Sinners and Saints

by sleeroper

In the Wake of the Defeat of the Exorcist Army, New Guest's at the newly refurbished Hazbin Hotel, and new discoveries about her heritage threaten to throw everything Charlie thought she knew about her life into Disarray.

43. Lockdown

The morning light seeped through the curtains of the Hazbin Hotel's grand suite, casting a soft crimson sheen that cloaked the room in an illusion of calm—a fragile veil over the tension simmering beneath. Charlie Morningstar, newly crowned Queen of Hell, perched on the bed's edge, tugging at the sleeves of her tailored crimson jacket. The familiar creak of the mattress felt oddly foreign now, as if the room she'd called home for months had shifted overnight alongside her title.

Queenship didn't press on her like the grand, theatrical burden her father's tales had painted—it was subtler, woven into the sidelong glances and hushed murmurs that trailed her through the halls. The Hotel remained her sanctuary, a beacon of hope and redemption, but now it doubled as the seat of Hell's ruler. Today, she'd face the Archangels not as a dreamer, but as their equal.

Across the room, Emily wrestled with the stiff collar of her high-collared baby blue coat, its gold embroidery glinting as she twisted before the full-length mirror. Her wings flicked faintly, feathers rustling as she rolled her neck. "Why am I stuck in this thing again?" she groused, tugging at the fabric. "I've already got the Seraphim glow. Isn't that fancy enough?"

Charlie, still fiddling with her jacket's buttons, flashed a smirk. "It's diplomacy, Em. We need to match their expectations."

Emily huffed, though her eyes sparkled with mock indignation. "They've known me forever. My reputation's set—no coat's fixing that."

Charlie arched a brow, fastening the last button. "And what's that reputation? Showing up in your ratty coat and scuffed slips?"

Emily grinned, flicking her halo so it spun with a faint chime. "That I'm hot as hell?"

Charlie snorted, shaking her head.

Emily sauntered over, swatting Charlie's hands away from her jacket to smooth the lapels herself, her touch precise yet gentle. Her grin softened. "You look good, though. Properly queenly."

Charlie's cheeks flushed, but she kept her tone even. "Thanks."

Emily stepped back, hands on hips, appraising her with a nod. "Ready for this?"

Charlie stretched her arms, wings flexing briefly before she nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Emily's grin sharpened. "Good, 'cause Michael's itching to stir shit—probably pushing some new extermination scheme. I'll need you sharp when I stop him from embarrassing himself."

Charlie scoffed, brushing off the unease with a flick of her tail. "He's not getting it. Not without a fight."

"That's my girl," Emily said, her approval gleaming.

From the couch, Vaggie sprawled with a book propped against her chest, letting out a theatrical groan. "Meanwhile, I get a glorious day free of you two turning my life into literal hell." She peeked over the pages, smirking. "It's a miracle."

Charlie pouted playfully. "That's not supportive."

"Oh, I'm brimming with support," Vaggie drawled, stretching her arms overhead with a lazy yawn. "But today, I don't have to play babysitter or apocalypse wrangler. It's divine."

Emily snorted. "You act like we're the problem."

Vaggie raised a brow, silent.

"…Okay, maybe a little," Emily conceded, shrugging.

Charlie giggled, her gaze softening on Vaggie. "Enjoy the break. You've earned it."

Vaggie waved a hand, already sinking deeper into the cushions. "Oh, I plan to. Breakfast, no politics—just me and peace while you two wrestle Heaven's drama."

Charlie's smile widened, a flicker of normalcy warming her chest. No emergencies, no battles looming—just a meeting. A crucial one, sure, but still manageable.

She turned to Emily, who was already weaving golden threads into the air, the portal blooming with a hum. Its edges shimmered, framing the radiant haze of Heaven beyond, the scent of ozone drifting through.

Charlie squared her shoulders, chin lifting. "Alright. Let's go."

Emily stepped through first, wings tucking neatly as she crossed into the angelic realm. Charlie glanced back at Vaggie, who grinned and wiggled her fingers in a cheeky wave.

With a steadying breath, Charlie followed, head high, the portal's light swallowing her whole.

Today would be a good day.

---

Charlie's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the polished table, her chin resting in her other hand as she fixed Michael with a look teetering between exasperation and incredulity. Today was not shaping up to be a good day.

Despite her optimism, her meticulously crafted arguments, and every diplomatic chord she'd struck, Michael stood like a wall—unyielding, resolute, hell-bent on steamrolling his own agenda as if Hell's voice was a mere footnote.

She'd braced for pushback—Emily had warned her Michael was a fortress—but this was a siege. He wasn't just resistant; he was immovable.

At the table's head, Emily presided as Heaven's highest authority, her posture deceptively casual in her high-backed chair. But Charlie knew her too well—the faint twitch of her wings, the subtle drum of her fingers on the table's carved edge betrayed her mounting irritation.

Michael sat opposite, a statue of rigidity, arms folded tightly across his gleaming golden armor. Heaven's perpetual light danced across its surface, casting faint halos on the marble floor. His blue eyes—eerily akin to her father's yet stripped of their warmth—bore into Charlie with icy precision.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he said, the title dripping with a thin veneer of sarcasm, "but this is Heaven's call. We dictate our security, not you."

Charlie's wings twitched behind her, her voice steady despite the sting. "It's not yours alone to make. You don't hold every soul's fate in your hands. We're forging something better, Michael—together."

He scoffed, a sharp sound that echoed off the chamber's vaulted ceiling. "What you're forging is a disaster. You think demons can be trusted with Heaven's grace?" He leaned forward, his stare cutting through her like a blade. "You're deluded if you believe they won't betray you the second it suits them."

Charlie didn't waver. She'd faced doubters her whole life—those who'd dismissed her as a starry-eyed fool. But naivety had long since burned away.

"Redemption's already proven itself," she said, her tone even and unshakeable. "Sir Pentious ascended without our meddling. He changed. It's happened once—it'll happen again."

Michael's jaw ticked, a crack in his armor, but before he could retort, Uriel—quiet until now—tilted her head, her amber-gold eyes glinting like molten glass in the chamber's glow.

"She's right," Uriel said, her voice low and measured. "Pentious is evidence change can occur. If it can, we need a framework to manage it."

Raphael, lounging with a teacup cradled in his hands, gave a thoughtful hum, the steam curling upward in lazy spirals. "We can't ignore the shift, Michael. Like it or not, the tide's turning."

Michael's scowl carved deeper lines into his face.

Jegudiel, who'd held his silence like a blade yet unsheathed, finally spoke, his voice a deep rumble. "Their plan gives us reins on that change—oversight, control. Without it, we're blind."

Charlie's posture eased, a spark of hope flickering. The Archangels weren't fully sold on her and Emily's vision, but they weren't Michael's pawns either. They were listening.

Emily leaned forward, fingers interlacing with a calm precision. "You keep saying this is Heaven's choice, Michael," she said, her tone smooth as silk. "But Heaven's mine to steward now."

Michael's jaw locked tight.

"I haven't greenlit any exterminations," she went on, her lightness edged with steel. "If I do, it'll be monitored—accountable. Don't like it? Take it up with the Speaker yourself."

Michael's glare could've shattered stone.

Charlie pressed her lips together, stifling a grin.

"We're here to form the Council," Emily added, redirecting with a flick of her wrist. "Let's get to it."

Michael's fingers rapped a sharp cadence against the table's polished edge, his piercing blue eyes flicking between the two rulers with thinly veiled reluctance. He'd already bent—grudgingly—to the Redemption Council's formation, a concession carved from stone, but his posture screamed he wasn't done fighting.

"The Council's underway," he said, voice clipped and precise. "I won't contest its creation. If we're to judge redemption, criteria are only logical. That, I'll grant."

Charlie dipped her chin, composure masking the spark of triumph flickering within her. Michael's agreement, even laced with resistance, was a crack in his armor she hadn't dared hope for.

"But," he pressed, the word landing like a hammer, snuffing out any fleeting ease, "I need certainty—absolute certainty—that Heaven stays secure. No demon slips through with lies. The irredeemable, the worst dregs—they must be eradicated. Permanently."

His stare pinned Charlie, cold and unyielding.

"I want it from Queen Morningstar herself—" The title carried a taunting edge. "What's Hell's plan for them?"

The chamber hushed, the air thickening with expectation.

Uriel eased back, her amber-gold eyes narrowing like a hawk's. Raphael's fingers paused mid-tap on his teacup's rim, steam curling upward in the silence. Jegudiel's stoic mask held, but his presence loomed heavier, a silent judge awaiting her verdict.

Charlie sat taller, her golden eyes steady as molten fire. She'd seen this question stalking her from the moment she'd stepped into the room.

Hell teemed with monsters—she wouldn't pretend otherwise. Michael craved their obliteration, not the old, reckless slaughters, but a precise cull. Her answer had to thread a needle.

She drew a measured breath, voice calm and resolute. "We'll handle them. Not with chaos or fear-driven purges, though."

Michael's expression didn't budge, his scrutiny unrelenting. "How?"

Her fingers pressed into the table's edge, but her resolve didn't waver. "The Redemption Council's the first step—sorting those who can change, giving them a path. That's already rolling." She paused, letting the words sink in, then sharpened her tone. "The ones who won't? Who refuse redemption entirely?"

She met his gaze, unflinching.

"We'll cut them out."

Silence rippled outward, a taut thread stretched across the room.

Emily's eyes darted to her, a flicker of recognition passing through them—Charlie's words mirrored what she'd anticipated, yet their weight still echoed in the stillness.

Raphael shifted, his teacup clinking faintly against its saucer, his face a cipher. Uriel remained a statue, dissecting every syllable with clinical precision.

Michael leaned back, arms folding across his chest. "Define 'cut out.'"

Charlie's jaw tensed, a faint tic beneath her calm.

Here was the tightrope.

She'd never sanction mass exterminations again, but neither could she let Hell fester into a lawless pit where monsters thrived unchecked.

"We'll build a separate system," she said, her thoughts crystallizing as she spoke. "A process to judge fairly—no room for bias or vendettas like Adam's reign."

Michael's eyes darkened at Adam's name, a shadow flitting across his features, but he held his tongue.

Her wings rustled faintly as she straightened further. "If a demon's proven irredeemable—truly irredeemable—we'll act. Imprisonment, exile, or execution, decided by clear rules. No slaughter sprees, no annual culls."

Michael's breath eased out, slow and deliberate. He wasn't pleased, not fully, but his silence signaled he was weighing her words.

"You'd greenlight executions," he said, testing her resolve.

Charlie paused—just a heartbeat—but then nodded firmly. "Only when it's unavoidable. And only with strict oversight."

Michael studied her, silence stretching taut across the room. At last, he gave a curt nod. "Then we can build from there."

The air shifted—not into harmony, but into a fragile truce.

Uriel's finger tapped the table's edge, a faint metallic clink breaking the quiet. "We'll need to decide who governs this system—Heaven and Hell both. Balance is non-negotiable for it to hold weight."

Charlie's shoulders eased slightly. "Agreed."

The Archangels hadn't anticipated her resolve, their poised facades cracking faintly. Michael's brows furrowed, a rare glint of surprise piercing his stern mask, while Emily nodded along.

Charlie seized the lull, pressing forward. "We've mapped the structure. Two councils: one to judge active redemption seekers—the Redemption Council—and another to screen who's even eligible."

Uriel's hands folded neatly. "Two distinct bodies?"

"Exactly," Charlie said. "The Redemption Council will assess demons who've shown real effort—those proving they can change, weighing their worthiness to ascend."

Raphael leaned back, his teacup clinking softly. "And the second?"

Emily slid her forearms onto the table, her tone crisp. "The Eligibility Council vets who gets that shot. Not every demon's sincere—some will lie, some will scheme. Others—" her eyes darkened, "—would claw into Heaven just to torch it. This keeps them out."

Michael scoffed, arms tightening across his chest. "And who's fit to wield that power?"

Charlie sat taller, her eyes steady as forged steel. "For the Redemption Council, we need balance. From Heaven: Uriel, Raphael, Jegudiel, and Sir Pentious."

The name sparked arched brows among the Archangels, though no one protested outright.

Emily's lips quirked. "Pent's living proof—redeemed and ascended. He knows the path better than anyone."

Uriel's fingers tapped once, a measured beat, but she held her tongue.

Charlie continued, unflinching. "From Hell: Vaggie, Husk, Beelzebub, and Asmodeus."

Michael's eyes sharpened. "You'd hand a Sin that kind of sway?"

"They're not here to destroy or dominate," Charlie countered. "Beelzebub cares about Hell's future—genuinely. Asmodeus shows it his way, but he's tied to this too. We need voices who grasp Hell's soul, not just its sins."

A low murmur rippled through the Archangels. Entrusting Sins with Heaven's affairs was a bold gambit, but its logic wasn't lost on them.

Michael's voice cut through, dry and pointed. "Yet you're leaving yourself out."

"No, I'm not joining."

Uriel's brow lifted, a rare crease in her composure. "Why?"

Charlie's fingers pressed lightly against the table's gleaming edge, her voice unwavering. "Because I can't trust myself to be impartial."

The words snagged their focus.

"I want every demon to have a shot," she confessed, her tone raw but steady. "I want to believe they can all change, that they all deserve it. But that's a dream, not reality—I know that now. If I sit on that council, I'll push too far, fight for ones who don't belong. This is too big for my heart to sway."

She paused, letting the admission settle. "So I'm stepping back."

Her words hung heavy, a quiet ripple across the chamber.

Michael didn't counter—a rare pause from him.

His sharp blue eyes slid to Emily. "And you?"

Emily's lips quirked, but her voice held no jest. "If Hell's ruler's out, so's Heaven's."

Raphael's calm cracked, his mouth parting in faint astonishment.

Emily leaned back, arms folding with a casual flick of her wings. "This isn't our stage. It's about a system that holds—untainted by a ruler's slant, built to last. Fairness means we stay clear."

Jegudiel's deep voice cut through, measured and grave. "You see the gamble in that?"

Charlie met their steady gaze, unflinching. "Yes. But it's riskier to make it personal. This isn't for ego—it's for a future beyond us."

Michael said nothing, his silence a stone in the stillness.

Then, after a beat, he let out a clipped breath. "It's… rational," he conceded, reluctance threading his tone.

Emily's smirk flashed. "Glowing praise from you."

He rolled his eyes, but the retort stayed sheathed.

Uriel edged forward, her amber-gold stare piercing. "Then one matter lingers: what of those who fail?"

Charlie's face shadowed.

Emily's grin dissolved.

A taut hush draped the table, every gaze pivoting to Charlie.

She'd armed herself for this meeting—braced for Michael's walls, rehearsed every plea for redemption. But this question? She'd sidestepped it too long.

Her hands clasped neatly before her, voice deliberate. "I'll admit—I've dodged this part more than I should." A faint crease marred her brow as she pressed on. "But I know what I'd want."

Michael's brow arched, expectant.

Charlie sat taller, words measured as cut stone. "A system with chances."

A soft murmur stirred the Archangels, yet they held their tongues.

Charlie pressed on, her voice measured but laced with an unyielding resolve that echoed off the chamber's high, arched walls. "We'd examine their past—the lives they've led, the choices they've etched into their souls. From that, we set a standard—a tangible goal. If a demon's earnest about redemption, they prove it: no major sins for a defined span. No murders, no assaults, no… darker transgressions that stain beyond repair."

Uriel tilted her head, the soft clink of her golden vambrace against the table punctuating the quiet. Her amber-gold eyes caught the chamber's radiant light, glinting with a hawk-like curiosity. "How long would this span be?"

Charlie faltered for a heartbeat, lips pressing into a tight line as she traced the table's intricate grain with her thumb. "That's still unclear," she admitted, her tone frank yet thoughtful. "It's a detail we'd need to hammer out together."

Michael scoffed, the sound sharp as a blade slicing through parchment, his armored fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. "Vague."

Emily shot him a glare that could've singed feathers, her wings twitching faintly behind her, but Charlie nodded calmly, unfazed by the jab. "I know it is. But this isn't mine to decree alone—it demands agreement from Heaven, Hell, and both councils." She paused, her toes tapping beneath the table as she gathered her thoughts, then ventured, "Maybe a three-strike system."

Raphael's brow arched, his teacup poised midair, steam curling lazily upward like a specter in the still air. "Explain."

Charlie's fingers brushed the table's edge, her mind weaving the concept aloud as if sketching it on the spot. "If a demon slips—commits a grave sin—we don't toss them out right away. Change falters; missteps are human, even for us. But if they keep veering back, rejecting the climb toward betterment, there's a line we can't let them cross unchecked."

Uriel's hands clasped with a faint rustle of her robes, her voice cool and precise. "Three strikes, and they're barred?"

Charlie dipped her chin, her tone dipping softer, almost reluctant. "Depending on how severe the lapse."

Michael's huff was dry, his lips curling into a faint, skeptical smirk as he leaned back in his chair, the metal of his armor scraping faintly against the stone. "And the irredeemable?"

Her fingers tightened, knuckles paling against the dark wood as her claws left faint scratches in the polish.

This was the abyss she'd sidestepped too long.

"If they're truly monstrous," she said, each syllable slow and heavy, as if pried from a locked vault within her, "with a legacy of murder, rape—deeds that defy any hope of salvage—they'd wait far longer to even be considered. And if they sabotage the system, proving beyond doubt they'll never shift…"

She paused, her chest tightening as the words clawed their way up.

Then, quiet but resolute, she forced them free. "I'd support extermination for them."

A dense, unyielding silence blanketed the room, the air growing thick as if the vaulted ceiling itself pressed down.

The Archangels exchanged fleeting glances—subtle flickers of eyes beneath composed masks. Uriel's fingers stilled, her stare unblinking. Raphael set his teacup down with a soft clink, the sound unnaturally loud in the void. Jegudiel shifted, his broad frame casting a shadow that stretched across the table's far end.

Emily's violet eyes darted to Charlie, a quiet search in their depths, her usual spark dimmed by the gravity of the moment.

Charlie stared at her hands, jaw clenched, a tempest roiling beneath her steady exterior. She despised this—every fiber of her rebelled against it. Years spent defying the Exterminations, railing against the dismissal of demons as mere chaff, now collided with a truth she couldn't outrun.

She wasn't that starry-eyed dreamer anymore.

Not every soul could be redeemed. And if it meant shielding Hell—her people—from the unchecked chaos of true monsters, she'd swallow the bitter pill.

Michael's voice shattered the quiet, crisp and unexpected. "Reasonable."

Charlie's head snapped up, her golden eyes wide with a flicker of disbelief.

He met her stare, calm and unflinching, his gauntleted hand resting lightly on the table. "I thought you'd resist."

Her fingers twitched, claws scraping faintly as she steadied her expression. "I hate it. But hating it doesn't erase what's true."

Michael hummed, a low, rare sound of accord, his stern features softening just enough to hint at something new. "We agree there."

Emily rolled her eyes, her wings giving a subtle rustle as she leaned back, breaking the somber spell. "Don't get mushy, Mike."

He ignored her, but a faint glimmer of respect lingered in his gaze as he regarded Charlie—a first, etched quietly in the lines of his face.

Charlie drew a measured breath, grounding herself as the discussion's gravity pressed against her ribs like a stone. She wasn't done yet. Raising her chin, she swept her golden eyes across the table, locking each Archangel in her sights to ensure their focus held firm. "I need to make one thing crystal clear," she said, her voice steady but carrying a quiet steel, not a shout but a command. "If we're crafting a redemption system, context has to matter."

Michael folded his arms, the faint clank of his golden armor echoing in the chamber's stillness. "Go on."

Charlie leaned forward, her fingers interlacing atop the table's dark, polished surface, her claws leaving faint impressions in the wood. "Hell isn't a quaint little haven where folks can sit back and 'decide' to reform. It's Hell." She waved a hand, her hair swinging as if punctuating the chaos she described. "You fight to breathe another day. You shield yourself, or you're dust. That's the raw truth of it."

Uriel dipped her head slightly, her amber-gold eyes glinting with a flicker of recognition, though Michael's stare remained a cold, unyielding blade.

Charlie pressed on, her resolve unshaken. "If we rule that any violence—any spark of it—strips a demon of redemption, we're condemning every soul who's ever had to claw their way through a brawl to survive. That's not justice. It's a death warrant dressed up as virtue."

A heavy pause draped the room, the air humming with unspoken counterpoints.

Raphael, who'd been tracing the rim of his teacup in silence, propped his chin on his hands, the soft clink of porcelain against the table breaking the quiet. "You're arguing self-defense merits its own lane?"

"Exactly," Charlie said, her voice firm as she nodded. "Violence with intent—killing, hurting, tormenting for power or pleasure—that's a line crossed. But when they're cornered, when it's fight or die? How do we punish them for choosing life over pain?"

The chamber stilled, the weight of her words settling like ash after a fire.

Michael let out a sharp breath through his nose, his gauntleted fingers flexing briefly, but he held his tongue—a rare restraint.

Emily, who'd been tracking the exchange with a keen eye, leaned forward, her high-backed chair creaking faintly. "She's spot-on," she said, her tone blunt yet assured. "If we brand self-preservation a sin, half of Heaven's ranks would've been barred—us included."

Uriel's nod was subtle, her voice cool as marble. "Ignoring Hell's nature would be inconsistent with our own history."

Charlie's shoulders eased, a quiet relief threading through her. They weren't shutting her down—not yet. She opened her mouth to drive it deeper, to cement the stance, when—

Her phone buzzed against the table, a low, insistent hum that jolted her focus.

She glanced down, the screen flaring with Vaggie's name in stark white letters. Her stomach twisted, a cold knot forming fast. Vaggie never interrupted meetings—never—unless the sky was falling.

Charlie's fingers clamped around the phone, her claws scraping its edges. "Excuse me," she murmured, her voice tightening like a strung bow. She rose swiftly, the scrape of her chair against the stone floor sharp in the silence, and stepped away from the table, thumbing the call to life.

Vaggie's voice crackled through the moment the phone met her ear, low and taut as a wire. "Charlie, we've got a problem—one you need to see, now."

Her heart thudded, skipping a beat at the raw edge in Vaggie's tone. "What's happening?" she asked, her grip on the phone whitening her knuckles.

Vaggie's breath hissed faintly on the other end. "Angel dragged me aside earlier—showed me something on Sinstagram. It's blowing up. Hell is buzzing about these… #Re-Borns."

Charlie's brow furrowed, her wings stilling mid-shift. "Re-Borns?"

"Yeah," Vaggie said, her voice grim as gravel. "Demons dead for years—decades, even—are popping back up. No heads-up, no drama. Just… back."

Charlie froze, her mind snagging on the impossibility. "What?"

"Outskirts of Pentagram City," Vaggie answered, each word clipped with unease. "Everywhere beyond the core. I think we've crossed them before."

Charlie's breath hitched, a memory flashing—dust-choked plains, craggy rocks flickering in the haze.

That vast, desolate expanse of cracked earth stretching between Pentagram City and Imp City—the Wastes. The same forsaken strip they'd roared through in the van en route to Octavia, tires kicking up plumes of red-gray dust. Charlie could still picture it: those eerie, silent figures dotting the horizon, motionless as statues just off the warped roadside, their outlines blurred by the heat haze. She'd chalked it up to Hell's endless oddities back then—a fleeting curiosity not worth a second thought, just another quirk in a realm brimming with the bizarre.

But now, it wasn't just a scattering of shadows in the distance.

Now, they were creeping closer, materializing along the jagged outskirts of Pentagram City itself.

"This isn't normal, Charlie," Vaggie's voice crackled through the phone, low and taut with a urgency that prickled Charlie's skin. "From what I've dug up online, these are demons confirmed dead."

"That's…" Charlie's voice dwindled to a whisper, barely audible over the faint hum of Heaven's ambient light behind her. "Impossible."

A nauseous churn coiled in her gut, cold and slick as oil.

She swallowed hard, forcing her racing thoughts to slow, to focus. "Are people freaking out?"

"Not yet," Vaggie said, her tone clipped but honest. "Most don't get it—they're just snapping pics and videos, chattering on Sinstagram like it's some spooky new trend, ghost vibes or whatever. But the rate they're popping up? If it keeps climbing…"

Charlie didn't need the rest spelled out. Hell thrived on chaos, not mystery. An unknown this strange, this pervasive, would spark whispers, then fear, then pandemonium once the dots connected.

Her eyes squeezed shut, a sharp breath hissing through her teeth. She had to outpace this—now.

"I'll be there soon," she said, her voice firming despite the tremor beneath it.

Vaggie paused, the silence crackling with unspoken worry. "…You're still in Heaven, right?"

Charlie flicked a glance over her shoulder. The meeting table loomed in her peripheral vision, its polished surface glinting under the chamber's radiant glow. Emily's head had turned, her eyes narrowed with a mix of concern and curiosity, her fingers stilled mid-tap on the table's edge.

"Yeah," Charlie admitted, her wings giving a faint, nervous twitch.

"Bring Emily," Vaggie said, her words brooking no argument. "And move fast."

The line went dead with a soft click.

Charlie stood frozen for a beat, staring at the darkened phone screen clutched in her hand, its edges biting into her palm. Her mind churned, fragments colliding—Re-Borns, demons clawing back from oblivion, their sudden presence a riddle with no answer. The Wastes flashed again in her memory: those figures, too still, too wrong, standing like sentinels in a land where nothing grew, their hollowed forms etched against a blood-red sky.

And no one knew why.

Charlie spun on her heel, her hand snapping to Emily's wrist before the phone's screen even dimmed, her grip tight as iron. Her golden eyes blazed with a fierce, unspoken urgency as she tugged Emily closer.

"We're leaving. Now."

Emily stumbled a half-step, caught off guard by the sudden fire in Charlie's tone. "Whoa, hold up—what's going on?"

Charlie didn't reply immediately. Her head swiveled toward the Archangels, their faces a gallery of poised stillness, every pair of eyes now riveted on her. The chamber's radiant light cast long shadows from their towering forms, the air humming with the weight of their scrutiny.

Michael's stare sharpened, cutting through the stillness like a blade as he stood. "Why?"

For a fleeting moment, Charlie wavered. Weeks of painstaking effort had gone into coaxing Heaven's trust, forging a fragile bridge between realms. Bolting without a word risked splintering that—and she couldn't afford the setback. So she squared her shoulders, her voice steady and unadorned as she faced them.

"Demons are appearing in Hell."

Michael's scoff was a dry rasp, his armored arms folding with a faint clink. "Hardly a revelation."

Charlie's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath her skin. "Not new arrivals. Not souls tumbling from Earth. Demons dead for years—decades."

The room's warmth seemed to leach away, the golden glow dimming as if the light itself recoiled.

For once, the Archangels had no swift retort, their silence a heavy shroud.

Uriel leaned forward, her hands clasping with a soft rustle of her silken robes, her amber-gold eyes glinting like embers in a dying fire. "Explain."

Charlie's fists balled at her sides, her claws digging into her palms. "I don't have the full picture—that's why I'm going. Me, Emily and Vaggie saw them before, out in the Wastes—figures just standing there off the road, silent as ghosts. Now they're showing up closer, flooding Sinstagram feeds. I need to see it myself."

The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, the chamber's vaulted ceiling looming higher, its intricate carvings of celestial battles seeming to pulse faintly in the stillness.

Then—

Azrael rose, his chair scraping across the marble floor with a jarring screech that shattered the quiet. Normally a figure of detached calm, his lean frame now bristled with a rare, honed intensity, his dark suit rippling like liquid shadow. "The dead do not rise."

Charlie's throat tightened, a lump forming as she met his gaze.

His voice was steady, but an undercurrent of unease threaded through it, as if the very notion she'd voiced defied the fabric of existence—and it did. Heaven and Hell had spun their cycles since time's first breath, and never once had a soul clawed back from oblivion. Not through dark rites, not through spectral tricks. Even Lucifer, with his boundless might, had never breached that wall.

Only God could summon the dead.

And His voice had been silent for millennia, a void unbroken by angel or demon.

Emily let out a low, sharp whistle, her wings flicking behind her. "Well, damn."

Charlie shot her a sidelong glance, but couldn't argue—Emily had a point.

The Archangels stirred now, a ripple of motion breaking their stillness. Gabriel's brow furrowed, her quill scratching furiously across her ever-present clipboard, ink gleaming wet before she flicked her wrist, banishing it into a shimmer of light. Raphael sat back, his teacup forgotten, his face a mask of quiet contemplation as he traced the table's edge with a finger. Uriel's tapping quickened, a staccato beat against the wood, her eyes darting as if mapping unseen threads.

Jegudiel's deep voice rumbled forth, measured yet grave. "If this holds true, it ruptures the natural order."

Michael eased back in his seat, his gauntleted hand resting on the table as he studied Charlie with a hawk's precision. "You're certain they were dead?"

Charlie's eyes narrowed, her voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at her. "I haven't seen them yet—Vaggie caught it online, and now it's spreading across Hell's districts. I need to confirm it with my own eyes."

Michael's breath hissed out, a faint edge of irritation curling his lip.

Before he could speak, Azrael stepped forward, his oxfords striking the floor with a muted thud that seemed to echo beyond the chamber's walls. "I'm joining you."

Charlie blinked, startled. "What?"

Azrael's eyes burned like twin voids, dark and fathomless, swallowing the light around them. "If the dead are stirring, I will witness it."

Charlie darted a look at Emily, who arched a brow and tilted her head slightly, a silent Well, good luck saying no to Death himself.

She barely had time to grapple with that before Uriel rose too, her chair sliding back with a soft groan, her presence a quiet storm gathering force.

"This concerns both Heaven and Hell," Uriel declared, her voice a steady, unyielding thread weaving through the chamber's taut silence. Her amber-gold eyes shimmered with quiet conviction, the faint rustle of her silken robes brushing the air as she rose, her stance a beacon of calm amid the swelling unease.

Michael's jaw clenched, a subtle ripple beneath his stern mask as the other Archangels followed suit, their rising forms stirring the room like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Gabriel exhaled a dramatic sigh, her hands sliding into the deep pockets of her flowing tunic with an easy shrug. "Welp, guess we're doing this," she quipped, her voice light but edged with a glint of intrigue in her sharp eyes, betraying the curiosity simmering beneath.

Raphael offered Charlie a small, knowing smile, his fingers lingering on the table's edge as he stood, the soft clink of his teacup settling into its saucer ringing faintly like a bell in the stillness. "You didn't think we'd let you tackle this solo, did you?" His tone was warm, laced with a gentle tease, yet underpinned by a sincerity that hung in the air like a promise.

Charlie blinked, her golden eyes widening as surprise collided with a warmer tide swelling in her chest—gratitude, fragile but real. Heaven had spent millennia casting Hell as a blight to be managed, a wildfire to be smothered. Their history was a tapestry of cold distance, bristling tension, or outright clashes. Yet now, arrayed before her, stood the mightiest of celestial hosts—their luminous figures framed against the chamber's soaring arches, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the marble floor—prepared to descend into Hell not as foes, but as partners unraveling a breach in the cosmic weave.

She steadied herself, her fingers flexing briefly at her sides as she nodded. "Then let's go."

Michael rose last, his armored frame unfolding with a deliberate grace that seemed to ground the room's restless energy. His expression remained an enigma, carved in unyielding lines, but his silence carried its own weight—no argument, no resistance. His gauntleted hand twitched once, the polished metal catching the chamber's golden glow in a fleeting spark, before he stepped forward with measured purpose.

Charlie lifted her wrist, her fingers slicing a swift arc through the air. A portal roared to life with a deep, thrumming pulse, its crimson edges swirling like molten veins against the pristine white of Heaven's walls. The jagged light flared, bathing the Archangels' faces in a blood-red sheen—Uriel's serene determination, Gabriel's wry fascination, Raphael's quiet resolve, Azrael's shadowed intensity, and Michael's guarded vigilance—all mirrored in the flickering glow as they advanced in unison.

Together, they crossed the divide, the portal's heat grazing their skin like a whisper of brimstone as Heaven's tranquil hum faded into Hell's restless, discordant roar.

---

The portal parted with a soft shhhhft, its swirling golden light fraying into tendrils that dissolved as Charlie, Emily, and the Archangels stepped onto the desolate outskirts of Pentagram City. The ground beneath them rasped faintly, a brittle shell of reddish-brown earth, scorched and hardened by centuries of unrelenting anguish. Crooked black rock formations speared upward like fractured spines, vestiges of some ancient, obliterated conflict, their surfaces glinting dully under the oppressive red glow of Hell's eternal sky. The air clung heavy, thick with sulfur's acrid bite and the distant, restless murmur of the city's clamor filtering through the haze.

Pentagram City loomed ahead, a chaotic silhouette clawing at the horizon—a jagged collage of skyscrapers thrusting skyward, their steel frames shrouded in grime and ash. Dilapidated buildings slumped beside them, stitched together by a lattice of flickering neon signs that pulsed with garish defiance, peddling vice and fleeting thrills in fractured, electric scrawl. The crimson sky bathed it all in a feverish tint, a perpetual twilight that mocked any hope of morning.

To Charlie and, to a lesser degree, Emily, it was familiar—this realm's unruly pulse.

To the Archangels, it was a frontier most had only glimpsed through scorn or scripture.

Uriel's eyes narrowed, her golden stare sweeping the grotesque sprawl with a clinician's detachment. "This is their handiwork?" she murmured, her voice a low thread against the wind. "It echoes Earth's ambition—warped, yet purposeful."

Gabriel tilted her head, platinum hair gleaming in its tight, practical donut bun, not a strand daring to stray from its sleek perfection. Her crystal-blue eyes glinted as she traced the skyline, silver-white wings catching the red light like polished steel. "Well, it's… something," she said, her smirk sharp but fleeting.. "Flashier than I'd guessed. Demons must love a loud canvas—beats the whole gloom-and-doom cliché." Her crisp, tailored robes shifted faintly, pristine as always, defying the dust that swirled around her.

Raphael lingered a few steps apart, his emerald eyes roving the cityscape with a quiet, measured curiosity. His fingers brushed the hem of his robe absently, as if anchoring himself against the raw sprawl before him, his silence a canvas absorbing every jagged detail without comment.

Jegudiel stood like a sentinel, his broad frame rooted and unyielding, his piercing gaze locked on the distant city. His stillness bore the weight of a tactician sizing up a foe, his presence a steady bulwark against the others' varied responses.

Michael held his ground with unshaken poise, a figure carved from memory. He'd trodden Hell's soil before—ages past, when the city was a mere knot of shanties, its chaos more primal, its borders raw. He'd waged battles here, left the earth soaked in crimson and ash. Yet even he couldn't overlook the shift: the city had metastasized, its sinners forging a dominion from the ruin. Hell, for all its anarchy, had morphed into a living entity, far beyond the desolate waste it once was. His jaw tightened, a faint crease etching his brow as he surveyed the transformation.

Charlie crossed her arms, her crimson jacket creasing faintly as she tracked the Archangels' reactions, her golden eyes keen. "It's not all bleak," she said, her tone light but edged with a defensive bite that sharpened her words. "Plenty of demons are just… scraping by, making do with what they've got."

Michael's head swiveled toward her, his blue eyes slicing through the air like shards of ice. "Making do off what? Each other's scraps?"

Charlie's fingers curled briefly at her sides, a spark of irritation flaring, but she tamped it down. "We're not here to haggle over Hell's survival tactics," she said, redirecting her focus to the barren expanse stretching before them. "Let's keep our eyes on the prize."

Emily let out a dry chuckle, the sound cutting through the strain. "Solid plan."

Charlie scanned the wasteland, her gaze narrowing as she searched the cracked horizon. "Vaggie said they're cropping up all around here…"

Azrael was already ahead, his dark suit rippling like ink in the faint wind as he strode forward, his void-like eyes fixed on a distant point. Two hundred yards out, scattered across the barren stretch between their perch and the city's ragged edge, they stood—motionless, stark against the dry parched earth.

From this distance, their forms blurred into indistinct shadows, smudged outlines against the reddish murk. Yet their stillness was unnatural—too rigid, too vacant, like shells abandoned mid-stride. Their eyes, though too far to discern fully, glinted faintly, hollow pits gazing into an abyss, unblinking and unseeing.

A strange, creeping hush draped the group, the city's distant thrum fading to a muted whisper as the eerie weight of the sight sank in.

Uriel's hand settled on her chin, her fingers rubbing her neck as her amber-gold eyes flicked across the motionless figures. "They aren't advancing," she noted, her voice a low murmur, steady but laced with curiosity.

Gabriel's smirk vanished, her platinum bun catching the dim light as she frowned, her crystal-blue eyes narrowing. "That's almost creepier," she said, her tailored robes shifting faintly as she shifted. Her silver-white wings shimmered briefly, a restless twitch betraying the unease beneath her polished exterior.

Charlie swallowed, the weight of the moment pressing down like a shroud across her shoulders. This wasn't right—not by any law of Hell or beyond. Demons didn't simply claw their way back from oblivion. Yet here they stood, defying every rule she'd ever known.

The group took flight, wings slicing through the dense, sulfur-tinted air as they closed the gap. Charlie and Emily led, their movements honed and seamless, cutting through the haze with purpose. The Archangels trailed in a tight, silent formation, their radiant silhouettes stark against the crimson sky. Pentagram City loomed at their backs, its neon sprawl bleeding streaks of garish light across the cracked wasteland below, painting the barren earth in fleeting hues of violet and green.

As they drew closer, the Re-Borns sharpened into focus, their forms emerging from the reddish murk.

They looked… ordinary.

No gashes marred their flesh, no rot gnawed at their frames, no grotesque distortions twisted their bodies. Just demons—intact, pristine, as if death had never touched them. Their clothes hung in simple, unremarkable cuts, the kind you'd see on any street corner in the city's chaotic heart. Without their uncanny stillness, they could've blended into the throng of Pentagram's sinners unnoticed.

But their eyes—

Their eyes were a void. Glasslike, hollow, they stared ahead with an emptiness that chilled the air. Not the wild, clouded frenzy of a feral demon, but a blank, soulless expanse, devoid of intent or awareness. They stood frozen, faces slack and neutral, their bodies swaying faintly as they shifted from side to side, like any normal demon would when standing in a boring line.

Azrael touched down first, his shoes crunching softly against the brittle earth. The Angel of Death advanced with deliberate steps, his dark coat tails trailing behind him like spilled ink. His hands extended, fingers splayed wide as if brushing against an invisible current, probing the air for something only he could sense.

Emily hovered just behind, her indigo eyes fixed on his every move, her wings beating a steady rhythm that stirred the dust. Her usual spark was muted, replaced by a taut focus as she tracked Azrael's slow approach.

Charlie landed beside her, folding her wings tightly against her crimson jacket, the fabric creasing as she steadied herself. Her stomach knotted, a cold certainty sinking in—she didn't need divine insight to feel the wrongness radiating from these figures.

Michael reacted fastest. As they closed in, his flaming sword flared to life with a sharp whoosh, golden fire licking along the celestial blade's pristine edge, casting jagged shadows across the ground. His stance shifted, shoulders squared, instincts forged through millennia of combat and training snapping into place. No questions, no pause—something here screamed threat, and he met it head-on. He leveled his blade at the strange demon, keeping his eye on Azrael as the Angel of Death approached.

Azrael pressed forward, his pace methodical, each step measured as if walking a tightrope. As the Angel of Death, he'd shepherded souls through their cycles since time's dawn, his hands guiding the threads of existence from life to beyond. Even before his mantle, he'd sensed the pulse of every being's essence—an innate compass for the soul's spark, as natural to him as the beat of his own heart.

But now—

He halted, his wings tucking inward with a faint rustle, his hands hovering inches from the nearest demon's chest. His dark eyes narrowed, searching, reaching.

Nothing.

No hum of life, no echo of spirit, no tether to grasp. The void stared back, an absence so profound it seemed to swallow his senses whole.

It was like facing a mirage—shapes that stood solid yet radiated an aching void. Azrael's fingers twitched, curling into loose fists as he stared at the nearest of these so-called Re-Born, his dark cloak swaying faintly in the sulfurous breeze.

"They're wrong," he said, his voice a quiet blade slicing through the stillness, sharp enough to prickle the air.

Charlie's brows knit, her crimson jacket shifting as she edged closer. "What do you mean?"

Azrael didn't turn, his focus locked on the figure before him. He extended a hand again, palm open, fingers splayed as if brushing against an invisible veil, seeking a thread that refused to surface. "They have souls… but I can't touch them. Can't guide them."

Michael's grip tightened on his sword, the golden flames flaring with a brief, angry sputter, casting jagged flickers across the cracked earth. "That's impossible."

Azrael's breath hissed out, a rare crack in his composure as he finally faced them, his void-like eyes shadowed with something unsettlingly close to disquiet—a flicker the Angel of Death rarely betrayed. "In Heaven and Hell, the dead are pure essence," he said, his tone deliberate, each word measured like a tolling bell. "Their souls endure, regenerating from any wound because they're unbound by flesh. Only angelic steel can sever that—striking the soul itself. But these…" He gestured toward the Re-Borns, his hand lingering in the air. "Their souls are shielded from me. They're not right."

Emily's frown deepened, her wings rustling faintly as she hovered a step closer, golden eyes darting between Azrael and the figures. "Then what are they?"

Azrael's silence stretched, a heavy, unyielding answer in itself.

Charlie's throat tightened, her gaze sweeping the eerily still demons. They didn't stir, didn't blink—unfazed by the celestial presence looming over them.

Michael stepped forward, his flaming sword blazing brighter with a sharp whoosh, its golden light slashing through the reddish haze. "That's enough," he snapped, his voice a whipcrack of finality that echoed off the jagged rocks. His six wings flared slightly, their radiant edges glinting like molten gold, his stance radiating command as he surveyed the motionless figures below. The Re-Borns' uncanny stillness, Azrael's chilling words—it gnawed at instincts honed across eons of war. "This isn't natural," he declared, his tone ironclad. "It defies every law of life and death we know. This isn't resurrection. It isn't redemption." His blue eyes flicked to Azrael, piercing. "You've shepherded souls for ages. Ever seen this?"

Azrael's hands flexed, his usually stoic face tightening with a rare strain as he searched for an answer. After a long beat, his voice emerged, low and absolute. "No."

Michael's jaw locked, a muscle ticking beneath the surface.

That single word was a spark to kindling.

"We need to act now," he said, pivoting to face Charlie head-on, his armored boots grinding faintly against the brittle ground. "If we falter, this—whatever it is—spreads. We don't know its source, but we know it shouldn't exist. Letting it fester unchecked could fracture the afterlife itself." His words carried the weight of battles fought, of threats extinguished before they could bloom.

Charlie stiffened, her wings tensing against her back, the crimson fabric of her jacket creasing as she met his stare. "You're saying wipe them out?"

"Yes," Michael replied, his voice unyielding as steel. "Cull it before it festers beyond control. Our system's already strained—we can't let an unknown force take hold in Hell."

Emily dropped to the ground beside Charlie, her flats kicking up a faint puff of dust as she stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "That's a leap, Michael," she said, her tone sharp but steady. "A bit much, don't you think?"

Michael's scowl deepened, his sword arm jerking as he gestured toward the Re-Borns. "You agreed extermination fits some cases," he shot back, his voice edged with impatience.

Emily didn't waver, her wings folding neatly as she crossed her arms. "For the irredeemable—cases we know. Not for something we haven't even cracked yet."

Michael scoffed, a harsh sound that grated against the quiet. "What's left to crack? They aren't souls—Azrael just said it. They're something else, something that doesn't fit here. I won't stand idle while an aberration tears at Heaven and Hell."

Charlie's fingers twitched at her sides, her claws itching to flex though she kept them still.

Her mind churned, thoughts racing like wildfire. Michael wasn't wrong—this defied nature. In Hell, death bent rules: demons regenerated, their essence enduring unless angelic steel struck true. But this? Souls returning from nothing, untouchable even to Death himself? It shattered every boundary she knew.

An Extermination?

Charlie's stomach twisted, a cold unease gnawing at her as the thought sank in. "I…" She paused, swallowing hard, her voice measured as she faced Michael. "This is unnerving—beyond anything we've seen. I won't pretend otherwise. But wiping them out before we understand what's happening? That's no solution."

Michael's eyes narrowed, the golden flames of his sword flickering across his chiseled features, casting sharp shadows. "It's protection."

Charlie squared her shoulders, her crimson jacket pulling taut as she rose to her full height. "It's rash."

Emily stepped up beside her, boots grinding against the splintered earth, wings rustling as she crossed her arms. "She's right, Michael," she said, her tone resolute, eyes flashing with challenge. "You're itching to burn it all down before we've even looked for another way."

Michael's frustration surged, a tangible heat rippling through the air as his six wings flexed, his gaze hardening to molten steel. "Hesitate now, and we'll reap chaos later."

Azrael cut in, his dark cloak swaying as he shifted, his voice a low, steady rumble honed by eons. "I seldom side with Michael," he said, each word deliberate, "but if this spreads unchecked, it'll shatter the afterlife's equilibrium. It's already started."

Charlie turned to him, her golden eyes probing his shadowed, inscrutable face. "Then we investigate," she countered, her voice firm despite the urgency pulsing beneath it. "We figure out how it's happening—why. If it's a threat, if it endangers everything, we'll act. But I won't let Hell's answer be mindless slaughter."

Michael's jaw tightened, his grip on his sword's hilt driving the flames higher, their heat warping the sulfur-heavy air. His patience frayed, his tone sharp and taut. "You're pleading for time we might not have."

Charlie's wings twitched, a flare of emotion rippling through her as she balled her fists, the fabric of her jacket straining across her back. "And you're asking me to butcher demons who might not even know where we are," she snapped, her words edged with a quiet, fierce defiance against extermination as the easy fix.

A thick silence smothered the barren wasteland, tension coiling tight. Below, the Re-Borns stood frozen, their glassy stares locked on nothing, oblivious to the celestial clash overhead. The Archangels—Uriel's hand hovering near her blade, Gabriel clutching her clipboard, Raphael silent and observant, Jegudiel an unmoving tower—watched the standoff between their High Seraphim and Hell's new Queen, poised for the impasse to crack.

Charlie wouldn't yield.

She straightened, rolling her shoulders back, her voice slicing through the stillness with fresh determination. "Alright," she said, chin lifting, golden eyes alight with resolve. "Let's make a deal."

Michael's expression darkened, his wings flaring with a sharp, impatient snap. "This isn't a negotiation."

Before Charlie could press further, Michael's restraint snapped. With a roar, he lunged, his flaming sword arcing through the air in a blinding streak of gold and fire, aimed straight for the Reborn's chest. The blade sang with divine wrath, its heat scorching the ground beneath.

Instinct surged. Charlie's right arm shot up, transforming mid-motion—her hand blackened to obsidian, veins of lava-red energy snaking down it like molten serpents. Her claws curled as she caught the blade barehanded, the impact shuddering through her frame. The flames hissed against her grip, spitting embers that singed the cracked earth, but her demon hand held firm, the red energy pulsing brighter, coiling tighter around her arm as if feeding off the clash.

Michael's eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking his stoic mask. Charlie's gaze locked with his, unflinching, her voice low and unyielding. "If Heaven's safety is your priority, let's lock it down." She shoved the sword back, releasing it with a flick of her wrist, the red snakes of energy flaring briefly before settling. Her saddle shoes shifted, crunching the brittle ground as she widened her stance. "A quarantine—not a massacre."

Michael's brows furrowed, a crease forming as he held his tongue, listening despite himself.

Charlie seized the opening, her voice rising with conviction. "Full separation—Heaven and Hell cut off. No demons cross into Heaven, no angels descend to Hell. We handle this on our turf, dig into the why and how, and tackle it as it comes. Heaven stays out of reach—safe, pristine, untouchable." She spread her hands, palms up, the gesture sharp and final. "There. No threat to your realm."

The air hung heavy, the distant hum of Pentagram City's neon sprawl a faint underscore to the standoff. Gabriel's silver-white wings twitched faintly, her crystal-blue eyes darting to Michael as she tapped her clipboard's edge against her thigh, its surface catching the red light in a brief, metallic flash.

Michael's frown deepened, etching lines into his stern face as he loomed over Charlie. "You expect us to just trust Hell to contain this?"

Emily stepped up beside Charlie, crossing her arms with a faint rustle of her wings, her eyes sharp. "She's handing you exactly what you want—distance," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Heaven stays locked down, Charlie tackles Hell's mess, and we don't start slashing at shadows we can't name."

Michael's piercing blue eyes flicked between them, his grip on his sword steady, the golden flames casting a faint shimmer across his armor. He didn't relent, but the silence hinted at a crack in his resolve. His blade sunk an inch as he eased his grip on the blade.

Charlie seized the opening, her voice steady as she pressed forward. "I get it—you don't trust Hell to manage itself. But tell me, Michael, what's riskier? Giving me time to unravel this, or charging in blind and maybe lighting a fuse we can't douse?"

Michael held her stare, his jaw a tight line, but he didn't answer.

Charlie advanced a step, her crimson eyes igniting with fierce resolve, the crimson jacket wrinkling as she leaned forward. "You think I'd risk Hell's safety? My people's lives? I just took this throne—I won't let my kingdom fall because you panicked and struck too fast." Her wings snapped wide, a surge of defiance rippling through her. Her voice dropped, steady and grave. "If I have to, I'll fight for them." Horns sprouted from her skull, curling upward, and her eyes bled to a deep, molten crimson, her tail lashing once behind her.

Michael's stance hardened, his six wings flaring as the flames on his sword roared higher, casting jagged shadows across the cracked earth. His voice was a low snarl, edged with barely leashed fury. "You're courting disaster." He shifted his grip, the blade's golden fire surging brighter, its heat warping the sulfur-heavy air as he leveled it toward her.

Charlie's lips curled into a sharp, defiant smirk, her claws flexing. "And you're begging for a war."

The air crackled, taut with the promise of violence. Michael's muscles coiled, ready to strike; Charlie braced herself, her crimson eyes locked on his, unyielding.

Before either could move, Emily darted between them, her flats skidding on the brittle ground, wings flaring to block their line of sight. "Enough!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. Her hair glinted in the hellish light as she shot Michael a glare, then turned to Charlie, hands raised. "Both of you—back the hell off."

Michael's sword wavered, flames flickering, but his scowl deepened. Charlie's tail stilled, though her horns remained, her gaze unwavering on Michael.

The other Archangels stirred. Gabriel stepped forward, her clipboard clutched tight, crystal-blue eyes sharp with exasperation. "Let's not turn this into a brawl," she said, her tone dry but firm, tapping a finger against her notes. "This would make this mess infinitely worse.."

Raphael moved next, his emerald gaze calm but unyielding as he placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "She's not wrong," he said quietly, nodding toward Charlie. "Rushing to blades won't solve this." Michael's jaw ticked, but he didn't shrug off the touch.

Uriel shifted, her hand easing off her sword's hilt, her amber eyes flicking between them. "We need answers, not blood," she said, her voice steady, cutting through the haze of aggression.

Jegudiel loomed silently behind, his broad frame a wall of quiet authority. He gave a single, slow nod—agreement, not surrender—his red-gold eyes fixed on Charlie, acknowledging her stance.

Azrael broke the deadlock, his dark cloak rustling as he turned from the Re-Borns below, their glassy stares haunting the silence. "This is wrong—I feel it," he murmured, his tone low and threaded with unease. "But I won't act until I understand how it's spreading." His shadowed gaze met Michael's, firm. "Neither should you."

The weight of their words pressed in. Michael's sword dipped, its flames dimming to a sullen glow, though his irritation smoldered beneath the surface. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if casting off a burden, his voice cold and clipped. "One chance," he said, eyes boring into Charlie. "Find the source. Pinpoint the cause. But if this grows—if it threatens us—" The flames flared briefly as he tightened his grip. "I'll end it. Until then, you stay away from Heaven."

Charlie's horns receded slightly, her eyes fading back to gold, though her wings stayed taut. She nodded once, sharp and resolute. "Deal."

She turned, raising her hand to summon a portal back to the hotel, her mind already racing through next steps—alert Vaggie, gather the team, scour the Wastes—when Emily's purposeful stride toward Michael and the Archangels caught her off guard. Charlie's brows furrowed. "Wait—you're going with them?"

Emily paused, glancing back with an arched brow, as if the question was absurd. "Um.. yeah?"

Charlie blinked, thrown. She'd assumed Emily would stay, shoulder-to-shoulder in Hell to face this crisis—One of her partners in chaos, as always. "I just figured—"

"That I'd hang here?" Emily cut in, tilting her head, her silver-white wings glinting faintly as she smiled, almost bitterly.

Charlie faltered. "Well… yeah."

Emily closed the gap to rest a hand on Charlie's shoulder, her touch firm and warm. "Babe, I'm Heaven's head honcho now. I've got to be there." Her tone teased, but a deeper note lingered—an acknowledgment of the twin burdens they bore.

Charlie sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly, but before she could protest, Emily's smile softened into something gentler. "And let's be real—I don't trust Michael not to have an army on standby the second you crack this."

Charlie frowned, glancing at the Archangel's rigid form. "You think he'd pull that?"

Emily's pointed look said it all.

Charlie groaned, rubbing her temple. "Okay, fair."

Emily grinned, a flash of mischief breaking through. "Besides, I know you'll sort this out—you always do. And if it goes sideways, I'll keep Heaven from meddling while you work."

Charlie chewed her lip, torn. She wanted Emily by her side, navigating this nightmare together, but Emily playing watchdog in Heaven made too much sense to argue. Still, a hollow ache settled in her chest. "So… we won't see each other for a bit, huh?"

Emily hummed, waggling her fingers playfully. "You know we've got phones, right? Daily chats—easy."

Charlie snorted, shaking her head. "You're absurd."

"I know," Emily said, smug as ever. Then her expression softened, her hand lingering on Charlie's shoulder. "For real, though—we'll stay connected. Every day. Distance doesn't mean I'm not with you."

Charlie nodded, exhaling a quiet breath. "Yeah… you're right."

Emily leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to Charlie's lips. "Damn right I am."

Charlie rolled her eyes but couldn't stifle a small smile.

Emily turned, striding back to Michael and the Archangels, her tailored robes pristine against the cracked earth. She tossed a final glance over her shoulder. "Don't make Hell too wild without me."

Charlie crossed her arms, smiling reluctantly. "No promises."

Emily winked, then vanished with the others in a burst of golden light, the air shimmering briefly in their wake.

And with that, the divide snapped into place.

---

Charlie stepped through the portal into the Hazbin Hotel, the familiar hum of the suite enveloping her like a worn blanket—warm, grounding, yet tinged with an odd hollowness that gnawed at her edges. The plush crimson carpet muffled her footsteps, and the faint scent of brimstone and old wood lingered, a comforting constant. But instead of solace, a pang of emptiness tugged at her chest, sharp and uninvited. She'd braced for this—ruling Hell while Emily held Heaven's reins—but the reality still stung, a quiet ache she couldn't shake.

They were effectively queens now, each tethered to their realms. She'd known separation would come. Didn't make it any less bitter.

Still, duty called, and she shoved the feeling down, squaring her shoulders as she crossed the threshold.

Vaggie perched on the suite's velvet couch, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand rubbing her forehead in a familiar gesture of exasperation. "—Yeah, I figured," she was saying, her voice low and edged with fatigue. "No, I get it, Em, but you know Michael's gonna be a thorn in our side over this."

Charlie's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through her unease. Emily was already holding up her "talk every day" vow—reliable as ever.

Vaggie's head lifted as Charlie entered, her magenta eye softening with a knowing glint, reading her in an instant. She raised a finger—hold on—before turning back to the call, her tone steadying.

Charlie flopped onto the couch beside her, the cushions sinking under her weight as she tucked her legs beneath her, crimson jacket bunching slightly. She leaned in, catching Emily's voice crackling through the speaker, sharp and brisk.

"Michael's already rattling on about 'precautions,'" Emily said, exasperation threading her words. "I forbid him from parking Exorcists on the border—for now—but he's twitchy. The others too. Azrael's the only one not pacing like a caged lion, which, honestly, isn't as reassuring as it sounds."

Vaggie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "So what's the play?"

"Now?" Emily huffed, the sound crackling faintly. "Now we figure out what in blazes is going on with these Re-Borns before Michael decides 'proactive' means torching half of Hell."

Charlie rolled her shoulders, a quiet exhale escaping as she pulled her own phone from her pocket, fingers already moving. "Yeah, about that," she muttered, thumbing through her contacts.

Vaggie arched a brow, her hand dropping from her face. "What are you—?"

Charlie didn't reply, her focus narrowing as she dialed. One call after another, each a rapid-fire summons.

First, her parents—Lucifer's gruff "What now?" met with her clipped insistence, Lilith's smooth voice promising swift arrival. Then the Sins—Beelzebub's buzzing agreement, Asmodeus drawling a curious "Oh, this sounds juicy." Then a handful of Goetia she trusted—Stolas's soft assent, Vassago's swift acknowledgment. Each exchange was short, sharp, unyielding: Meeting. Now. No excuses.

Time was a luxury she didn't have. If Heaven was already flexing, Hell needed to leap ahead.

She hung up on the last call, the phone dropping into her lap with a soft thud. Vaggie stared at her, eye wide with a mix of surprise and respect.

Charlie met her gaze, unflinching, her golden eyes steady as forged steel. "We need answers. Fast."

Vaggie nodded slowly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Yeah. We do."

Charlie glanced at the phone still in Vaggie's grip, its screen glowing faintly. "Tell Emily I'll buzz her later. I've got a kingdom to wrangle."

Vaggie grinned, a rare flash of mischief lighting her face as she lifted the phone back to her ear. "Damn, Em was right—Queen Charlotte's kinda hot when she takes charge."

Charlie snorted, rolling her eyes as she leaned back into the couch, the tension in her chest easing just a fraction. "Shut up."

---

Charlie strode into the grand hall of Morningstar Palace, her heels striking the polished obsidian floor with crisp, echoing clicks that reverberated off the towering walls. Crimson banners draped from the vaulted ceiling, their edges frayed by time, swaying faintly in the draft as sconces flickered with hellfire, casting a warm, restless glow across the chamber. This was her domain now—a full house of Hell's mightiest, gathered at her command.

Her parents anchored the head of the long, ebony table. Lucifer lounged with his trademark nonchalance, a glass of deep red wine twirling lazily between his fingers, the liquid catching the light like molten rubies. Lilith stood beside him, her regal poise unshaken, arms crossed, her sharp violet eyes tracking Charlie's entrance with a quiet, appraising weight.

The Seven Deadly Sins sprawled around them, each a study in excess. Beelzebub buzzed with restless energy, her iridescent wings shimmering as she perched on the edge of her seat. Asmodeus reclined with a lazy smirk, one leg slung over his chair's arm, his clawed hand tracing idle patterns in the air. Leviathan's twin heads murmured softly to each other, their serpentine eyes glinting in the dim light, while Belphegor slouched, nursing a steaming mug that wafted a sharp, bitter medicinal scent, her lids half-drooped. Mammon tapped furiously at his phone, the clack of his claws against the screen a staccato beat, his attention only half-present.

Vassago lingered near the room's edge, a composed shadow apart from the chaos, his crimson feathers gleaming faintly as his keen eyes swept the gathering, cataloging every detail with silent precision.

Stolas sat off to the side, isolated from the Sins, his posture rigid as if braced for rebuke. His long fingers gripped the table's edge, talons scraping faintly against the wood, his deep crimson eyes darting toward Satan—the Sin of Wrath who'd stripped him of rank and power. Tension coiled in his frame, each breath measured, a fallen prince unsure of his footing among those who now towered above him.

Lucifer seized the moment with a grin, tipping his glass toward Charlie as she entered. "Well, well, look who's finally filling the throne," he drawled, his voice smooth as velvet, amusement dancing in his golden eyes.

Beelzebub erupted from her chair, wings flaring as she slammed her hands onto the table, the impact rattling the surface. "Hold up—can we just appreciate that little Charlie is not only, crowned Queen of Hell, but is already being a bossy little shit now?!" Her voice buzzed with glee, eyes sparkling like neon as her antennae twitched wildly. "I knew it! I told you all—didn't I? She's got the spark! We need a party—no, a parade —to celebrate this!"

"Not now, Aunt Bee," Charlie cut in, her tone sharp and unyielding, slicing through the exuberance like a blade.

Beelzebub froze mid-rant, half-risen, wings stalling as the excitement drained from her face. A flicker of surprise—and something like respect—replaced it as she sank back into her seat. "Oh."

The shift rippled through the room. Satan raised a brow, his hands steepling as he leaned forward, interest sharpening his gaze. Leviathan's heads tilted in unison, exchanging a silent glance. Asmodeus's smirk widened, his amber eyes glinting with intrigue as he propped his chin on his hand. Even Mammon paused, his phone dipping slightly as he flicked his attention fully to Charlie.

She didn't let the moment settle, stepping forward with purpose, her golden eyes sweeping the assembly like a spotlight. "I called you here because something's happening," she said, her voice ringing clear and firm, carrying the weight of command. "Something unprecedented."

The air stilled, every eye locking onto her.

Charlie's wings shifted faintly at her back, the crimson fabric of her jacket pulling taut as she gathered her resolve. "Sinners— dead sinners—are rising from the Wastes."

A heartbeat of silence stretched taut.

Then—

"What?" Satan's voice rumbled low, his sharp eyes narrowing into slits as he leaned forward, the table creaking under his weight.

Charlie held her ground, unflinching. "They're appearing on the outskirts of Pentagram City—just standing there. Not attacking, not speaking. Just… existing. And Heaven's losing its damn mind over it."

Vassago straightened from his perch, his composed mask slipping as his voice cut through, low and precise. "You're certain?"

Charlie nodded, her jaw firm. "Yes. I saw them. The Archangels saw them too."

Murmurs erupted, a low hum of unease threading through the room as the demons shifted, exchanging quick, loaded glances.

"Wait, wait, wait," Mammon interjected, slamming his phone down with a clatter, a jagged grin splitting his face as he threw his arms wide. "You're tellin' me those prissy feather-dusters actually hauled ass down here to gawk?" He barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Well, hot damn! Hell's finally worth the price of admission again!"

Charlie ignored him, her focus unyielding as the room settled back into a tense hush.

"I don't need to spell out how dire this is," Charlie said, her voice cutting through the grand hall. "There's no precedent for reviving the dead. None. Heaven doesn't do it. Hell doesn't do it. No one does outside of God himself..."

Beelzebub, still reined in from Charlie's earlier snap, tapped her claws against the table's ebony surface, the faint clack echoing in the cavernous space. "But… they're not attacking, you said?"

Charlie paused, just a heartbeat. "No… Not yet."

The words dropped like stones, thickening the air with unspoken dread.

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his crimson gaze piercing through the playful smirk that never quite left his lips. The wine in his glass stilled as he fixed his eyes on his daughter. "And what's Heaven plotting, exactly?" His voice was velvet-smooth, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

Charlie's fingers pressed into the polished wood, leaving faint impressions as she steadied herself. "Pre-emptive Extermination."

The room froze, a deathly hush swallowing the murmurs.

Satan's claws raked the table, scoring shallow grooves into its surface. Leviathan's eel-like head hissed, a slow, venomous sound, while its twin muttered darkly. Asmodeus's smirk faltered, his amber eyes narrowing as a shadow crossed his face.

Charlie pushed forward, undeterred. "Heaven's scared witless. They don't understand this, and when Heaven doesn't get something, they erase it."

Lilith unfolded her arms, her regal silhouette framed by the flickering hellfire sconces, her voice cool and probing. "And your plan?"

Charlie lifted her chin, golden eyes glinting with resolve. "Find the cause before they can act."

Vassago's fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm, his crimson feathers catching the light as he leaned forward slightly. "And if you fail?"

Charlie's gaze hardened, unyielding. "Then Michael will turn them all to ash."

Her hands pressed firmer against the table as she scanned the room, the tension crackling like static. The demons watched her, each weighing the gravity of her words, the air thick with anticipation.

But she wasn't finished.

"There's more," she said, her tone steady, commanding. "I don't think Michael will stop at the Re-Borns."

Lucifer snorted, shaking his head as he twirled his glass. "Of course he won't."

Charlie pressed on, her voice gaining an edge. "Emily says he's already angling for a full extermination—a 'permanent fix.'"

The reaction was instant. Satan's jaw tightened, his claws flexing. Leviathan's right head snarled, sharp and guttural, while the left hissed a low curse. Asmodeus straightened, his lazy posture snapping taut, his smirk thinning into a grim line.

Mammon broke the silence first, scoffing as he flung one of his four arms wide. "Yeah, yeah, Michael's a kill-happy prick, big shock," he drawled, rolling his neon-green eyes before leaning forward, elbows thudding onto the table. "But why the fuck should I give a damn about some bottom-rung Sinners? Sounds like Hell's just takin' out the garbage for us."

Charlie's jaw clenched, her patience fraying. Mammon's nonsense was a thorn on her best days, and today wasn't one of them.

She forced a sharp exhale, keeping her voice even. "You mean the Sinners who fuel your empire?"

Mammon blinked, his bravado faltering.

Charlie arched a brow, leaning in. "What happens to your profits if Heaven guts half your buyers? Who's snapping up your overpriced junk then?"

Beelzebub choked on a laugh, her wings twitching as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Mammon's grin flickered, his fingers drumming faster as the realization sank in, his neon eyes darting as if searching for a comeback. He didn't like the long game, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Charlie didn't relent. "You live off excess, right? Greed and indulgence—your whole gig depends on Sinners spending eternity on your trash. If Michael gets his way, Hell's economy craters."

The Sins stilled, the weight of her words sinking in. Beelzebub sat up straighter, her buzzing energy dimming as she exchanged a glance with Asmodeus, who tapped his chin, his gaze sharpening with calculation.

Mammon scowled, muttering a low, "…Fuck," under his breath, his bravado deflated.

Charlie allowed herself a fleeting spark of triumph before forging ahead, her eyes sweeping the table. "I don't care how Heaven spins it, or what excuses Michael dredges up. I won't let him do this. Hell's ours—not his sandbox to raze. If he thinks he can waltz in and purge whoever he pleases, he's dead wrong."

Satan eased back in his chair, his sharp gaze studying her with a slow, deliberate intensity, the hellfire light catching the scars on his knuckles. "You'd really wage war over this?"

Charlie's wings flared slightly, her golden eyes burning with unshakable conviction as she met his stare. "If it comes to that? Yes."

The hall grew heavier, the flickering sconces casting long, jagged shadows across the gathered rulers, their silence a testament to the line Charlie had just drawn in the ash.

She straightened, her wings folding snugly against her back, the crimson fabric of her jacket pulling taut as she surveyed the rulers of Hell arrayed before her. The grand hall's obsidian walls gleamed under the flickering hellfire sconces, casting jagged shadows that danced across their faces—some intrigued, others skeptical. She didn't flinch under their scrutiny. She'd already claimed her throne, proven her mettle. Now, they'd heed her.

"We're taking control of this," she declared, her voice reverberating through the chamber, clear and unyielding. "I won't let a war with Heaven ignite over something we haven't even grasped."

Satan scoffed, crossing his scarred arms with a faint scrape of claws against leather. "You think Michael's gonna twiddle his thumbs while you play detective?"

Charlie's golden eyes snapped to him, sharp as a honed edge. "He'll hold off if we prove we've got this locked down."

Beelzebub leaned forward, her iridescent wings still for once, her many arms splayed across the table's dark surface. "And if he doesn't?"

Charlie's jaw tightened, a flicker of steel in her stance.

Then we fight.

She kept that to herself—for now—and shifted gears with a measured exhale. "Effective immediately, Hell's on lockdown."

The room erupted in reactions.

Mammon gagged theatrically, rolling his neon-green eyes skyward. "Ugh, boring ."

Leviathan's right head clicked its jagged teeth, irritation flashing in its serpentine gaze, while the left muttered a low hiss. A wave of grumbling rippled through the Sins, their voices overlapping in a discordant hum.

Mammon flopped back in his chair, arms flailing like a petulant child, his gold chains jangling. "This is gonna gut me, y'know that, right? No trade, no hustle, nada—profits straight down the shitter, Charlie."

Charlie pinned him with a look that could've melted steel. "And you'd rather take a temporary hit than lose your entire customer pool to an extermination?"

Mammon's scowl deepened, his fingers twitching as if itching to argue, but he bit his tongue, slumping further. "Tch. Cheap shot."

"Then you see why it's non-negotiable," Charlie said, cutting off his whining as she turned to Asmodeus. "Pull your succubi and incubi back—now. I don't care if they're mid-deal or mid-threesome, get them out of the human world and into Lust within two hours."

Asmodeus straightened from his lounging sprawl, his amber eyes glinting with mild surprise as he propped an elbow on the table. "That'll ruffle some feathers downstairs, darling," he purred, though his smirk held a curious edge.

Charlie didn't blink. "Then humans can figure out how to spice up their own nights. I'm not risking demons beyond our borders while this mess brews."

A pause hung in the air, broken by Beelzebub's sudden bark of laughter as she slung an arm over her chair's back. "Hah! Damn, Char, you're all business today!" Her fangs flashed in a wide grin, her antennae twitching. "Thought I'd get some chaos outta this, but nope—full-on boss mode. Kinda sexy, honestly."

Charlie rubbed her temples, a faint groan escaping. "Bee, focus ."

Beelzebub snickered but quieted, leaning back as Charlie forged ahead.

"Mammon, halt all shipments. Nothing leaves Greed, no goods shuffle between Rings until this is sorted."

Mammon groaned louder, dragging a clawed hand down his face, his gold rings glinting. "You're murdering me here, kid."

Charlie arched a brow, voice dry. "Prefer Michael to do it?"

Mammon clicked his tongue, glaring before slumping in defeat. "Fine, fine! But this better wrap quick—my vaults don't fill themselves."

Charlie ignored the grumbling, her focus shifting down the line. "The Hellevator between Rings gets locked down—guarded, no exceptions. No one uses it without my direct say-so or someone I greenlight." She locked eyes with Leviathan's twin heads. "Your crew handles Envy."

The right head sneered, but the left nodded curtly. "Done."

"Satan, Wrath."

Satan rolled his broad shoulders, a faint crack echoing from his joints. "Yeah, got it."

"Bee, Gluttony."

Beelzebub flashed a two-fingered salute, her grin returning. "On it, babe."

Charlie continued, assigning each Sin their Ring's defenses with clipped precision, her voice a steady drumbeat of command. But she wasn't through.

"And one more thing—" Her gaze swept the room, her smirk sharpening into something knowing as she folded her arms. "Guard the other portals between Rings too."

Silence dropped like a guillotine.

Mammon's voice broke it, slow and wary. "What other portals?" His tone hitched at the end, betraying that he knew damn well what she meant.

Satan's brow lifted, his sharp eyes darting to the others. Leviathan's right head narrowed its gaze, suspicious, while Belphegor's grip on her mug tightened, her drowsy facade slipping just a fraction.

Charlie sighed, exasperation threading her words as she leaned forward. "Oh, come on. You think the Morningstars never sniffed out your little backdoors? The smuggler tunnels, the hush-hush access points?" She straightened, unimpressed. "We let you keep them because they didn't matter—until now."

The air thickened, the Sins exchanging quick, uneasy glances as Charlie's words hung like a noose, tightening around their secrets.

Lucifer broke the silence from his perch at the table's head, a low chuckle rolling off his tongue as he swirled his wine, the deep red liquid glinting like blood in the hellfire light. "Of course we knew," he said, his voice thick with mirth, golden eyes twinkling with mock offense. "Come now, give us some credit. Those little shortcuts of yours were never worth the hassle to seal up—until now." He flashed Charlie a conspiratorial grin, tipping his glass in salute.

Charlie nodded firmly, her crimson jacket creasing as she squared her shoulders. "Lock them all down. Every last one—hidden or not, owned or not. Nothing crosses Ring borders unless I approve it."

A taut silence stretched across the hall, the Sins exchanging quick, wary looks, the air heavy with the weight of her decree.

Leviathan's right head muttered a grudging, "Fine," its serpentine eyes narrowing as the left head hissed in quiet accord. "We'll handle it."

Mammon groaned, slumping dramatically in his chair, his gold chains clinking. "Ugh, this sucks ."

Charlie's glare pinned him like a dart. "Then help me figure this out faster."

Mammon huffed, crossing two of his four arms, but held his tongue—a rare feat.

Lilith inclined her head slightly, her violet eyes gleaming with subtle approval. "A prudent choice," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk.

Charlie pressed on, her tone unwavering. "I want the sharpest minds from each Ring here at the palace by dawn—scholars, researchers, occult experts. Anyone who's so much as cracked a book on souls, resurrection, or just.. weird shit like this." Her golden eyes flicked to Leviathan, Satan, and Beelzebub. "You've got people who fit the bill?"

Leviathan's left head, Neris, dipped in a slow nod, its voice a low rasp. "I've got a few."

Beelzebub shrugged, her wings buzzing faintly as she leaned back. "Sure, I can drag in some brainiacs."

Satan grunted, a rough sound Charlie took as assent, his scarred knuckles flexing briefly.

"Good," she said, standing taller, the obsidian floor gleaming beneath her boots. "We'll sort out compensation for the Rings' disruptions later."

Mammon perked up, his neon-green eyes glinting. "Now that's music to my ears."

Charlie ignored him, her voice cutting through the chamber like a gavel. "This meeting's done. You're dismissed."

The Sins stirred, exchanging fleeting glances as they rose. Beelzebub clapped her hands with a sharp pop , tossing Charlie a playful salute before sauntering toward the towering double doors, her buzzing energy trailing behind. Satan rolled his shoulders, muttering something coarse under his breath as he lumbered out, while Leviathan's heads whispered to each other, a quiet debate as they slithered away.

Mammon lingered, tapping his claws against the table, his mouth twitching as if itching to snipe one last quip. Instead, he clicked his tongue, stood, and strutted off, whistling a mangled tune that echoed off the stone walls.

Lucifer rose last, his wine glass still in hand, swirling lazily as he watched Charlie with a smirk that danced between pride and amusement. "Locking down Hell, bossing the Sins around, barking orders at us," he mused, his voice lilting with mock awe. "You're really sinking your teeth into this queen gig, huh?"

Charlie exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose, her patience thinning. "Dad, not now ."

She stood alone at the table's head, the weight of her edict settling fully onto her shoulders like a mantle of iron. Hell was verbally sealed tight, but she knew there were spells, artifacts and other ways to evade her command.

As the grand hall emptied, the last echoes of the Sins' footsteps fading beyond the doors, only the Morningstar family, Stolas, and Vassago remained. Stolas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his crimson eyes darting between them, while Vassago watched in silence, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his composed features.

Lucifer threw his hands skyward with theatrical flair, his coat flaring dramatically. "I was this close to Hell's first Infernal Bungee Jump—off the Edge of Oblivion, no less! Do you know how long I've been itching to pull that off?"

Lilith arched a delicate brow, her voice dry as ash. "You have wings, darling."

"That's not the point ," Lucifer groaned, waving her off with a flourish, his cane tapping the obsidian floor. "The point is, I was on the cusp of an epic retirement—your mother and I, kicking back on a beach of shrieking souls, cursed margaritas in hand—and now my darling daughter's turned into a paranoid tyrant, locking Hell down tighter than a vault!"

Charlie crossed her arms, her crimson jacket creasing as she fixed him with an unimpressed stare. "You'll survive."

Lucifer gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded, his wine glass nearly tipping. "Will I? Will I?"

Lilith rolled her eyes, patting his shoulder with mock sympathy. "You'll manage, sweetheart."

Charlie sighed, ready to steer them back, but then she caught a shift in Lucifer's demeanor—subtle, fleeting. Beneath the theatrics, his eyes softened, the devilish bravado peeling back to reveal something raw, something genuine.

He smiled—not the sly smirk of a trickster or the grin of a provocateur, but a real, warm curve of his lips.

"You're doing good, kid," he said, his voice quieter, steady, cutting through the grand hall's echoes. "Really good."

Charlie blinked, the words catching her off guard, a sudden warmth blooming in her chest. She swallowed, nodding past the tightness in her throat. "Thanks, Dad."

Lucifer's smirk returned, softer now, as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "Don't expect me to gush too often."

Charlie let out a breathy laugh, the tension easing as she straightened. "I need your help with the lockdown."

Lucifer's brow arched, a spark of intrigue lighting his gaze. "Oh? Calling in the big guns already?"

Charlie shot him a pointed look. "Do you want Heaven crashing down here if this spreads?"

Lucifer hummed, tilting his head as if weighing the odds, then shrugged. "Fair enough."

Lilith's violet eyes flicked between them, a knowing glint shimmering beneath her regal calm. "Try not to wreak too much havoc."

"No promises," Lucifer quipped, rising with a theatrical stretch, his shoulders rolling as he cracked his neck. "Come on, Princess. One last secret for you to claim."

She turned to the others still lingering. "Stolas, Vassago—work with my mother to dig into these Re-Borns. I know you're powerless now, Stolas, but that brain of yours is still sharp as hell."

Together, father and daughter swept from the hall, their footsteps echoing through the labyrinthine corridors of Morningstar Palace. They passed opulent chambers draped in crimson velvet, gilded halls lined with portraits of fallen angels, and spiraling staircases that plunged into shadow. The air thickened as they descended into the palace's depths, a realm few ever glimpsed, where the walls pulsed faintly with ancient power.

Charlie felt it—a tingling prickle across her skin, a weight pressing against her core as they moved deeper. Wards older than sin itself hummed in the stone, their magic brushing against her, tasting her bloodline, probing her resolve. These were Hell's bedrock spells, woven into its essence—governing souls, binding borders, holding the chaos in check.

Lucifer strode ahead, his cane tapping a casual rhythm, seemingly unbothered by the oppressive energy, though Charlie knew he felt it too. The enchantments recognized them, parted for them, but their presence was a constant, watchful murmur against her senses.

They reached the lower levels, where massive steel doors loomed, their surface etched with sigils that shimmered in the torchlight—each a lock, a key, a fragment of Hell's primal code. Lucifer pressed his palm to the center, his rings glinting as the doors groaned open with a deep, resonant rumble, revealing the chamber beyond.

Charlie stepped inside, and her breath caught.

At the room's heart stood a colossal crystal, dwarfing them both—its jagged facets the size of a school bus, pulsing with an eerie, infernal glow. Swirls of crimson and shadow churned within, a living storm of energy that seemed to hum with the heartbeat of Hell itself.

She stared, the air buzzing against her skin, the weight of what she was about to wield sinking in.

This was the cornerstone of Hell—the axis anchoring its laws, the bedrock of its existence. Charlie felt its weight before she even touched it, an invisible force pressing against her soul like the pull of a dark tide.

Lucifer exhaled through his nose, his usual swagger hushed as he stepped into the chamber, the steel doors groaning shut behind them with a resonant thud. "Well," he murmured, his voice softer, almost reverent, "this should do the trick."

Charlie swallowed, her boots clicking faintly against the stone floor as she followed, the air thick with ancient magic. It wasn't hostile—just vast, unyielding, alive in a way that prickled her skin and hummed in her bones. The wards woven into the walls pulsed faintly, their presence a watchful murmur, recognizing her bloodline, awaiting her intent.

Her golden eyes locked onto the massive crystal at the chamber's heart. It loomed, colossal and jagged, its surface a swirling tempest of infernal hues—crimson bleeding into molten gold, then sinking into abyssal black, a cycle of colors older than words, older than sin itself. Its glow pulsed like a living thing, casting eerie shadows that danced across the sigil-etched walls.

She'd never been allowed in here before. Never needed to.

Lucifer paused beside her, hands in his pockets, tilting his head with a faint, fond smirk. "Nervous?"

Charlie let out a slow breath, the air cool against her lips. "Should I be?"

His smirk widened, infuriatingly casual. "Only if you don't know what you're doing."

Charlie shot him a sharp look. "Dad."

He chuckled, rolling his shoulders before facing her fully, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Alright, listen up, Princess. This isn't just some shiny rock in my basement. It's Hell's foundation—every rule, every law that keeps this place spinning? It's tethered here."

Charlie's brow furrowed, her crimson jacket rustling as she shifted. "And you never told me because…?"

Lucifer waved a hand, dismissing the question with a flick of his wrist. "You weren't ruling yet. No point dumping this on you before you were ready. Plus, you were a curious little hellion as a kid—I wasn't about to wake up and find you'd accidentally turned Hell into a giant bouncy castle."

Charlie scowled, crossing her arms. "I wouldn't have—"

He arched a brow, silencing her protest.

She groaned. "Okay, maybe , but still!"

Lucifer's laugh echoed faintly off the stone. "Regardless, it's yours now."

Charlie turned back to the crystal, the realization sinking deep into her core.

Her Hell.

Lucifer had shaped it since time's dawn, but now she held the reins. And her first act would be to seal it shut.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "So… how do I do this?"

Lucifer stepped closer, gesturing to the crystal with a casual sweep of his cane. "Simple. Touch it, Will the change. It's bound to Hell's ruler— you , now—so it'll bend to your intent."

Charlie hesitated, her fingers flexing. "That's it? No incantation? No ritual?"

Lucifer grinned, a glint of mischief in his red eyes. "What, disappointed? Wanted some grand ceremony with chanting and pyrotechnics?"

Charlie shook her head, a faint huff escaping. "I don't know what I expected."

He nodded toward the crystal. "Go on, then. Give it a whirl."

Charlie stepped forward, the crystal's pulse quickening as if it sensed her approach. She raised her hands, pausing a heartbeat before pressing her palms against its cool, glassy surface.

The moment her skin met the gem, a torrent of power surged through her, raw and boundless, igniting every nerve in her body.

It was like lightning cracking open her soul—an overwhelming rush that drowned her senses in an instant. Her consciousness unfurled, stretching beyond the chamber, beyond the palace, racing across Hell's sprawling expanse with dizzying speed. She felt the jagged spires of Pentagram City piercing the crimson sky, the sulfurous rivers snaking through Wrath, the smog covered chaos of Greed's markets, the gluttonous parties echoing in Bee's hives—all of it flooding her mind in a single, shattering breath.

The Wastes stretched beneath her, cracked and desolate, whispering with the hollow presence of the Re-Borns. She sensed the Rings' borders, their secret tunnels pulsing like veins, the Hellevator's cold steel thrumming with latent energy. Every soul—every demon, every sinner—flickered in her awareness, a constellation of lives bound to her will. The crystal wasn't just power; it was Hell, its heartbeat pounding in sync with hers, its laws a tapestry she could weave or unravel with a thought.

Her knees buckled under the weight, but she gritted her teeth, digging her fingers into the crystal's surface as sparks flared beneath her touch. The air vibrated, a low hum rising to a resonant drone that rattled her bones and set the chamber trembling. The swirling hues flared—crimson to gold to black—then blazed white-hot, searing the shadows from the walls.

No travel to Earth. No unauthorized movement between Rings. Lock it all down.

Her intent surged, sharp and unyielding, threading through the crystal's depths. She felt the shift ripple outward—portals snapping shut, borders hardening, the Hellevator grinding to a halt. Hell bent to her command, its magic twisting and locking into place like a vault sealing tight.

It was intoxicating—exhilarating. She could reshape it all, rewrite its rules, bend its chaos to her whims. She could—

A hand gripped her shoulder.

Charlie gasped, the connection shattering like glass as she stumbled back, her chest heaving. Lucifer's hold steadied her, firm but gentle, keeping her upright as the buzzing energy ebbed from her limbs.

"Easy, kiddo," he murmured, his red eyes watching her closely, a flicker of concern beneath his smirk.

Charlie panted, blinking rapidly as the world snapped back into focus, the aftershocks tingling through her fingers. "I…" She swallowed hard, her voice ragged. "I felt it—all of it."

Lucifer nodded, his grip loosening but lingering. "Yeah. I know."

She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. "That was… overwhelming."

He smirked, stepping back to lean against his cane. "You'll get the hang of it."

She wasn't sure she wanted to.

The crystal dimmed, its frenetic pulse slowing to a steady, controlled glow, the chamber falling quiet once more. It had accepted her will.

Hell was locked down.