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"And you," I say, pointing a finger at his wet nose. "Do not think I have forgotten you. I will retrieve the beef jerky. The expensive kind. The one with the pepper."

The beast lets out a whuff of pure, unadulterated joy and drools slightly on my boot.

It is pathetic.

He is a Hellhound. He is a creature born of sulfur, shadow, and the screams of the wicked. He’s a security system. He does not require sustenance. He feeds on fear and the ambient heat of the damned.

But since inhabiting his own mortal shell, he has gone native. He’s developed a digestive tract that rivals a black hole. He eats constantly. Kibble. Steak. Table scraps. My shoes. He has fully embraced the gluttony of his disguise with a lack of dignity that frankly, I find inspiring.

He’s an embarrassment. I’m buying him two bags.

A fist assaults the front door and Eden yawns, finally rolling out of bed to search for a shirt that isn’t covered in animal hair. “That’ll be Piper.”

I watch her go, a flicker of pride igniting in my chest. Since our little excursion to Hell, Eden has grown a spine. She’s firmer with Piper now. She says ‘no.’ She draws boundaries. But Saturday mornings are sacred. Every single one, without fail, they sit on the couch, drink tea, and watch a reality show where women throw wine at each other. It’s a ritual of brain-rot that I have learned to respect from a very safe distance.

I follow her to the hallway, straightening my tie just as she yanks the door open, and Piper bustles in, ponytail swinging.

“Morning, morning, sunlight is burning, coffee is needed,” Piper chirps, dropping a tote bag onto the floor. She stops dead when she sees me. Her eyes rake over my charcoal suit, the crisp white shirt, the tie.

“Why are you so dressed up?” she asks.

“Meeting at the office,” I lie smoothly. “Crisis management.”

“On a Saturday? Gross,” she makes a face, pushing past me toward the couch. “You better be back on time for dinner with Mom and Dad.”

“I will, I will,” I relent, toeing on my shoes.

“Oh, Eden—by the way,” Piper calls out, rummaging through her purse. “You really need to call your old service provider. It’s happening again.”

I stop, my hand freezing on the doorknob.

“What is?” Eden asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“The glitch,” Piper says, sounding annoyed. “I’ve had three missed calls this morning from your old number. The one you lost when... you know. When you… went off the grid.”

I turn around slowly.

“You didn’t mention that to me,” I say.

Eden waves a dismissive hand. “It’s just a recycling error, Malachi. They probably assigned the number to some telemarketer. I didn’t think it was important.”

“You didn’t think it was important that your phone in Hell is trying to reach out?” I whisper, low enough for only Eden to hear.

“Yeah, she’s right,” Piper says, pulling her phone out. “It’s probably just⁠—”

She holds it up like it’s a show-and-tell project. “It’s happening now.”

I move closer, eyes locked on the screen.

Incoming Call: Eden (OLD)

Before I can snatch the device and hurl it into the nearest consecrated ground, Piper sighs, swipes the green icon, and hits ‘speaker.’

“Hello?” she singsongs, oblivious to the fact that she has just opened a direct line to the Abyss.

She’s met with nothing but static and silence.

“Hello?” Piper prompts impatiently, tapping her foot.