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He thrusts the tablet at me.

“Your cover story,” he says, scrolling through the glowing red text. “Your name’s still Malachi. But we’ve had to scrub ‘Virezeal’. You are now Malachi... Blackwood. A bit on the nose, but it tested well with the focus groups.”

I snort. “Blackwood? You people have no imagination.”

“Occupation… Private Security Consultant,” he continues, ignoring me. “It explains the muscle mass, and the general aura of impending homicide. Income source is secured. The First Division will funnel a generous salary into a Cayman account. You will not want for mortal currency. You can buy all the ‘kibble’ and ‘lattes’ you desire.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll positively gorge himself,” comes a bored, melodic voice from the corner of the suite. “He always did have the impulse control of a starving rodent.”

I groan loudly, not turning my head as the Weaver aggressively sandpapers a callus off my new heel. “Why are you still here?”

“Satan gave me two days of administrative leave in the First,” Veraxia says from where she’s draped across a fainting couch, looking entirely too comfortable. She pops a glistening, black hors d'oeuvre into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Best believe I am taking them. These tartlets are exquisite. You can taste the despair in the crust.”

I stare at her in the reflection of the gilt mirror.

My sister. The woman who, less than twenty-four hours ago, was personally overseeing the attempt to have me turned into a fine red mist. Seeing her face—pristine, smug, and unbruised—makes the bile rise in my fresh esophagus. I want to reach across the room and introduce her perfect nose to the marble floor.

But then, the rage cools into something colder. Something sweeter.

She licks a crumb of crust from her thumb, oblivious. She thinks she’s won a reprieve. A vacation. But I see it for what it is: the prologue to her misery.

Let her eat her snacks. Let her enjoy the high-thread-count sheets. Because in twenty-four hours, she goes back to the Ninth. Back to the fluorescent lights that hum like dying insects. Back to the paperwork, the quotas, and the soul-crushing boredom of middle management.

She tried to liquidate me. She failed. And in her failure, she accidentally handed me the keys to the kingdom. While she’s drowning in triplicate forms for the next millennium, she’ll have to live with the knowledge that the brother she tried to erase didn’t just survive—he got promoted. And I am out of her jurisdiction.

“Enjoy the leave, Veraxia,” I say, a slow grin stretching my new mortal-looking lips. “You look like you need the rest. Bureaucracy is so… draining for the unambitious.”

She pauses, a tartlet halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowing.

“Don’t push it, Blackwood,” she sneers.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie.

The middle-manager clears his throat and steps between us before I can escalate the sibling rivalry into structural damage. He extends a manicured hand. Sitting in his palm is a sleek, black rectangle.

“Your tether,” he announces.

It’s a standard mortal smartphone, just like Leo’s. My new human fingers close around the glass clumsily. The screen flares to life, bathing my unfamiliar face in a harsh, artificial blue glow.

“Heavily encrypted,” he drones, tapping his own tablet. “Untraceable by human agencies, government bodies, or lower-tier demons with a grudge. This is a direct line.”

“A direct line to whom?” I ask, looking for a weaponized app or a button that releases a plague. “Room service?”

“To Her,” he corrects sharply. “When a job requires your… specific talents, she will contact you via this device. You will receive coordinates. You will proceed to the location and handle the asset. And then you will disappear. No paperwork. No witnesses. You are a ghost, Malachi. A ghost with a data plan.”

I stare at the little black mirror. So this is it. The grand instrument of my servitude to the CEO of Hell is a gadget that teenagers use to film themselves dancing.

“Does it have games?” I ask.

He freezes, his left eye twitching. “...Excuse me?”

“Games,” I repeat, scrolling through the empty app drawer with a critical thumb. “Like that one where you crush candy? I require stimulation. I have a very active mind.”

From the couch, Veraxia snorts so hard she nearly chokes on a tartlet.

“It is a tool of cosmic enforcement,” he says, his voice straining like a cable about to snap. “Not a toy.”

“I’m not hearing a ‘no,’” I mutter.