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Talk about a toxic fucking work environment.

“I wouldn’t say defective,” I grind out.

Veraxia stiffens beside me, probably mentally calculating the trajectory of my corpse into the sun, but I don’t care.

Satan leans back as she studies me with eyes like pools of ancient, cooling magma. “Neither would I. You traversed the Veil twice without exploding, and without a permit—a Class Eight breach, I believe, and you navigated the mortal realm without a shell.” She pauses, tapping a black nail against the desk. “Most demons would’ve lost their eternal souls to madness with everything you’ve done. But you?” She tilts her head, the massive horns catching the light. “You have a unique… adaptability.”

My jaw hangs loose for a solid second. What?

Did I just hear that right? Did the CEO of Hell just call my catastrophic lack of impulse control a skill?

The shock curdles instantly into something much sweeter. Smugness. Pure, unadulterated, grade-A smugness. I slide a glance over to Veraxia. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of smoking ash on the carpet, but she can’t touch me. The Boss just endorsed my chaos.

Suck on that, highlighter.

Satan leans forward, steepling her fingers. “Tell me, Administrator. What was your station before this job? Your file is... dense.”

Oh, fuck no. Anything but that.

My soul shrivels inside my chest, a deep, internal cringe that rattles my bones. It’s the one smudge on my resume I can’t scrub out. The shame of my early career.

“I was...” I clear my throat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “I was a Welcomer, ma’am.”

Veraxia lets out a tiny, derisive snort, but Satan’s expression doesn’t change. “Reception. The Gates. Endless lines of the newly damned, confused and asking for the manager. Did you enjoy it?”

I scoff. “Fuck no,” I say, forgetting for a second who I’m talking to. “That’s why I transferred to torture. Flaying is messy, sure, but at least the souls don’t ask you if there’s a vegan option in the cafeteria.”

A smooth chuckle drifts from her throat.

“I like you, Malachi,” she croons. “You have... texture. Most of my staff are so tragically smooth. So polished. Like Veraxia here. Tell me--have you ever considered a lateral move? Something with a bit more... bite?”

“Like what?”

“Maybe...” She tilts her head, studying me. “Something in Compliance?”

I blink, fighting the urge to physically recoil.

Compliance? The Wardens?

Those fleshy, pink, shrimpy little bastards that have made my life a living misery recently? Joining them would be like a wolf voluntarily shaving its fur to join a flock of naked mole rats.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” I say, the disgust practically dripping off my chin. “Absolutely not.”

She throws her head back and laughs, looking genuinely delighted by my revulsion.

“Oh, no, no. You misunderstand,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not talking about the shrimps in the Ninth. I’m talking about First Division Compliance.”

My brain stutters. First Division. The Headhunters. They carry scythes made of void-metal, they hunt rogue demons on behalf of Her.

“Jesus Christ,” the mortal blasphemy blurts from my mouth before my brain can stomp on the brakes.

The temperature in the room instantly drops to absolute zero. The amusement vanishes from her face, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.

“Watch your mouth,” she hisses, her voice layering over itself—three, four, five octaves deep, vibrating with the weight of a fallen star. “Do not speak that name in my realm.”

“Apologies, ma’am,” I choke out, bowing my head until my chin hits my chest. “The mortals… they rubbed off on me. Bad habits. Terrible vocabulary.”

My fucking Eden rubbed off on me. Even when she’s not here, she’s managing to get me almost incinerated. That girl is going to be the death of me, even after I'm already dead.