The sharp sound of her hand across his face is a gunshot, a cannon explosion which detonates all around them.

The amethyst-eyed demon balks, mouth wide open, the unending indigo of his gaze flaring to life at the assault. He staggers where he stands, dazed, not by the pain itself but because of the shock.

Everyone else is frozen as well, varying expressions of horror and fear etched onto their faces. No one steps forward to stop or restrain her, and Freya sways from the force of her own attack, though she orients herself at once. And then, without an ounce of hesitation, she tenses again, all of the muscles in her body rigid with fury.

The opposite hand slams into the demon's face, palm and fingers hard against him. Her knuckles collide with a delicious impact, and a fodder of gasps dissolve into the air. The demon stumbles, just once, his back foot catching on the ground to steady himself.

But she is already vaulting, clinging to the demon's body as they both crashed to the ground with a painful thud! Straddling his waist, Freya cocks her fist back and prepares to strike and strike and strike. She doesn't realize she is screaming until the grass beneath her is shivering from the force.

She is fading. She is dying. She can feel the sides of her trachea being crushed underneath his fingertips, folding into itself and mawed by his supernatural strength. She cannot even gasp for air as he lifts her a few inches off the ground, her toes intermittently dragging across its surface. Freya is beating and slapping and hitting at the arm and hand which kills her so easily, but she knows. She knows she doesn't stand a chance.

"I can't stop laughing," he giggles, the staccato array of chuckles darkening into madness. "The look on your face! Ahahaha!"

Her eyes wander, desperate to claim one last look at the person she loved most in the three fucking realms. He isn't there yet. No one is. Will she really die before smiling at him one last time?

"BELPHEGOR!"

All at once, a horde of demons appear. They're seemingly conjured from the void, racing into the foyer from the kitchen, the dormitory hallways—Satan nearly trips down the stairs from the force of his own shock and terror.

A swell of hot, stinging tears gathers behind her eyes, and suddenly, she is crying. She is sobbing, in fact, unable to choke out noise or phlegm or snot, and twitches because of it. As she gazes upon the faces of her most cherished loved ones, she finds that her chest not only constricts but convulses as well. The six, demon brothers stare at her, horror and agony blended together upon each feature, twisting their eyes and mouths in harsh ways.

Satan is the first to speak, hands trembling by his sides. "Let her GO, Belphegor!"

But Belphegor only grins, the smile exposing too many of his teeth to be natural. "Why should I? Look at how the human squirms. Isn't she lovely like this?" For a moment, Belphegor's gaze rakes over her face and body, slightly suspended as it still is. "Her face… tightened in pain… she's exquisite."

A hiss pulses through the air. She finds Lucifer, black aura gathering around him in waves. Wings suddenly explode out of him, and he shifts into demon form.

"Do not force me to take action, Belphegor." Lucifer's voice is sharper and more severe than she's ever heard it before. He takes two steps forward, surpassing the crowd his brothers have formed in front of them.

"Let. Her. Go."

Belphegor only sneers. "It's too late."

And indeed, it is. Freya gazes into the churning, broiling eyes of a man plunged into insanity, and she finds nothing there but the desire to cause pain. Although a fire erupts inside her chest, a deep, unending cold seeps into her skin, her bones… Freya's eyes flutter closed of their own accord, until another voice, cracking with desperation, snaps her back to the present.

"Belphie…" Beezelbub pleads.

"Please."

It's almost imperceptible—the flash of doubt, so minute, illuminating Belphegor's eyes. The flash is replaced by rage however, and Freya feels her arms drop to her sides. She's so close to death, she can't even lift her limbs. The fire swirls hotter, calcinating her heart and lungs into dust.

She wants to speak… but death will not let her.

Goodbye, she thinks, trying her very best to somehow project this thought into the minds of the brothers. She thinks of deep, red, carnelian eyes before the endl, too weak now to even find them.

I love you all.

The bonfire suddenly stutters, and the world goes black.

She is airborne… and then something hard and rock-solid collides with her back. If she was breathing, the wind would've been knocked out of her. Instead, she simply lays there, every sound around a garbled concoction of noise.

Tendrils of warmth snake around her, pressing her close to something which is also warm. Her neck is suddenly supported, though her head still tilts over it, limp.

"Freya… Freya!"

She can barely make the words out. She knows that voice, though. A painful, weak lick of fire stabs through her. Mammon…

"Freya, don't you die! FREYA!"

"Ahahaha! Mammon, you look like such a fool!"

"Belphie, what have you done!?" Beel…

Something fluid then drips onto her cold, frigid face. Warm and wet, she can feel the liquid trailing over her own cheeks and neck.

Tears?

Is Mammon… crying?

"Freya," he chokes, his voice a mere whisper. She can feel him start to shake against her. "Come back. Please come back to me."

Freya never wanted this… never wanted to leave the brothers, Simeon and Luke, the Devildom… hell, even Solomon, who contains more secrets than she could ever fathom. Barely cognizant and even in the clutches of imminent death, she realizes that she hates Belphegor for taking her away from them all.

She hates him. He did this. He killed her. And now the brothers will suffer. They will cry and scream and wail, and Belphegor will swallow it all whole, such is his taste for destruction.

If she could, Freya would kill him. She would end his life.

Freya is fading. Her last thoughts are saturated with rage and despair… not quite a fitting death, she thinks. Still. She will die in the arms of someone she loves deeply, someone who, despite the ice-cold shell of her broken body, keeps her tepidly warm against him.

The vibrations of loud, combustible clamor suddenly sounds off in the foyer. Yelling. People are yelling, though she is nothing but a pinprick of sentience left. Freya knows she will go in the next several seconds, and the warmth from before descends onto her forehead. Skin… Mammon's skin. Mammon's forehead. He is rocking them back and forth, his eyes spilling droplets of tears onto her own.

"Freya, I love you," he breathes onto her cheek. "Don't go. Don't die. I love you."

Reality dissolves, unravels itself like an infinite, cosmic ball of yarn. The void sings a haunting melody which resounds throughout the entirety of her body. Freya, exhausted, lets go. The blackness overtakes her and she is unwillingly, but peacefully, shrouded inside a dimension of nothingness.

Mammon… be happy.

They're on their way to class. The twinkling constellations glimmer back at them from the sky, their once unfamiliar skeletons now relatively memorized. Each demon is a mass of towering splendor, and Freya, with her long, raven hair and heterochromic eyes, is a slender body weaving between brothers, exchanging banter and small-talk.

Asmodeus leaps forward, seizing Freya's right arm to his chest. "I want to walk with Freya! You want to walk with me too, right, gorgeous?"

Similar sentiments—as well as louder opposition—sound off behind them.

"Oi! Asmo! Get your filthy hands off of my human!"

"T-That's not fair! What if I want to walk with her?"

"Are you all really incapable of ever shutting your mouth?"

And then, a slighter demon with indigo-grey hair is at her side, zipping to her at incredible speed. His hands, delicate and pale, proceed to encircle Freya's left arm. She is subsequently yanked to him, hot breath washing over one cheek as he speaks with a laugh.

"What Freya isn't saying is that she really wants to walk with me, rig—"

The sharp sound of her hand across his face is a gunshot, a cannon explosion which detonates all around them.

The amethyst-eyed demon balks, mouth wide open, the unending indigo of his gaze flaring to life at the assault. He staggers where he stands, dazed, not by the pain itself but because of the shock.

Everyone else is frozen as well, varying expressions of horror and fear etched onto their faces. No one steps forward to stop or restrain her, and Freya sways from the force of her own attack, though she orients herself at once. And then, without an ounce of hesitation, she tenses again, all of the muscles in her body rigid with fury.

The opposite hand slams into the demon's face, palm and fingers hard against him. Her knuckles collide with a delicious impact, and a fodder of gasps dissolve into the air. The demon stumbles, just once, his back foot catching on the ground to steady himself.

But she is already vaulting, clinging to the demon's body as they both crashed to the ground with a painful thud! Straddling his waist, Freya cocks her fist back and prepares to strike and strike and strike. She doesn't realize she is screaming until the grass beneath her is shivering from the force.

"Don't," she hisses, green-and-black eyes flaring with rage. "Do not ever touch me!"

Belphegor doesn't move. He lays there, soft, cultivated clumps of vegetation cradling his back and legs as they remain unnaturally still. Like before, the others are frozen as well, though Freya sees Lucifer shift from the corner of one eye.

Her head whips to the side. "Stay," she snarls. Lucifer's face goes blank with surprise.

The command itself is profane… she does not invoke the pact between them, however, the afternoon air vibrates heavily with magical warning.

Freya turns back to Belphegor, who eyes her warily. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, so quiet is his voice. She can feel every modicum of attention seeping into her skin, but it is an afterthought.

Nothing but fire and red and blood and tears and fury broils inside her. She needs an outlet… has needed an outlet, but was too burdened by the weight of Diavolo's request.

He'd wanted her to help reintegrate the youngest brother back into the fold, to mend the bridge shattered long ago by hate and pain–to help prepare Belphegor for RAD's exchange program and the future humans it would bring into the Devildom, whether that last condition was implied or not. It hadn't mattered. When Diavolo asked you to do something, no questions were to be asked.

In all of this time, Freya knows that there's been zero regard for her in the process. Nobody has batted an eye or worried about her acclimating back into the fold. After all, she was the one who'd been killed. She was the one who had DIED.

Freya can't see the Devildom's constellations above her anymore, can't see how each alien star shivers with anticipation. Her head is too bowed, too hunched, too coiled over in fury. She never once takes her eyes off Belphegor, who remains still beneath her legs and waist.

"How does it feel?" she near-mumbles, placing a shaking hand on top of his throat. "How does it feel to be incapacitated by someone you thought you knew?" She lightly squeezes his throat with her fingers, though not enough to cut off his supply of air.

Mammon's voice immediately sounds off behind her. "Freya, c'mon, kid… knock it off."

A reactive growl builds in her throat at the sound. "Funny how protective you lot are when you want to be," she nearly spits. Belphegor holds her gaze regardless, the amethyst in them swirling limply. He does not attempt to fight back.

"I asked you how it felt," she prompts him.

Beel. "Freya—"

"It hurts," Belphegor finally answers. "But I can't say that I blame you. After all, I did much worse than this in the end."

Freya's eyes narrow dangerously at him. "Yes, you did." She considers him thoughtfully for a moment, her head slightly cocked.

"I'm not strong enough to crush your throat the way you crushed mine."

At this, Belphegor pales.

"But, you are."

Her heterochromic eyes flash with a ripple of magic, glinting in the lowlight of the always-full moon and its rays. The hand upon his neck is suddenly replaced with one of his, snapping up and gripping his own trachea under the authority of her wordless, magical command.

"All right," Lucifer snaps. "That's enough!"

"No!" Belphegor croaks, expression blown wide open. "Leave her alone." His eyes nervously dart back to Freya's. "This is what I deserve."

She sneers at him. Tangles of raven-black hair obscures much of her face, blocking most of the hateful glare she throws at him. Then a pause so quiet, Freya thinks she can hear the creaking of everyone's jaws tightening up. "You crushed my throat with your bare hands. Did you know that before dying, I was choking on my own blood? That you squeezed so hard, I couldn't even cough it back up again?"

The trembling spread to the rest of her, until her whole body shuddered with rage.

"You deserve much worse than this, Belphie. You deserve to die, like I did."

A thick, gray silence smogs over them and for a moment, Freya's expression falls, eyes and mouth slackening with the beginning of grief.

"B-But…" Leviathan stammers, "It was the other you who… died… right?" The atmosphere seemed to flicker with an unseen shock which wrapped all around them. "You existed separately from the Freya who… right?"

Freya could practically feel the brothers' horror, sharp as a whip, crack through the air. She peered into each of their faces, wordless, speechless at the obvious fear clutching ahold of them.

"Did you truly not know?" A whisper. Her eyes close, not wanting to remember, but feeling a blade in her chest regardless.

Another oversight. Another betrayal. Her teeth bare themselves of her own accord, and she was sure that if she were truly a demon, black wings would punch themselves through the back of her school uniform.

"I am the one who died. I remember the pain," she murmurs, eyes drifting closed once more. "I remember the cold, the white-hot bonfire in my chest as I struggled to breathe… I remember the taste of my own blood, my throat crushed beneath two, steady hands… his laughter…"

The wordless confusion in the air screamed out, silently breaking against each of them.

"And then I passed on," she said simply, shoulders shrugging up. "And my consciousness merged with your version of Freya. Past-me."

The wind yells too, tossing her raven-black hair around her cheeks. "So… yes, I remember." Freya's voice grows dark, angry again. "I remember it all."

"Fuck, Freya," Satan breathes. His expression twists, a sliver of desperation flashing in his emerald eyes. "We had no idea."

It may have been new information, but the reveal is entirely unsurprising. Freya knows how much the brothers love her. She can feel it, the magic of each pack humming through her veins. The brothers have become a literal part of her entity, and so she knows that they'd never abandon her if they'd known.

But they didn't. And she'd been alone in life, just as she was in her death.

Hot, wet tears prick at the back of her eyes, but Freya denies them, forcefully shoving them back from where they came. This was not the time to leave herself vulnerable, no matter how much she wants to cry and heave and mourn in their arms.

She is far too angry for that.

Her jaw flexes underneath the river-waves of her hair, then loosens as her brows lower.

"You could have asked," she says. Her voice is a hollow-boned knife. "I needed you guys to be there, but instead I was told to help him." Her green and black eyes snap back to the demon she still straddled.

"The demon who killed me."

The brothers are frozen again, seemingly locked into place as she speaks.

"I hate you," she says to the youngest brother. "I wish you were dead. And God fucking knows that I am tempted to make that real."

Belphegor remains silent, hands by his sides, visage ghostly white and stoney throughout her monologue. Freya has never seen him this way before. Not even when she came back to life. Not even when she found out that they were practically family. This was the face of a man afraid, and there is a raging, lava river inside of her that roars with gratification.

Maybe she really is becoming a demon. However… she grits her teeth, peering down at her murderer with magic swirling in her eyes.

"But I'm not like you," she sneers, eyes and voice hard as knives pinned to rock. "I don't kill people because of a mood swing or because it's funny."

The burning prick of tears surfaces again.

"I don't kill people and call them exquisite while they die in my hands."

Everyone flinches.

And then she is on her feet quickly, ripping herself from Belphegor's body as if it is poisonous to her very flesh. They hold eye contact, the surrounding brother's attention thick and viscous, sticking onto them both and waiting. One corner of Freya's mouth twists, like it can't decide whether to smile or scowl at the injustice of it all.

"You are a literal Prince of Hell, Belphegor. Fucking act like it, hm?"

But she leans down, slowly shuttering the space between her face and his. He, who still lays fearfully on the ground beneath her.

"The next time you think about coming for me," she breathes, "you just remember the woman you chose to bind yourself to."

Then her eyes unexpectedly flare, the wild magic in them releasing with all of the rage quivering along her body. Belphegor flinches, his mouth opening in horror as her irises glow brightly, unnaturally, and twist into a vivid amethyst.

The same color as his own.

Glaring.

Unmaking.

A predator yearning to eat.