The night in Hell was strangely calm.
Outside, the crimson sky simmered beneath a blanket of ash-colored clouds, and the faint hum of infernal energy pulsed through the air — a rhythm only those born or bound to Hell could feel.
Aurielle stood near the tall obsidian window of her chamber, her arms loosely crossed, her long silver hair glowing faintly under the dim amber lights. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the eternal flames flickered like a restless sea. Despite the beauty, there was something in her eyes — something soft and thoughtful, unlike the sharp defiance she always wore.
The door creaked open.
Mammon stepped inside, his movements unhurried, almost too graceful for someone forged from sin. His hair — long, dark, still damp from a recent bath — trailed water droplets down his bare neck, staining the edge of his black shirt. The scent of smoke and soap followed him.
"You could at least knock," Aurielle said without turning around. Her tone was teasing but calm, her voice carrying that familiar edge of sass that never failed to amuse him.
"I could," he replied, shutting the door behind him, "but I won't."
She rolled her eyes, still facing the window. "Typical."
Silence hung between them, thick with unspoken words. Mammon moved closer, the sound of his boots against the marble floor echoing softly. He stopped just behind her — close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his presence against her back.
"You've been staring out that window for hours," he said, his voice low and steady. "What are you looking for? Redemption?"
Aurielle let out a quiet laugh. "Redemption? Please. I think Hell suits me just fine."
Mammon tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes glinting. "You say that as if you didn't once belong to the light."
Her shoulders stiffened slightly. "And you say that like you didn't fall from it."
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "Touché."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was thick, electric — the kind that made every second stretch longer than it should. Mammon's hand moved, slowly, deliberately, until his fingers brushed a strand of her hair away from her shoulder. The simple touch made her breath hitch.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," she said softly. "Like I'm… something precious."
"You shouldn't be something precious in Hell," he murmured. His voice was almost too quiet — almost lost to the hum of the infernal winds outside.
Aurielle turned to face him. The golden in his eyes shimmered like firelight, and for the first time, she couldn't find the usual arrogance in them. Only warmth. Only him.
"Mammon," she whispered, searching his face. "What are you doing?"
He leaned closer — not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the heat of his breath ghost over her skin. His hand rose, tracing the edge of her jaw with surprising gentleness.
"Something I shouldn't," he admitted, voice low. "Something a demon isn't supposed to feel."
Her lips parted slightly, her heartbeat thrumming loud in her chest. "And what would that be?"
His smile was faint — almost human. "Wanting something that isn't mine."
Her pulse skipped. "And what is it you want?"
He hesitated, eyes darkening with a mix of desire and restraint. Then, with the faintest smile — almost a confession, almost a curse — he whispered,
"You."
The air between them stilled. No laughter, no teasing. Just the quiet, dangerous truth hanging between a fallen sin and the girl who defied Hell itself.