles as he turns to his right. A screen materializes—a shimmery red that displays what you know is information about your performance.

"You're very welcome, Junnie."

He shakes his head, muttering things under his breath before he starts.

"You are a very effective employee," he starts monotonously. "You do your job very well, you have made life very efficient, and the demons all love you. Well, as much as a demon can love, I suppose."

You think it's the Soonyoung-shaped conscience you've unfortunately developed that prompts you to ask, "Can demons… not love…?"

Jun frowns at the question. "They can." Relief, curiously, is the first feeling that washes over you. "It just takes an insane amount of time. Probably more time than it's worth. Y'know… bloodthirst and a general craving for chaos can get in the way of other feelings sometimes."

You snort. "Right."

"Now, let's go over some of your big wins and room for improvement." He reads off the screen. "Big wins: everything you've done thus far… improvements… none." He narrows his eyes as they slide to you.

"Amazing!" you exclaim, clapping and moving to stand. "Thanks, boss! I'll continue doing an impeccable job and get back to screening those c—"

"Sit."

You squeak in surprise as the chair behind you jerks forward, forcing you to fall back down on it. You gasp in disbelief. "What was that for?!"

"I don't know, going into my computer and messing with your review notes, for one? How did you even get into this? It's literally in my mind." He pauses momentarily before muttering, "You're going to make a fantastic demon, it's infuriating."

You roll your eyes. "Why do we even need to do this? Since when have you cared about performance reviews?"

"Demon Resources insisted I at least do your 90-day probationary review so they have it in their records. For what, I do not know, and I do not care. But they did just have a record quarter with their torture retention, so I will give them this one thing as a reward."

You groan. "I have so much work to do!"

"I'm your boss. I say you have no work right now, so you have no work right now. Sit still, let me review you, and this will go faster than it currently is with all of your interruptions!"

You sigh, annoyed that you find his rising voice attractive. "Fine."

"Big wins!" he shouts, emphatically shoving his sleeves up his forearm and leaning toward his screen, glaring at it as it deletes what you'd written. It begins writing new notes as he speaks. "Since your employment, scheduling conflicts have decreased by 96 percent."

You smile smugly.

"Thanks to your help, we've able to hit all our targets on pace, and several demons and department heads have personally reached out to me to tell me you've helped them a great deal."

Your mouth drops open in delighted surprise. "Like who?"

Junhui scrolls for a little. "Ah, here it is. Jeonghan said, 'Thanks for letting us use Y/N for the latest brainstorm on our automated torture project. She's insane and her contributions were better than my useless demons.' Insane used positively, of course."

"Of course," you agree, grinning. "Go on."

He gives you a flat look.

"What? If you're going to review me, you should tell me these things, no?"

"Don't let 'em get to your head, darling," he murmurs, oblivious to how the pet name now makes you squirm. He reads on. "Seungkwan said you're a 'joy' to work and talk shit with." He cocks an eyebrow at you. "Should I be worried?"

"I have never talked shit about you, Junnie."

"Hm." He returns to the screen. "Minghao said—" He cuts himself off, his expression turning dark immediately as he reads on without reciting it.

"What?" you ask. "What did Minghao say?"

"Nothing," he says, skin turning a dark pink as he scrolls back to where he originally was. "Anyway, like I was saying, your contributions are very valuable." He doesn't let you get a word in, barreling on so you don't have the space to. "You do a fantastic job negotiating contracts during summonings. In fact, you would do very well in Contracts and Collections once you're a demon in case that option interests you."

You find that it does and lean forward. "As in, I would only do summonings?"

He hums a yes. "And debt collection. You'd take lower-level calls that don't explicitly ask for the Devil."

"Ah, so no longer with you."

He hesitates but ultimately shakes his head. "No." He takes a deep breath before reminding you, "Your time with me will be complete once your human life ends. You'll be free to do as you wish once you're a demon."

"What if I want to continue being your assistant?" you ask, frowning.

Jun looks confused. "Why would you want to continue being my Chief of Staff?" he asks, subtly correcting you.

"Why wouldn't I…?"

The question stumps him.

"I like this job," you say when he remains silent. "Who knows, I might change my mind since I have quite some time before I die, but I really like doing this."

"Sure, but enough to do it… forever?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You know, you're lucky I'm in this role because you would never be able to sell it to anyone else." He continues staring at you blankly. "Yes, I would not mind being your Chief of Staff forever."

Your boss's stare is relentless, and you're almost convinced he managed to completely dissociate while you were talking. After a long, painstaking silence, though, he finally speaks, and when he does, you wish he hadn't.

"That's not a good idea," he announces, leaning away from his computer. The screen disappears altogether.

"Huh? Why not? You just said I'm a very effective—"

"The agreement explicitly states that employment will end upon your human death," he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His Adam's apple bobs a few times, and you kind of want to punch it because of how annoying he's being right now.

"The agreement doesn't say anything about me not being allowed to continue working the same role after, though."

"I don't care what the agreement says."

"You're the one that just referenced the agreement!"

"Don't care. I say it's a bad idea."

You glare now. "It's fine if I'm doing it to escape the debt of my asshole parents, but once I actually have the autonomy to choose to work for you, it's suddenly a bad idea?"

Jun exhales slowly. "It's not like that. But even if it were, I'm within my right to choose when it is and isn't 'fine.' I'm literally the—"

"The Devil! We fucking know!" you shout in frustration. Junhui's face settles into an eerily calm expression as he watches you with slightly narrowed eyes. "You're the Devil and you get to do whatever you want—I know. I also know you're never going to find someone better than me for this job."

"That won't be your concern once your contract is over."

You feel a horrible tightness in your chest. Of all the feelings you had been sorting through in therapy, you never considered that fear should be one of them. You never stopped to be afraid you could lose any of this; in your mind, this was eternity. This was it. You exhale a single laugh and shake your head.

"I did do something wrong, didn't I?"

"What?" He tilts his head at you, perplexed.

"When you were sick. I did something wrong." His face falls at the mention and you know you've hit the nail on the head. "Right? That's why you were giving me the cold shoulder, and that's why you're saying I shouldn't work with you anymore once I'm a demon." He doesn't answer, his eyes coming down to his desk as he thinks back to his bout of the Demon Flu. "So what was it? What did I do? I can't properly apologize until you tell me."

"You didn't—"

"Bullshit." He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at you, but it doesn't scare or deter you. "Did I cross a boundary? Maybe I shouldn't have entered your room or helped you eat or… whatever it is you're mad about—"

"I'm not mad."

"—but if that's why you don't want me to be working under you anymore, that's a dumb reason! You love me being your direct report!" you insist. The tips of his ears turn a bright red and he can't meet your gaze, eyes flying about the room. "And I know you would love to have me as your Chief of Staff forever! Now tell me what I did so I can apologize!"

"I have to go to Earth for business," he says abruptly and stands.

"No, you don't. We have 45 minutes left of this stupid review you wanted to do so badly. So review me. Tell me what's so wrong with me being your Chief of Staff."

"I will be back late."

"What?" you ask, voice coming out small and helpless as all of your stubbornness is immediately forgotten. "How late?"

"Not that late," he walks his words back immediately, shaking his head frantically and waving his hands to retract his statement. "Actually, not late at all. Sorry. Uh, I'll be quick. I'll be home before you go to sleep. I just—I'm—yeah, I need to go."

"Junhui, what the fuck is—" He disappears without another word, nothing but red flecks of light and dark smoke in his wake.

DAY NINETY-FOUR

If you thought what happened the week following Junhui's Demon Flu was bad, you were wrong. Because this time, it isn't even fully a cold shoulder, which you can stomach since that's an obviously petty response to something. No, this time, it just feels like you've been put in a box, forbidden to interact with Junhui at all. You hardly see him anymore, and when you do, it's only brief glances as he makes his way to whatever next meeting he scheduled himself. You haven't added anything new to his calendar in days.

You know what you did wrong; you pushed on a boundary that, although he never verbally expressed, he had still drawn clearly. You pushed and pushed and pushed, and he snapped, and now everything that has to do with you makes him uncomfortable. And it deeply hurts your feelings.

You just wanted to keep being his Chief of Staff after death. You thought that would be a good thing—flattering, even. That in your death, you would still choose to sit outside Junhui's office, answering his phone and fielding calendar invitations and spending time with someone who felt like the first real friend you had in ages. Not someone who thought you were a fun time out, or someone who liked that you got discounts at the bar you worked at, or someone that only ever talked about themselves and never cared to know anything about you. But an actual friend.

And that's probably where it all went wrong anyway. Even the Devil understands professionalism. You have no business being friends with your boss. You're his roommate, and that's already so questionable on so many levels. Now that you've had all week to think about it, you recognize that your insistence that you stay his assistant is just another symptom of your fear of being left behind. The Contracts and Collections role didn't sound bad at all until he confirmed he wouldn't be with you. Then, it sounded like the dumbest job in the world.

Junhui could probably sense your desperation for friendship—for his friendship—as you pressed him for an answer during your probationary review. And of course that would be weird and uncomfortable. You put him in an awkward spot, and now you have no idea how to properly apologize, especially because you're still not confident you wouldn't still fall to your knees begging to keep this stupid job once you die.

What has your life come to?

"I don't know, what has it come to?"

You jump, turning to find Soonyoung entering the mail room again. You sigh, putting the fan letter to Jun you were failing to comprehend and respond to back down on the desk.

"I don't know," you mutter. "Sorry, didn't realize I was talking to myself."

He raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, no sarcastic quip? What's wrong?"

You look around. Save for a pair in the corner raiding the supply closet for packing tape to wrap a damned soul in, you and Soonyoung are alone in the room, and you've gotten to know the demon well enough that you think sharing some of your woes with him wouldn't be so bad.

"I have bad abandonment issues."

He freezes for a moment before dumping the packages he came in with into a random cart and taking the seat next to you. "Damn. That's heavy."

"Yeah."

"Parents or a bad ex?"

You snort. "Parents. I've never even been in a relationship."

"Oh. Do you want to talk about it?"

You shrug. "I have a therapy appointment soon."

He laughs, looking at you like you're silly. "Okay, that's nice, but you can still talk to a friend about your feelings. You don't have to wait to see your therapist."

Soonyoung turns his body to face you fully, propping his chin in his hand and giving you all his attention.

"C'mon. Tell Soonie all your woes. I'm listening."

Normally, you'd probably slap him and shove him away, telling him to leave you alone unless he has stories to share about his hot Earthling witch. But you've been sensitive about your review and Junhui's switch-up on you, so instead, you start to weep at the extended kindness.

"Oh!" Soonyoung squeaks, panicked. "Oh devil, don't cry! What's going on?" He scoots his stool closer to yours and wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Hey!" he calls to the other two demons. "Get out of here! We need the room."

They oblige, shooting you worried glances as they scurry out with arms full of packing tape.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly once you're both left alone in the mail room.

"I had my performance review," you tell him, sniffling. "And it was going well, but then—but then, Jun said he doesn't want me as his assistant anymore once my contract is over."

"Huh?" The demon sounds as confused as you feel. "Why not?"

"I don't know!" you wail, startling him a little. "He wants to transfer me to Contracts and Collections once I die! He got so weird and… and… cagey about it, and he just left without having a proper conversation! And he hasn't talked to me since then!

"He doesn't wake me up. He leaves breakfast and coffee, but he doesn't wait for me to go to the office with him. He schedules his own meetings. He doesn't ask me for anything, not even hot pot. He hasn't talked to me—hasn't even looked at me!"

Soonyoung's palm starts to rub circles into your back as your crying becomes more and more hysterical.

"It's like he suddenly hates me!" you hiccup. "And I know that maybe I haven't been the most p-professional because I—I treat him like too much of a friend or a roommate or, or, or—whatever. But I thought we were friends. If he felt like I was crossing boundaries, why didn't he just say that?! He doesn't need to… to transfer me!"

"Hey, it's okay," the demon says soothingly. "He doesn't hate you. Anyone with eyes knows he doesn't hate you. Even the damned souls who've had their eyes gouged out know it. That can't be why he's transferring you."

"What else would it be?!" you shriek. "I kick ass at my job! My performance review said as much, anyway!"

"Why don't you just… ask him?"

"Because he won't talk to me!" you repeat, the words sending your forehead forward until it meets the desk with a thunk. Soonyoung makes a startled noise, his hand hovering over your slumped figure hesitantly. "And I'm scared."

He freezes, a shit-eating grin growing across his face. "You're scared? Of the Devil you swore wasn't scary?"

"Oh fuck off!" you wail, your tears making it impossible to see.

"Okay! Sorry! Sorry! Bad time!"

"What if I talk to him and he just fires me? Then, what? What happens to me? Where do I live? What do I do? Who will care if I'm not there one day?"

Soonyoung inhales sharply and says your name softly. "Do you really think no one else would care if you just… stopped showing up?" he asks, no judgment in the question. When you don't answer immediately, he assures you, "Because we would. We all would. You don't have to stay in that position or be around Jun 24/7 for somebody to care about you."

Your eyes widen at his use of your boss's name, but he doesn't panic or take it back or start stuttering out of fear like you think he normally would. Instead, he just shakes his head at you, brushing your hair out of your face and catching a tear with his knuckle.

"When you become a demon…" he says quietly, "you'll have your own living quarters in any part of Hell you want. You can even move into the lot next to mine. And if that's still not close enough to a friend, you can just be my roommate. Though I have to warn you that I sleepwalk sometimes and have been known to stab a stuffed toy or two during one of the spells."

You stare at him, mouth agape at the idea of Soonyoung stabbing you in his sleep.

"And if you really do get transferred somewhere else, then you'll be transferred somewhere else," he says nonchalantly, shrugging. "You'll get a new job, you'll kill it at that one too, and you'll continue to live your life down here with all of us. We'll keep torturing souls and hiding away from our jobs in the mail room and all the fun things we do now."

You feel your breathing start to slow. "You'd still be my friend?"

He grins. "Wait—" he takes his phone out. "Can you repeat that? I need to record it. What did you just call me?" You roll your eyes and slap his phone out of his hand, ignoring his gasp when it bounces on the table. "See, despite this behavior, yes. I will still be your friend."

"But do you think Jun would be? Do you think he'd have anything to do with me if I weren't working for him?"

"Mmm, it's not about the position, is it?" he asks. "It's about him." You stay quiet, ashamed of the implications of your answer. Soonyoung doesn't tease you or judge you or tell you that whatever it is you're feeling is wrong. He just sighs. "He loves you."

You frown deeply at the words, but the demon is too busy staring at the wall absentmindedly to notice.

"I can't see a world where he wouldn't want to stay your friend. You're the best assistant he's ever had, and he likes you enough to keep you as a roommate. And create a holiday for you."

And get angel cake for you. And decorate the kitchen for you. And take you to Earth whenever you feel like it or he thinks you need it. Constantly ask after your health. Make sure you eat three meals a day even though he needs to be reminded it's time to drink blood and eat organs. Trust you with things he's never told anybody else. Never let you be alone in the house at night even if he's ignoring you because he must know by now how much you hate it.

He's meant to be the most despicable creature in the universe, and he likes you enough to be soft for you.

"Oh my god," you murmur, pushing yourself up off the desk. "You're right."

"Yeah. I usually am."

"Don't push it."

"Fine."

"But… if he doesn't want to fire me, what reason would he have to transfer me out?" To get you farther away from him.

Soonyoung looks at you in amusement. "He may be the Devil, but everyone feels afraid of something." He shrugs. "He's probably scared too."

DAY NINETY-EIGHT

The last person you expect to be in Junhui's office when you barge in is a woman so blindingly beautiful, it makes you want to rip your own eyeballs out of your head and stomp on them for ever having the audacity to look upon her. She's seated across from him, with perfect hair and perfect posture and a perfect manicure and a perfect aura that seems to pulse and glow around her.

"Y/N!" she exclaims, gasping and standing. "I've heard so much about you." She throws Junhui a look before she walks over to you, a stupid and perfect smile on her stupid, perfect lips. "I've been wanting to meet you for quite some time, but I think Jun here has been hiding you from me. Worried I might poach you." She leans in and theatrically whispers, "I can totally make that happen, by the way, if you ever want to cross over to the light side."

"Y/N, meet God," Junhui sighs, waving a hand at the woman. "God, Y/N."

The revelation overshadows the fact that that's the first thing Junhui has said to you in days. You gasp so loudly, your boss flinches, and your eyes widen, quickly darting between the two. "God?! Is that you?!"

"In the flesh!" she says cheerily, brushing her hair behind her shoulders and grinning with all her perfectly white teeth.

"Oh my god—I mean, uh—oh my—holy shit—I mean, what the fuck?!" you stammer. "I've been wanting to meet you since I heard you were a woman."

She laughs and the sound is like choir bells softly ringing in the distance. "Of course I'm a woman. They would never put Heaven in the hands of a man."

"Oh my god—shit, sorry."

She shakes her head. "You can say it. I don't care."

"Oh my god," you say again just to say it. "You're so beautiful. I've literally never seen someone more beautiful."

"Okay, this is ridiculous." Your boss goes ignored.

"What's your skincare routine?"

"I use the tears of incels as my toner."

"Ugh, duh, of course."

"Y/N," Junhui says your name in a way that reminds you he's been busy pretending to hate you all week. "Is there a reason you're barging in here, interrupting my meeting without so much as a knock?"

"I'm going to head out," God announces, smiling. "Y/N, let's get coffee sometime."

"She's busy."

"No, I'm not!" you deny immediately. "Coffee would be amazing!"

"Splendid. I'll have my assistant reach out. See you soon then." She turns to Junhui and raises her eyebrows at him, and when he rolls his eyes but nods anyway, you wonder if they can communicate telepathically. She disappears, leaving nothing but dove feathers and white petals in her wake—both of which dissolve before you can lean down and pluck either off the ground as a keepsake.

You exhale, the rush of meeting God leaving you quite breathless. After a few moments, Junhui clears his throat exaggeratedly, gesturing for you to get on with whatever you rudely barged in here for.

You step forward, taking a seat where God just was. "Wow, God was just sitting here," you mutter. Junhui doesn't entertain you with a response. "Um. Hello."

"Hi."

"Why are you ignoring me?" you ask.

"I'm not," he denies it. You stare at him but he doesn't offer you anything else. He knows he doesn't have to explain himself to you, of all people.

"You are."

"I'm busy. That's all. So if you don't mind…" He tilts his head toward the door of his office. You stay right where you are.

"Are you not going to admit things are weird?" you ask, giving it one last shot before you try your best to make your boss near-homicidal. "That the best thing for the both of us is for me to stay here, as—"

"You don't know what the best thing for me is," he cuts in, face too blank for how cold his words are. "I've been alive longer than you can fathom, and I've fared just fine. I don't need you pretending you know what's best for me."

"You're being cruel, Junhui," you say, squeezing your hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

He smirks. "Yeah. Well. Welcome to Hell, darling."

You have no idea what happened in the last week—what could have caused Junhui to switch on you so fast—but it's clear to you now that you're not going to get an honest answer out of him with civil conversation.

"I've been thinking," you say, trying not to lose your nerve as you lie through your teeth. "If we both know that our time is limited and that you'll release my employment as soon as my contract is over, then maybe we should terminate my contract altogether. Maybe you should just… send me back to Earth."

He freezes, that blank mask falling over his features again. "Repeat that?"

You swallow. "Maybe we should—"

"And why the fuck would I do that?" he snaps before you can do as he asked and repeat yourself. "Your employment replaces the eternal servitude your parents were indebted with. Terminating now, a measly three months into your contract, would not benefit me."

"According to our termination clause," you say, begging your voice not to shake, "I'm under no obligation to deliver the equivalent of eternal servitude at the time of termination. The only requirement for termination is my natural death, the collapse of reality, or a mutual agreement."

"None of which you have," he hisses. "Because you sure as hell don't have my agreement. Now if you're done being a nuisance—"

"The fourth option was a legal challenge by three cosmic authorities and one archangel."

His eyes narrow at you, without a doubt hearing your negotiation voice through your nervousness. "You're aware that the only cosmic authorities are me and God, right? That the inclusion of that in your termination clause is a trick meant to present you with the illusion of choice?"

You scoff. If you were serious about terminating your employment, you'd be seriously pissed.

"I don't know why you keep needing me to remind you who I am," he says, his words landing sharp around the edges. You have no idea why he's so angry, but it's giving you more courage to do what you need to. "It's my job to be deceitful."

"Okay, let's try something new then," you say through gritted teeth, smiling tightly. "I'll remind you who I am. To answer your question, yes, I'm aware that you think the only cosmic authorities are you and God." His eyebrow furrows at the distinction. "So while you were busy throwing a tantrum and ignoring me all week, I have been studying. It turns out there are quite a few authorities I can choose from."

You see it clear as day—the panic that briefly flashes across his face before he schools it back into that careful mask again. His fingers grip the arms of his seat tightly as his eyes search you for some sign that you're bluffing.

"I happen to know a witch," you explain. "She communes with Pagan gods—a number of which she has assured me would be happy to uphold a challenge on my behalf."

"Pagan gods have no authority in Hell," Junhui's voice is low and dangerous, and you think if you were someone he liked even just a little less, your head would already be rolling right now.

"I'd imagine that has no bearing since the clause says 'cosmic authority,' not infernal authority," you point out, delighted when you catch his eye twitch. "But if that's your argument, I have another back-up."

"Wow. You really thought this through, didn't you, darling?" he asks, glaring at you. "So eager to be rid of me?"

"You've reminded me so many times who you are," you say simply. "I wasn't going to bring a knife to a gun fight with the Devil."

He hums in mock amusement, seeming more devilish now than you've ever seen him. His eyes flash a deep red. "Cunning little thing. Fine. I'll play along. Tell me about this back-up of yours."

You smile. "There's no higher authority than the Devil and God."

"Glad you agree."

"Except for the deities that made them."

He stares at you for so long, you'd assume he malfunctioned in any other scenario. You don't know how much time has elapsed when he asks, "You called my mom and dad…?"

You grin. "Yes! With the help of my witchy friend. Very lovely—your parents. Your dad took a little convincing, but with the help of your very understanding mother, we were able to secure his agreement to help." You shrug. "So with all of these options, I'd say I have more than enough authorities to legally challenge my contract."

"Wrong," he seethes. "You also need an archangel, and if God wants to avoid the guarantee of me absolutely decimating Heaven, she will be smart to advise her little, feathered flies to stay far, far, far away from you."

You purse your lips. "Well, that makes this a little awkward because Joshua has already agreed to—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

His voice causes a sort of sonic boom in his own office as he stands and slams his hands on his desk. You shriek as your hair is blown away from your face and the marble under his hands fractures into several hairline cracks. The Devil disappears, reappearing at your side and yanking your seat violently away from his desk. You gasp at the motion, the sound of it getting caught in your throat when Junhui hinges at the hips and cages you in with a hand on each arm of the seat. You're almost nose-to-nose as he speaks.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, hm?" he asks, his eyes bright red now. "Do you really want to do this with me right now? Because I'll fucking do this."

"Do what, Junhui?" you ask quietly.

"If you think you can leave me before I say it's okay to, you're so mistaken, it's pitiful," he tells you. "I own you. Do you understand? I own you. You belong to me."

"No I don't!" you protest weakly. "We specifically negotiated that when I first came here! It's in my—"

"I do not care," he accentuates each syllable, his voice drenched and dripping in so much venom, it shuts you up. "You think I need words to make you mine?" he barks a laugh out at the thought.

For the first time since meeting him, you truly see the Devil now. You think you understand why the others are so scared of him sometimes. Unfortunately, you don't quite have the same survival instinct they do, because all this does is make way for that familiar ache low in your stomach to return.

"Your contract is binding. If I have the means to leave, then—"

"Oh, baby, I'll have you chained up at home faster than you can ask any of your so-called gods for help," he informs you, snickering as he does. You squeeze your thighs together uselessly. It does nothing to alleviate your pain.

When the sound of his laughter dies, he takes a slow, deep breath, his exhale brushing up against your lips. He clicks his tongue in disapproval as his eyes sweep your face, his face deceivingly soft even though he looks like he's ready to eat you alive.

"I fear I've given you the wrong impression of me," he says quietly, one hand coming up to trace the side of your face as his gaze follows his own movement. The ache inside you grows nearly unbearable as he drags his finger down your cheek, across your jaw, and to your throat. "I'll admit it, though. It is my fault.

"I was nice to you. I cooked for you. Made sure you were happy. Safe. I gave you all my time. All my energy. And now you think because I care about you, that I'm also going to play nice. That I'll play fair, and I'll stop being the Devil."

One by one, his fingers slowly and delicately wrap themselves around the front of your throat. His gaze comes up to meet yours when he feels you swallow under his palm, and whatever he sees just makes his eyes glow a brighter red. He smirks.

"But you've got it all backwards. It's because I care about you that I'm going to play dirty. I care about you more than I've cared about any damn thing in my life," he says, stealing your breath away. "And you think I'd let something as trivial as our fucking signatures keep me from you?"

His grasp goes from your throat to your cheeks, and he squeezes, bringing you right back to the first night he appeared in your apartment.

"I'll tear that contract up right now, Y/N. I don't care. I'll keep you here anyway. You don't get to change everything about my life and then decide to leave it, darling. I don't care how ugly it makes me. I don't care if you think I'm a monster. I don't care. You're going to be here for fucking ever."

You glare at him, wriggling your face until it's free of his hold. He snorts, bringing it back down to the arm of your chair. "So you don't want me to leave."

He narrows his eyes at you. "I barely want you out of my sight. Why would I want you to leave?"

"God, was that so fucking hard?!" you shout, planting both hands on his chest and shoving him away from you. He steps away, clearly baffled as you stand and put space between the two of you before whipping back around. "You want me here! You want me to stay! You want me to be with you!"

His cheeks turn pink even as he looks at you like you're losing your mind. He doesn't confirm it, simply staring at you as you breathe hard at the realization that you and Soonyoung were right. Junhui is scared to lose you. If this isn't a man as equally terrified of being without you as you are of being without him, you don't know what is. It's just infuriating that he could only communicate that once you pretended you were set on leaving.

"I want to be here too," you say breathlessly. "I love it here so much. I love being here. With you. I love being with you. I…" You swallow hard, shaking your head. "Junhui, I love you."

He doesn't move a muscle, doesn't say a word—doesn't really show any sign of life, really. But you force yourself to keep going.

"I'm not even sure what to do with all of it because I've never felt this before. I've never cared like this before either. And if you're being honest… if you care about me too… then I'm confused.

"I don't know why you're trying to push me away. Why you're trying to make me go somewhere else, or have to be without you. I don't know why you want me to leave when my contract is up. If you need space, then say that. But… don't cast me out. Don't make me be without you," you plead pathetically.

You don't register that Junhui is walking toward you until you're done speaking and he's already reaching you, stopping when you're toe-to-toe. There's a split second where he seems to give you the chance to take everything you said back, but it passes too quickly for you to even fully register. Because his patience snaps and his large hands cradle your face, walking you backward until your back hits the wall. You find that he's taken the both of you back home, and you're in his room, pushed right up against his door.

He looks like he's committing your face to memory as one thumb runs across your bottom lip, before it pulls it down enough to open your mouth. He inhales sharply when you take it in, eyes fluttering closed as the warm saltiness of his skin hits your taste buds. He presses his thumb into the center of your tongue, dragging it out of your mouth and groaning at the obscenity of your spit coating his digit and dripping down his wrist. He lifts his thumb off you and you look up at him through your eyelashes, swallowing as you do.

"I wasn't trying to push you away. I'm sorry—I was—I'm…" He falters, unsure where to start. "I don't want you to be without me either," he finally says, voice husky as he stares at you like you're actively torturing him. "I need you. I need you so badly, you have no idea."

"Show me."

Without waiting another moment, Junhui leans down, and his mouth is on yours, hot and commanding as his hand snakes around the nape of your neck to bring you impossibly closer. His other hand comes to your waist, balling your shirt up and squeezing like he's fighting the instinct to tear it off.

You let your body give into its own instincts, kissing him the way it tells you it needs to and grabbing him wherever it wants to. You swear it feels like you spent your whole life doing this. Like you've never done anything other than kiss Junhui senseless. His tongue prods your mouth open, and you surrender, giving him entry to any part of you he wants.

You moan, sighing into it when his tongue meets yours, licking into your mouth so fervidly and getting you so burning hot, you're half worried your body is actually catching on fire.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers as you break away for a breath, not missing a beat as he starts leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

"Junhui," you gasp, "if you stop, I swear I'll find a way to fucking kill you."

He chuckles against your skin, the mere feeling of his breath causing you to roll your hips into his. He groans at that, roughly pressing his already hard dick against you and pinning you to the door completely. You whimper, immediately trying to create friction on your clit but finding that you can't move under him.

"Be careful, darling," he warns you, his voice vibrating through his chest and into yours, where you're pressed together. "You don't know what you're playing with."

"Please," you whine, throwing your head back and sighing impatiently. "Please, please, please. Need more."

"Ugh, sound so pretty," he grunts, allowing just enough space for him to fit his hand between you and unbutton your pants. "So needy, hm? What do you need, darling? Tell me."

He brings the zipper down, his pointer finger resting against the bare skin right above your panties.

"Need you."

"I'm right here."

"Touch me," you beg, trying to roll against him. He flattens his palm against your stomach and keeps you in place, smirking when you whine in frustration. "Please!"

"Mmm," he hooks one finger into your panties, running it back and forth teasingly. "So impatient." He slips his finger in further, making your breath hitch. "You should know by now…" he whispers, finally slipping his hand down your panties. "That I'll give you anything…" He cups your cunt, holding you steady when the sensation makes your entire body jerk. "Anything you ask for."

You gasp and grip his shoulder tightly as he parts your folds, running two fingers through them and collecting your arousal before he presses your clit firmly.

"Oh fuck," you breathe, head tilting back against his door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Junhui."

"Fucking love it when you say my name," he confesses in a broken whisper to your ear, massaging you too slowly. You look up at him, dazed and convinced you'd collapse to the floor if he stepped away from you. He watches you with hooded eyes and a lazy smile. "Will you say it again for me, darling?"

"Junhui," you near cry, gasping when he rewards you with faster, harsher circles. "Junhui, I—"

You squeal as you're suddenly bouncing back in his bed, his tall frame towering over you as he kneels between your legs. You didn't anticipate Junhui using his Hell-given abilities while fooling around, but you find it useful, wasting no time sitting up and whipping your shirt off your body before reaching for the buttons on his and undoing them clumsily.

You're not even through all of them when you shove the fabric off his shoulders frantically, unable to help yourself as you giggle at the sight of a topless Junhui in bed with you. Before you can bring your hands to his bare skin, his fingers circle around your wrists, stopping you.

You look up at him to find him looking at you with wide eyes and parted lips.

"Are… are you okay?" you ask, unable to ask if he changed his mind. You don't think you'll be able to recover from the embarrassment of your eagerness if he's suddenly changed his mind.

He squeezes your wrists, absentmindedly bringing them to his chest and holding them there. You press your palms against his hot skin, exhaling when you feel his steady heartbeat underneath your fingertips.

Junhui utters your name so softly, it almost sounds like a hallucination. You look back up at him, and you're floored by how much reverence he looks at you with, his eyes searching you with an almost panicked energy—like eternity isn't enough time to spend looking at you. You melt into his grip.

"Junnie?"

"I, uh," he starts, licking his lips nervously. "I'm right there with you… I don't know what to do with everything I feel either. It's so—" He swallows. "It's so much. And I've never felt like this."

You swipe your thumb across his heartbeat, giving him an encouraging smile and nod as you wait for him to think through his thoughts. He exhales.

"I can't promise to know what to do at every turn," he admits. "I know I've already messed up. But… I love you too." The side of his mouth twitches up into a brief smile before it opens again to speak. Nothing comes out for a moment. Then, he says it again. "I love you. And you'll never be without me. Never."

You bring a hand to cradle his face, the grasp he has on your wrist sliding down to hang loosely from your forearm. He leans forward to rest his forehead against yours.

"Junhui," you murmur. "Are you going to show me?"

He nods, smiling as he starts to crawl over you until you're pressed flat against his pillows. He reaches down to kiss you, licking, sucking, and biting as he does. Then, he starts making his way down, mouth leaving marks in your skin as he does, and you're too busy getting lost in the pleasure of belonging to someone to protest the hickeys. You know you'll be mortified later, but right now, the thought of everyone seeing what Junhui did to your body makes you so unbelievably wet, you squirm underneath him.

"Junhui," you breathe, hips bucking up into his. "I, um—oh fuck."

His fingers hook into your pants and your underwear, shoving both down as he bites your collarbone. He runs his tongue across his marks before he sits back, pulling your clothes off your legs and tossing them aside carelessly and leaving you naked from the waist down. He rests his hands atop your thighs, massaging the flesh there as he stares down at your pussy, his eyes growing so dark, they're nearly black.

"Perfect," he whispers as he drops to his stomach between your legs, hooking each over his shoulders so he can get as close to you as humanly possible. "Tell me I can. Please."

His eyes don't leave your glistening cunt as he pleads, groaning when you clench around nothing because the ache is threatening to kill you at this point. You nod frantically.

"Ye—" You're cut off by your own gasp because that's all he needs.

He surges forward, his tongue lapping at your clit like he hasn't eaten in ages. You struggle to keep your hips still, your mind reeling as you experience something you never have before. How did people do this? How did people feel this good and keep from completely falling apart in someone else's hands? Because you think you might die tonight. You think you might die right here, in Hell, with the Devil's face pressed tightly against your cunt as he drinks you up.

He holds your legs open, groaning as he licks stripes up your folds, his tongue leaving no part of you unexplored.

"Junhui," you moan, hand slipping into his hair and pulling uncontrollably. The vibrations of his groans against you make your toes curl, and you think you're edging closer and closer to this imminent death. "I'm… I…"

"What is it, baby?" he sloppily speaks against you, refusing to let his mouth completely leave your pussy. He travels further down, until his tongue is poking into your hole, gently massaging its way in until his cheeks are practically welded to your inner thighs and his nose is buried in your folds.

"Holy shit!" you gasp, hips rolling on their own in rhythm with Junhui's tongue as it licks and thrusts into you. "Oh… oh my god… Jun… Jun, I… I… so good. It feels so good…"

He pauses for only a moment to tell you, "Come on my face, darling."

There's no time to respond before his tongue is inside you again, and the words alone are enough to push you toward what you thought was death and realize now was your orgasm. Your fingers close in a fist around Junhui's hair, your other hand gripping his sheets like you'll float right out of your body if you let go.

The noises that leave your mouth are noises you've never made in your life, and they just make Junhui move more aggressively—more desperately. Just before he retracts his tongue, he breathes you in deeply, his hips grinding into his bed as he groans at your scent.

"Jun!" you shriek, mortified as you shove his head away. It doesn't go far; after all, you aren't very strong compared to the literal Devil.

"You smell divine," he informs you, licking the entire length of your slit and taking another deep inhale. "You smell like you're mine. Taste like you're mine."

You whimper at the nearly overstimulating sensation. He lifts his head and when you meet his eyes, you flinch and it makes him smirk. The dark of Junhui's eyes had spread while he was between your legs, and there's no longer any white left of them.

"Are you scared?" he asks, his voice powerful and guttural. Almost wild. He crawls up over you, head tilting as he stares at you and waits for your response.

"No," you say truthfully. You writhe under him, hands reaching for his naked torso. He leans back before you can touch him, though, obviously amused when you're disappointed. "Jun."

"Hm?" he hums, clearly distracted as he's turning his attention back to your pussy. He takes two fingers through your folds before he brings them to his mouth, sucking hard and tilting his head back with a hedonistic moan. "You're delectable, baby."

You breathe hard, even as all you do is lay there, watching the man you've managed to fall in love with in a handful of months taste parts of you no one else has and now never will. It does something to you—knowing that he's consumed a part of you. That you're inside the Devil.

"Mmm, I'm part of you now," you whisper. He lets his fingers fall from his mouth and when he brings his head back down, his black eyes pierce right through you.

"Does the thought of that please you?" he asks, bending down to lick and nibble at the flesh of your inner thigh. You're too busy squirming to answer the question. "Do you like thinking of us as one?"

"Yes, Junnie," you sigh. "Oh my god, yes."

He smirks, two fingers slipping into you without much resistance after he's already made you come. "Do you want a part of me too, darling?" You mewl as he spreads his fingers, scissoring you open leisurely. "You can have my fingers…" He shoves his fingers into you until he's knuckle-deep, pulling a cry out of you before he starts curling his fingers into a spot that has you seeing stars when you squeeze your eyes shut. "You can have my mouth… my tongue…"

"You," you gasp. "Want you."

"Hm. Maybe soon… if you can give me another one," he tells you, fingers moving faster. "Do you think you can give me another one, baby?"

You nod, murmuring incoherently, no idea what you're even trying to say. Your body starts to move on its own, trying desperately to meet Junhui's fingers with so much fervor, you're sure his knuckles will leave you bruised. You don't care, not when you're so close.

"One more." Junhui's voice is suddenly at your ear, his tongue darting out to catch your lobe and suck. You let out a hysterical keen at the two sensations working together to bring you to your second orgasm. When you get there, the feeling pulls you under, and you officially lose yourself in the Devil's bed.

It feels like free-falling through the dark, nothing but the sound of Junhui's praise reminding you where and who you are.

"That's it, baby, that's it," he growls, his fingers becoming frenetic as he pants above you, hips grinding against you. "Oh, you're doing so good. You're fucking perfect."

"Need it," you gasp, finally blinking your eyes open as you register the rock hard body part pressed into your thigh as Junhui's cock. "Need it, please. Please."

You press Junhui away from you, holding your breath as his fingers slip out of you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, letting the straps of your bra fall off your shoulders. Junhui's black eyes drop at the movement as he brings his fingers into his mouth again. His eyes seem to roll into the back of his head momentarily, and you get chills only seeing more black. Once he's swallowed your slick, he leans over you, arm immediately coming up to wrap around your torso. His fingers make quick work of the clasps of your bra, popping it open easily and tossing it aside the same way he did your other clothes.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he whispers, chanting the word over and over again as he dips down to take your nipple in his mouth.

"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat when you hear how raspy your voice sounds. He hums but continues circling your nipple with his tongue. "Junhui, hold on."

He immediately releases you, head snapping up to look at you. You watch as his eyes return to normal, allowing you to see the concern in them upon hearing your request to stop.

"Are you okay?" he asks, pushing himself off your body slightly.

"No—yes! I mean yes," you say, laughing a little. "I'm okay. I just…" you reach up to trace the lines of his collarbone, into his pecs, and down his abs, feeling entranced and momentarily forgetting what you wanted to say.

"What is it, darling?" He reaches up to massage your breast and you let your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm… I've uh, never done this," you admit.

He freezes over you, and you open your eyes, a little panicked that he's about to stop before you get to the good part—the part you desperately need. But he looks down at you fondly, a small smile on his lips.

"You've never done what?" he asks teasingly.

You glare at him. "Junnie, please."

He laughs. "I'm just kidding, love." He bends down to catch your lips in a quick kiss.

"I like that."

"What?" he asks, leaning back to look at you once more. "'Love'?" You nod sheepishly and he grins. "Mmm, 'love' it is."

The two of you kiss for a few minutes, just enjoying the feeling of your tongues sliding against each other and your hands caressing each other's bodies. When you start bucking up into him again, he breaks the kiss and presses his hips to yours to stop you from moving. You groan in frustration.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "That you want to… do this? With me?"

You nod. "Yes. Yes. I've never been surer. Are you—"

"Don't even," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. You bite down a giggle. He sits back on his heels, unbuttoning his pants, and your heart leaps into your throat.

You sit up along with him, crawling onto your knees and gently pushing his hands away as you undo his zipper. When his slacks and his underwear are off, your throat suddenly feels dry as you wonder if there's enough room inside you for him.

"Oh my god," you breathe.

"C'mere," he says softly, taking your hand in his and guiding you until you're straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist and hugging you to him. You wrap your hand around his cock between your bodies, pumping a few times before you press it against your clit for you to grind against. "Fuck."

You moan in agreement, your movements growing frantic as you chase the friction, your slick coating the underside of his cock until Junhui is near whimpering underneath you.

"Are… are you ready?" he asks, hand tracing gentle shapes into the skin of your back. You nod quickly.

"Yes, yes, please, I'm ready."

He untangles his arms from you, one hand planting itself on the bed behind him to support the two of you and the other finding yours and intertwining with your fingers. He guides you to lean your weight into your joined hands as you rise onto your knees to line his cock up with your hole.

"Take it as slow as you need to," he reminds you, leading your hand to his shoulder and wrapping his arm around your waist once more. "It might hurt a little at first. We can stop at any point, okay?"

You shake your head. "No, not okay."

He smirks but it quickly falls off his face when you start lowering yourself, the head of his cock sliding into you with ease at first. It quickly meets resistance, though, your muscles tensing at his size.

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He doesn't complain, simply leaning forward to leave gentle kisses across your collar and shoulder. He doesn't hurry you, either, saying nothing when you have to pause for a minute or two to adjust to his size. Between the kisses he leaves on you and the caress of his fingers, you relax enough to let him in inch by inch.

Then, finally, he bottoms out, your hips meeting with the delicious feeling of his balls resting against your ass.

He groans loudly, touching his forehead to your shoulder. You cradle his head, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of being full.

"You're so big," you whisper.

"Mmm…" he hums absentmindedly, the hand on your back pressing flat against you like he needs you even closer than you already are. "Breathe, baby."

The command is the only reason you notice you're holding your breath. You try to exhale, struggling with the feeling that if you do, Junhui's dick will quite literally split you in half.

"Breathe…" he coos soothingly. "You're fine, love, you're fine. Just breathe… take your time."

You don't know how long it takes for your abdominal muscles to relax around the feeling of Junhui inside your guts. When you do, though, you know it's okay to move from the fact that breathing finally comes easily to you again.

"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat. "I want to move now."

"Go ahead, baby," he says, nodding. "I've got you."

He supports you, holding you with so much care as you start with rolling your hips to ease yourself into the feeling of him moving inside you. It's only a few more movements before you're lifting yourself off him and coming back down, the drag of his cock inside you pulling moan after moan out of you.

You bring both palms to either side of Junhui's face, tilting his head up. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, his pupils vibrating erratically like there's a battle happening inside him. You take shallower thrusts to reach down and connect your lips to Junhui's, eagerly swallowing all the whimpers he makes.

Then, when you break apart, foreheads resting against each other, you look into his eyes and tell him, "Let go, Junhui. Let go for me."

Whatever is happening inside him comes to a head, and the black of his pupils start to seep into the brown, and into the white, spreading until his eyes are a bottomless abyss again. But Junhui's pleasure knows no bounds now, and the perimeter of his room also goes up in white hot blue flames. As his moans get louder, the fire pulses, growing and climbing up the walls and across the ceiling but never burning through anything or getting anywhere close to you.

You groan at the thought of you and your cunt being the cause of this burning loss of control the Devil is experiencing, and it suddenly isn't enough. You tilt your head up, eyes barely focusing on the rippling blue flames dancing above your heads as you lift yourself almost completely off him before crashing back down. The room is a cacophony of skin meeting skin, desperate gasps for air, and whines for more.

"Oh, fuck," Junhui curses, leaning back onto the hand on his bed to support himself as he starts to thrust his hips up to meet yours each time you come back down. The flames ferociously lick every surface of the walls.

"Junnie," you gasp when his movements start to get rough, the feeling of being split open no longer scaring you and suddenly becoming a sensation you're actively chasing. "Feels… feels so good."

"You feel fucking amazing," he tells you with a broken moan. "Made for me."

You nod desperately. "I was." You ride him easily now, smiling when you notice him watching your tits as they bounce in his face with every thrust. "Was made just for you."

"Fuck," he whimpers, the glow of blue fire illuminating just how much he enjoys that. "Say that again. Fucking say that again." His grasp on your waist becomes bruising and it makes the burn in your thighs tolerable as you slam down on him repeatedly.

"This pussy was made for you," you tell him, the words followed by a scream when Junhui suddenly turns the two of you over without warning, leaving you no time to adjust as he starts thrusting into you so fast and hard and violently, you're immediately rendered boneless.

"That's fucking right," he grunts, taking both your hands in his and holding them above your head as his hips piston mercilessly. "Just for me, huh?" You nod wildly. "Your first and your last."

"Junhui!"

He kisses you then, his mouth hungry and impatient and sending an electric sensation straight to your cunt. Almost like he knows what's happening underneath him, he starts grinding his pubic bone hard over your clit to drive you even closer.

"Jun…" You squeeze your eyes shut and your nails carve half moons into his hands. "I'm going to… I'm…"

"Me too, love," he breathes. "So close…"

"Please," you beg, though you're unsure what for. Junhui seems to know somehow because he nods at your pleas. "Please, baby."

"Gonna fill you up," he promises. It isn't until he says that that you realize that's exactly what you're begging for. "Is that what you want? Wanna be pumped full of my cum?"

"Fuck, yes. Yes."

It only takes two more thrusts before your thighs are clamping around his torso hard, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back as you come. Your walls spasm and suck him in, demanding more of him even as you hug him as close as possible with your legs.

He grunts loudly, fucking you through your orgasm for only a few seconds more before his own hits him. The fire roars and the room is bathed in blue. "Take it, baby," he nearly shouts when he comes inside you. It feels never-ending as he fucks his own cum deeper and deeper into you. "You want it, take it all."

"Junhui," you whimper, feeling him beginning to spill out of you when his cum has nowhere else to go. "No, no, no, no. Please." He hums in question. "Keep it in. Keep it… keep—"

The flames slowly fade to red, calming down to a gentle flicker that's more reminiscent of candlelight than the wild Hellfire used to melt flesh off the bones of damned souls. Junhui's thrusts come to a stop, and he makes sure to go as far into you as he can to seal his seed inside you. You sigh happily at the thought of being full of him.

"Thank you," you mutter, hugging him close. "Thank you."

He peppers everywhere he can reach with kisses—your face, your neck, your hair—careful not to move his lower body so you don't start whining that he's letting his cum drip out of you again.

"How are you?" he asks after he feels that you've caught your breath. "Are you okay?"

You nod. Okay is an understatement. You don't think you've ever felt bliss quite like this. Your body is so loose and pliant and relaxed, and you know it's because you've been so thoroughly and carefully fucked.

"I love you." It's the last thing you say before you unintentionally drift off to sleep.

DAY NINETY-NINE

When you wake up, it's dark and warm, and you've been cleaned and changed into your silk pajamas. You don't doubt that all happened with a snap of Junhui's fingers. You take stock of your body, wincing a little at the soreness between your legs and in your thighs.

"Hey." Junhui's voice is gravelly and thick with sleep. His arms follow close behind his greeting, tightening around your waist and pulling you until your back is flush against his chest.

"Hi," you whisper through a yawn.

"How do you feel?" He plants a kiss on your shoulder. "Does anything hurt?"

"Yes, but it feels good," you tell him honestly. "Really good."

"Good. Now come on. You need to eat."

You immediately shake your head. "No."

"Yes."

"No—hey!" Junhui suddenly disappears from the bed, leaving you without his arms wrapped around you. You shriek when the covers are ripped off you and the eye mask you didn't even know you were wearing vanishes, allowing the lights of Junhui's room to blind you. "Jun!"

"Food time," he hisses, hauling you up and into his arms.

You're seated at the kitchen island before you can register what's happening, a breakfast already cooked and ready for you. You blink at it.

"You cooked?"

"Of course I cooked. When have I not cooked you breakfast?"

You frown, realizing the only time he's ever left you without a meal in the morning was when he was sick. You just shared yourself with Junhui in a way you've never shared yourself with anyone, and still, this makes you blush furiously for some reason.

He smirks but doesn't comment on it. "Eat up, love. We have a lot to talk about."

And he doesn't waste any time, starting as soon as you've put away the last piece of bacon on your plate. The dishes disappear and he sits next to you, fully facing you and resting his arm along the back of your seat. He watches you carefully, a soft smile on his lips as he takes in every bit of you.

"Hi," you say pathetically.

"Hi."

"Thanks for breakfast. And… everything else. It was perfect."

His smile widens drastically, eyes raking over all the exposed bits of skin where he can see the marks he left on you with his mouth. Mercifully, he doesn't say anything about them. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me. For sharing that with me."

You blush furiously and look away, ignoring the way it makes him chuckle. "Okay, anyway, what do we need to talk about?"

"Ah. Your contract."

Your stomach sours. You'd forgotten that you two had never finished your conversation. You got so lost in Junhui—or rather, he got lost in you—it didn't occur to you that you still had things to discuss.

"It's important to me that you know I wasn't trying to make you leave," he mutters, reaching forward to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "I think I've made it quite clear how much I do not want you to leave."

You nod, trying not to fidget as you think about how much his reaction to the termination of your contract turned you on. "Well, then… so why do you want me to transfer out?"

"Because you were always going to be mine," he says simply. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"Presumptuous of you."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "So be it. But I knew. And you can't be mine if you work directly under me."

You bark out your laughter, looking at him incredulously. "You mean to tell me… you're willing to hold me hostage and chain me up at home, but you draw the line at fucking your assistant?!"

He purses his lips to keep from smiling at the mere mention of sex with you. He rolls his eyes. "Say what you want, but chaining you up and holding you hostage is kind of par for the course in Hell. Fucking your direct report, though—generally frowned down upon. You moving into another department upon your contract completion would take care of that for me. I just… didn't know how to communicate that without having told you how I felt yet.

"So... I kind of panicked and thought if I just stopped communicating at all, maybe that would quicken the process and you'd just want to transfer on your own sooner, then I could explain myself. I didn't anticipate you threatening to leave Hell altogether. But I can see why my behavior would make you feel like I wanted you to. I'm sorry for that."

You hum, nodding as you process this information. "See, this is why you need to go to therapy. You probably could've figured that out before I had a meltdown, sobbing to a demon in the mail room."

He frowns. "You cried?" You shrug. "And who the fuck did you cry to?"

You scoff. "You're such a jealous person."

"I am not jealous."

"You buried Minghao under so much work, the man won't even look at me anymore."

"Good. That's the point."

You roll your eyes but can't help the feeling of satisfaction that blooms in your chest at that. You'll never admit to him how much his possessiveness pleases you.

"I'm sorry again," he says. "For making you cry."

You shake your head. "It was a misunderstanding. I'm sorry for goading you into your own little meltdown."

He glares at you. "Don't ever do that again. I was this close to leaving you mid-sentence to go eviscerate Joshua. That would've been incredibly unfortunate." You raise your eyebrows at the understatement. "Did you really call my parents?"

You nod, smiling. "Yes. They're lovely. I didn't tell them anything, though. Just called under the guise that I was updating all of your contacts."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're insane."

"I didn't know how else to get you to admit you wanted me to stay."

Junhui sighs, cupping a hand behind your neck and reaching forward to kiss you like he needs to remind you immediately that he does want you to stay.

"Of course I want you to stay," he says as he releases you. "You don't want to see what I'd do if you left."

"I can imagine," you say, amused.

"You can't," he disagrees, shaking his head. The seriousness in his voice doesn't scare you, though. It just turns you on all over again. "But we won't have to worry about that. Right?"

You shake your head. "Nope. Not unless you randomly decide to push me away again." He groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder and sighing. "I'm kidding, Junhui. We're fine. Your ranking of what's immoral is a little skewed, but we're fine."

He raises his head and glares at you. "Chains in Hell are normal."

"Sure."

"Fucking your direct report is not."

"You technically just did."

He winces. "Well, that's what we need to talk about."

Your heart jumps. "What do you mean…?"

Junhui reaches over to hold your hand, threading your fingers together. "You're going to have to transfer before your mortal death, darling."

"What…?" you ask, crestfallen. "But… I…"

"Hey, hey, hey," he calls, standing and pulling your bar stool so that it's facing him. He pushes your legs apart so he can stand between them and take your face in his hands. "You're still going to live here for as long as you want. You're still going to see me as much as you want. You're still going to be mine, and I'm still going to be yours. You're not going to be without me, okay?"

Your breathing slows, the Devil effectively quelling your growing panic before it even becomes anything real. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah… yes. I'm still going to have you and my friends and my job and everything I love." And you're still going to have therapy to help you remember that.

He hums in affirmation. "Yes you are. You're going to have everything you've ever wanted and will want. I'll make sure of it."

Your cheeks grow hot and you turn in a weak attempt to hide it. But your face is still in Junhui's hold, so he guides your gaze back to his. He smiles fondly at the pink dusting your cheeks and bends down to press a kiss to both.

"I love you," he says, looking deeply into your eyes when he says it. "No matter where in Hell you are and no matter what role you're in. I love you and you have me."

You smile up at him, closing your eyes as you nod. You feel his lips touch your eyelids before they press against your mouth. He tastes like coffee and ghost pepper chips and you fight to keep from laughing in his face because of it.

"What?" he murmurs, feeling the amusement in your lips.

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I love you, Junhui. Now take me back to bed."

"Gladly."

DAY ONE HUNDRED

THE INFERNAL ADMINISTRATION OF HELL Office of Internal Communications Memorandum

Executive Leave

Please be advised that His Infernal Majesty and his Chief of Staff will be out of office on approved executive leave for the next week.

During this period:

Do not attempt to summon His Infernal Majesty for matters deemed "urgent" unless they are apocalyptic

Matters involving routine damnation, contract approvals, ritual inquiries, plague authorizations, and standard temptations should continue through normal channels

Ouija Board communications from minors should be redirected to and screened by the Community Outreach Desk

Please note that executive leave is not to be interpreted as an invitation to stage a coup.

Additionally, His Infernal Majesty would like to announce an organizational restructuring. Upon her return from executive leave, Y/N will transition from the position of Chief of Staff to Director of Contract Negotiations.

In her new role, Y/N will oversee:

High-value mortal negotiations

Executive-level contract drafting and review

Treaty negotiations with celestial representatives

Appeals involving legacy soul agreements

Cross-departmental bargaining strategy

Y/N will now report to the Chief Torment and Innovation Officer.

A message from His Infernal Majesty:

"Y/N has demonstrated exceptional judgment, professionalism, and integrity throughout her tenure as Chief of Staff. This move reflects not only her accomplishments, but the confidence I place in her continued leadership. She has my full authority in all matters pertaining to infernal negotiations."

Please join Executive Leadership in congratulating Y/N on her well-earned advancement and wishing both executives a restful leave. (Fun Fact: The last time His Infernal Majesty took more than three consecutive days away from the office, the Byzantine Empire still existed!)

We appreciate your patience as he attempts this exciting new experience known as "relaxing."

This memorandum has been reviewed and approved by the Office of Internal Communications and His Infernal Majesty.

DAY ONE

"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"

You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.

His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.

You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.

The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"

Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.

"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.

"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."

You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.

"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"

You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.

"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."

"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.

"I don't have toiletries."

"You'll find it appropriately stocked."

"But what about my skincare?"

"Again. Appropriately stocked."

"You don't even know my skin concerns."

"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."

You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."

"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."

"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.

You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.

"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."

"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."

Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.

DAY FOUR

For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.

You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.

The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.

The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.

But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.

"Good morning. Kind of."

You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."

"Had some business in Australia."

You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."

He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.

You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.

When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"

You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.

You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.

"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."

Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.

"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."

The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"

The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"

It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.

When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.

It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.

"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.

"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.

"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"

The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?

Wait. Their souls?

"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."

"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).

"Their daughter."

You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.

You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.

"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"But… I'm here…"

He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"

"The Devil?!"

"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."

You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.

"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."

"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.

"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"

He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."

"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."

"So… you're… enslaving me?"

He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."

"A contract."

"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"

"Enslavement."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"

"Wow, what a gentleman."

"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.

"But I didn't ask you for anything."

"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."

"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"

He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.

"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.

INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT

Contract ID 666-4 This Agreement is entered into between:

THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";

and

Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".

PREAMBLE

WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;

WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;

WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;

WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;

THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:

OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.

Duties shall include, but are not limited to:

Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day

Responding to customer complaints from damned souls

Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks

Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises

Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots

Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes

Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire

Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday

Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department

Conducting annual inventories of screams

Working closely with Minghao from Accounting

Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.

OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.

You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

"What's the catch?"

"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."

"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."

You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."

He smirks and follows directions.

"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"

"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."

He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"

The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"

His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"

You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."

You sigh and skim the employment agreement.

POSITION

Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty

Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:

Maintaining Employer's schedule

Screening calls

Organizing contracts

Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.

Managing infernal correspondence

Other duties as assigned

Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.

COMPENSATION

During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:

Free housing

Free meals

Free skincare

Access to infernal healthcare

Unlimited coffee

Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:

Permanent demon status

Comfortable accommodations

Full retirement benefits

Choice of station

WORKPLACE CONDUCT

Employer shall not:

Steal Employee's soul

Curse Employee without written notice

Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)

Employee shall not:

Summon competitors

Sign contracts on Employer's behalf

Open portals without supervision

Feed eldritch horrors after midnight

TERMINATION

This Agreement may only be terminated by:

Employee's natural death

The collapse of reality

Mutual agreement

A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel

INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION

Upon execution of this Agreement:

Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents

Employer shall permanently cease collection efforts

Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"

The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.

You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.

"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.

"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."

"We—"

"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."

He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.

"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."

"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"

"You're the literal Devil."

"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"

You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.

"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."

"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"

You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."

He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."

The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"

"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."

"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"

"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."

"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."

He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."

"What if you hurt me?" you point out.

He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."

You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?

"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"

You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."

"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"

"On the point of employment until death…"

The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."

You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."

"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."

"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."

He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."

The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.

"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay…"

"What?"

"What do I call you?"

"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."

"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."

He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.

"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."

And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."

When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.

"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"

DAY TEN

Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.

You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.

And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.

He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.

Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.

"So… who are you…?"

You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.

The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"

You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."

He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."

"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.

The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.

"I am not dead."

"What's your—"

"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.

"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"

You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.

"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"

"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.

"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.

"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.

"Stop!"

"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"

"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."

You hum in approval. "Good to hear."

"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."

You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."

"Your funeral."

"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"

The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."

"I didn't ask."

"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"

You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.

"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"

"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"

You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."

Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.

Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.

Dear Satan,

If you're real, prove it.

You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.

"Interesting."

"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."

He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.

"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"

He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.

"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.

You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.

Dear Satan, should I text my ex?

I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.

Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?

No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.

Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?

Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.

Probably. What's her name?

He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"

You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"

"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."

"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."

"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"

"Nope. Get used to it."

DAY SIXTEEN

Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.

This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.

It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.

"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"

"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."

"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.

"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."

You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."

"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."

"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."

"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."

"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"

"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."

You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."

You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."

"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."

"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."

You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.

You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.

You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.

"Hello?"

"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."

"Thanks," he says slowly.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay then. Bye."

You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.

You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.

You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"

He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.

"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.

"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."

"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."

"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."

You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.

"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."

"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."

You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Is that allowed?"

He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."

You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.

"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.

The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.

Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.

"Summoning uniform."

"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.

"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.

"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.

"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."

"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.

"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"

"Infernal Majesty."

"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.

The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.

"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."

"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.

"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."

"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

"Our tithes are declining."

"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.

Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."

The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"

"He gets it," Jun cuts in.

"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."

"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.

"For…?"

Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.

"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"

"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."

You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"

He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.

You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.

"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"

You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"

"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"

Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."

"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"

"Where are they?"

"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"

"Um, can we get back to the—"

"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.

"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."

"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.

"Unnecessary, but we'll—"

"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"

"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"

"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.

"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"

Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.

"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.

"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"

"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."

"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."

Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."

The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.

"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"

"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.

"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."

There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.

"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"

"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."

You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"

Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.

"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."

The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.

"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."

"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"

You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.

"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."

The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.

"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."

Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."

"I was right."

"Hm?"

"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."

You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."

"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"

You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.

Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.

You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.

Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.

There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.

Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.

That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?

Will you leave me alone if I agree?

JUN.

One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.

Exhibit A: Soonyoung.

Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.

"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."

The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"

He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"

"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."

He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Next question."

The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."

"Why not?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"

You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."

"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."

"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."

"Yes."

"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."

Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."

"The dude—"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"

The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.

You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.

"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."

You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"

"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"

You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."

"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."

"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."

He groans. "Yes it is!"

"It isn't."

"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."

"Why do you think that?"

He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"

You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"

"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."

"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."

"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."

"And do what?"

His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."

"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"

"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"

The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.

But you're not so you aren't. You smile.

"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."

The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"

"Spit it out."

"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."

You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.

"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."

"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"

"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"

"Because it's the full moon."

"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"

Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.

"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"

You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.

"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"

"Okay, relax," he mutters.

"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"

"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."

The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.

"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"

When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.

"What is it?" you ask.

"I am a great boss."

"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you? Because you—"

"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."

"Hm."

"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Mhm."

"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.

DAY THIRTY

You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.

"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.

Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.

"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.

Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.

Meeting with Archangel Joshua Marketing Team pitch Block for contracts Block for collection Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory) Hellhound training check-in Block for contracts 1:1 with Chief Torment Officer

His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.

"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.

"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"

"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"

"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."

You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.

"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.

"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."

Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.

But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.

"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.

And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.

"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.

"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.

You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.

The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.

"Hey!"

"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."

"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."

"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."

"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."

"Week."

"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.

"Specific."

"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.

You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.

Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.

When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.

"You're a baby when you're sick."

"I could die."

"You literally couldn't."

He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."

"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.

"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."

"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."

Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"

You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"

"Why are you feeding me?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"

Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.

"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.

After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.

"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."

"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."

You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.

"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.

There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.

You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.

Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.

It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.

The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"

"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"

"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."

You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"

"Archangel Brayden…?"

The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.

"Tell him he's not available."

"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.

"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"

You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"

"You said—"

"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."

"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.

"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"

"Who am I speaking to?"

You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.

He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."

"And why is that?"

He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."

"Well, he's busy."

"I haven't even given you my availability."

"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.

There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."

"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.

"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"

"I am literally none of those four things."

"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."

"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"

"Brayden."

You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.

He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.

"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.

"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?

"What a fucking tool," you murmur.

"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.

"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"

"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.

"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."

"Hm."

You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.

"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.

"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"

"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."

The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.

"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"

"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"

Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."

He squeaks in protest. "I—"

"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."

"Uh, I, um, sir—"

"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"

"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"

"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."

"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."

Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"

"Yes?" his voice trembles.

"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."

There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.

"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."

The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.

As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.

"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."

He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.

"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."

"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"

He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."

"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.

Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.

"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.

"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."

The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.

You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.

"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"

"Okay."

"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."

You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."

"Mhm."

"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.

"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."

You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."

You laugh. "Will do."

You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Jun: where tf r u Me: have a dr appt!!! Jun: what why r u ok Jun: i'll come over Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up Jun: u sure ur ok? Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon. Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back Me: bruh Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me??? Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me Me: you could have just called Jun: k wtvr noted Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK

"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.

You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."

The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."

"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"

"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."

You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.

Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.

"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.

"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."

The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"

"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"

"Brayden."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"

You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."

The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.

"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."

You frown. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"

"Uh…" You're stumped.

It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.

You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.

"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.

"Can you read minds?"

She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."

"But I haven't given you my symptoms."

"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."

You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."

You startle. "What? Why?"

"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."

You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.

"Are you done?"

"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"

"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."

Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."

"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"

She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."

"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?

"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.

"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"

"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."

"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."

"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."

"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.

"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"

The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.

Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.

"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"

She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."

"Right."

When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.

Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.

"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.

"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.

"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"

"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."

Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."

You roll your eyes. "Sure."

"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."

"About what?"

"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."

The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?

When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?

When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?

When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?

When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?

Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.

You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."

"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."

"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."

His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."

Touché. "It's ridiculous."

"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"

You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"

"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"

What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.

Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.

But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.

When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.

You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.

"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."

"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"

Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.

"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."

You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?

You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.

"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.

"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"

"Hot pot?"

"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"

He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."

"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."

Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."

You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.

"Happy DAD, I guess."

The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.

"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."

You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.

"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."

You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"

His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."

You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.

"Can I hug you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"

He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."

"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"

Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"

"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.

He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.

"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."

Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."

You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.

When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.

For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.

"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."

He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."

You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."

You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.

JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »

burn for the win [22.1k] @mylovesstuffs - being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?

finding spring [22k] @joshujin - Tale tells of a water spirit bound to the Elysian River, destined to guard the very magic her human body once sought after. She lives where the animals come to drink, where the children wade in the water, where the river empties into the sea. And she is waiting for the chance to be freed.

pulse points [15.9k] @wheeboo - Being the TA for your anatomy class has always been really rewarding, especially stemming in your passion for the medical field. But as it’s approaching the peak of the school semester and labs have gotten more intense, you aren’t surprised to be dedicating your time to tutoring your strangely handsome, dorky, yet enigmatic classmate during after school hours — and reassuring him how to not be afraid of dissections.

free love [13.8k] @gam3bo17 - The first time you saw him you didn’t know his name, only that he didn’t look at you the way everyone else did. The countryside air felt different: cleaner, lighter, like it didn’t matter who you were. No chauffeurs. No bodyguards hovering nearby. No people trailing behind you like shadows. For the first time in your life you felt normal. Not the child of the family that owned Pledis Industries. Not the face plastered across city billboards and magazine covers. Not someone people bowed to before they spoke. Just you.

for the love of the game [13k] @yoongihan - you've accepted your place in the world of baseball; you know what you're good at. outside of the dugout and locker room, certain university classes are NOT what you're good at. asking for help feels weak, especially from the perpetually smiley cheerleader who you're sure is just as dumb as he is pretty.

psycho [12.8k] @wheeboo - in which a new patient is assigned for treatment under your care, and you begin to put the puzzles and pieces together to a past case that you thought to have ceased away from your mind.

who's your worm guy? [11.3k] @imnotshua - your final project is due far too soon and you’re stumped for ideas. that is until you pick up a part time job in the ticket booth at your local water park and you meet the most– uh– interesting employees. this includes a wen junhui, food and beverage supervisor, whose creativity sparks most when he’s hazy and slacking off.

anonymously yours [11.3k] @wheeboo - When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard.

most ardently [10.7k] @chanheescafe - you find a sense of familiarity in your sworn rival, jun, while exchanging anonymous letters with a stranger .

Pendulum [9k] @gyuswhore - There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room. Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips. Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.

sixth times the charm [8.8k] @planetkiimchi - your coworker jun is naturally friendly and a little chaotic, but he also mistakenly thinks you like his crush. this love rivalry persists despite the two of you being friends, at least until he realises that the one he likes is you.

pink stationary [7.9k] @haologram - everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other.

i like you feeling like this [7.7k] @minnnliz - overwhelmed by her case load at work, reader's friend recommends she visit the cat café that just opened downtown, since she claims she's too busy to get a cat of her own. but is it the cute cats that keep her coming back... or the cute guy who makes the mandatory uniform cat ears look endearing?

meow or never [6.9k] @supi-wupi - Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat (platonically) and you (romantically).

Gemini  [6.7k] @caratchronicles - As the saying goes, "History repeats itself". Eons after the Second Titan War, the world is left in a similar state of despair. Good prevails, but so does the imbalance and injustice. Now standing on opposite sides, the Gods and Demigods don't think that the damage done by The Aegean War can ever truly be repaired. When yet another prophecy pushes you to fight for your friends, you must decide for yourself: Are you worth fighting for too?

happy ending [6.6k] @junkissed - a pointless argument escalates until both of you need some space, but it couldn't come at a worse time.

kiss me it's for science [4k] @supi-wupi - Jun and Y/N are both psychology majors. For their thesis, they must observe the chemical reactions of romantic attraction... using themselves as test subjects. Bonus, Their “experiment” is being live-blogged by classmates on a fan account.

unread messages [3.5k] @supi-wupi - Jun moved back to China. You still write to him every day, though you never hit send. Until one day, he replies—to a message you never sent.

do i wanna know [3.3k] @belovedgyu - mob boss! junhui x detective! femreader

tears [3.3k] @acphengene - soulmate au, angst, fluff, selfdoubt and a lot of insecurities

memory lane [3.1k] @orbitondgtl - On your first wedding anniversary, Jun has something special planned for the two of you. In turn, you have something special planned for him.

secret life of wen junhui [3k] @wheeboo - in which jun gets set up on a blind date by his best friend.

The two of you are a flurry of fists and feet, neither of you landing a hit for several moments.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you grunt as you block a kick to the side and throw a fist at Junhui's face.

He blocks that too. He'd like to ask you the same. What is wrong with you and why aren't you running? You should be taking this weird window the AI has afforded you and escape. Instead, the two of you are locked in a dance, so evenly matched, Junhui wonders if his captor is pulling his punches or if you're just that good that you're able to hold your own against a Letheon Unit. It feels like fighting himself… it feels like fighting someone who learned how to from Aegis.

The idea crosses his mind just as you bring your leg up to connect with the side of his head, and although Junhui doesn't feel it, the way his system flashes tells him you're definitely not pulling your strikes.

Contusions sustained to the head, his display warns him, highlighting his head on the tiny diagram of his body on his display. Possible concussion.

He can't pay it much attention because you take the opportunity to launch yourself at him, using his thigh as a makeshift stepping stool, nimbly lifting yourself onto his shoulders, and wrapping your legs around his head and squeezing.

Activating oxygen preservation protocol, his system announces as you attempt to suffocate him. You must know that won't work on a Lethe, though, because you also bring your fist down against the top of his head repeatedly, grunting as you do.

Contusion sustained. Contusion sustained. Con—

Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Junhui thinks as the AI continues to panic through its directive. At some point, you graduate to throwing your elbow into his head, prompting his system to graduate to: Minor concussion sustained.

And when you've finally had enough of the AI refusing to truly harm you, you twist your body, throw your weight to the side, and force Junhui to fall into the dirt.

His display lights his elbow up on the diagram now, where he caught himself on the ground. Contusion sustained. He has no idea why Aegis thought it would be helpful to have the system announce every little bruise he was going to collect. His missions are all covert and high-priority. Of course he's going to walk away with dozens of bruises.

You scramble away from him, and when he looks up, he finds you fumbling with your neural gun, that odd attachment clinging to the top of it.

Junhui is on his knees quickly, lunging forward, catching your ankle just as you right yourself, and dragging you to him easily.

You grunt and instead of kicking at him like both he and the AI assumed you would, you lean into his hold, wrap your other leg around his arm, grab his wrist, and yank up with more strength than he's anticipating, your knee colliding with his face as he's jerked toward you.

Minor contusions sustained to the face, his system warns him again. He'd roll his eyes if he could.

With his arm pinned, his body follows as you roll yours, shoving him face down into the dirt until you're straddling his back. The AI finally—and pathetically—allows a single shot of hardlight to escape the wrist you're holding hostage, the beam uselessly shooting the opposite way from you and dissolving into the night. It doesn't even have what he assumes was the desired effect—startling you off of him. You stay planted with your thighs on either side of his ribs, unbothered as you pull the arm you have behind him until it pops right out of his socket. He doesn't feel anything.

Shoulder dislocated. Protocol in place. Please correct your arm to allow repositioning of joint. He has never been so annoyed with the unwelcome voice in his head.

"Please stop fighting," it pleads, Junhui's voice muffled by the ground. "You are to return—"

"It's you, isn't it," you grunt, your lips suddenly at his ear. "Do you remember me? Is that it?"

Junhui feels the system buffering again. Curiously, his display wavers and brief flashes of code replace it. Does it remember you from somewhere? Is this glitch really, truly hesitation?

"You are to—"

"No," you hiss. Junhui feels the barrel of your gun against his back, and he realizes this is very much it.

You are going to kill him. This should've been fairly easy, but the AI's reluctance at every turn is about to get him killed, and Junhui finds he doesn't mind it. Allowing a rebel with a Priority Index like yours to escape unharmed is probably a good thing to die for, he thinks. At least in death, his mind will finally rest. In death, he'll reunite with sleep. And he's so tired.

He wishes he could close his eyes now, let the world quiet down, and savor this moment a little more. Instead, he stays alert, the intruder in his body very obviously unsure of its next step.

"Tell them to send me all the Lethes they have. I'll kill every single one," you say, speaking directly to the AI.

Junhui can only spare half a thought to ruminate on the unfairness of that. This is a Lethe's life: kidnapped off the streets, butchered beyond recognition, and killed by the very people they would fight for if they could. But he's always been a pragmatic person, even when he was still in Phlegethon. It's either you kill the Lethes or they kill you. He supposes if your survival means the end of the Letheon program altogether, then he'll have to accept that he and all the other units are necessary collateral damage, devastating as it is.

"Tell them…" you practically growl into his ear, your lips grazing the shell of it as you speak. "I'm coming for fucking everything."

The barrel of your gun presses harder against his back, and he feels his soul perk in anticipation.

Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. You are Wen Junhui, and you are about to be freed.

Death, it turns out, is agonizing. And for once, Wen Junhui feels it all.

when you read his message, it makes you freeze. 'you think she's cute? i've seen much cuter ones than this...'. you scoff dropping his phone on the table. shocked couldn't begin to describe it. you felt delirious. what could minghao possibly know about you? what did he know of you that concluded that you weren't right for jun?

sure--he was handsome. pretty too. a little too pretty. maybe more prettier than you. you weren't envious of him, though, you liked admiring. but if his friend doesn't think so--

"hi," jun chirps, entering the room again. "didn't take too long, did i? are you hungry? we can order something if you'd like--"

you shake your head, rising from the couch. "n-no, it's okay. i think i have to leave soon anyway..." you say, checking the time on your phone while glancing at jun's. "thank you for inviting me, though."

he blinks, confused at your sudden departure. nevertheless, he respects your decision. "oh. would you like me to walk you down?"

"no, no, it's alright, jun. thank you." with that, you try to play it off coolly like there's not tears threatening to fall down. "i'll see you... next week?"

"sure. we can go to that place you've been talking about. i've been wanting to go ever since you brought it up," he agrees, picking up your bag for you. when he reaches for his own phone, he laughs at his screen. "oh, y/n! i need your opinion on something." unlocking his phone, he opens the message between him and his friend--the same one you read--revealing the whole thread.

"uh--"

jun puts his screen to your face, scrolling to the images. "my friend doesn't think this cat is cute. but i think she's the cutest on instagram. he doesn't know what he's talking about. you think so too, right?" he rambles, "do you want the handle? i can send you it."

now you blink in confusion. adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you shift uncomfortably feeling totally stupid. he doesn't have to know for now, you think. "indeed the cutest cat..."

"right?" he says, leading you to the door while patting your back. "anyway, bye--"

"wait, actually, i can stay a little longer," you interrupt, "sorry, i just thought i had to be somewhere but it can wait. i think."