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“You know exactly why I’m here,” she hisses. “You triggered every alarm in the Forbidden Zone, went dark, and then I get a notification from a damn Vermin-Class Harvester. Apparently, some crass little snitch spotted a Ninth Division demon free-roaming the mortal realm without a shell, and followed you all the way back to this building.”

Oh, that pathetic, environmentalist parasite. I should have peeled him out of his shell and crushed him the second I saw his plastic face and his stupid little clipboard. My jaw tightens, a surge of hot, predatory anger bubbling in my chest. To think that some bottom-feeder likely traded my information for what? A promotion? Just enough extra time Earth-side for him to crawl through a dumpster behind a butcher shop and wank himself silly?

“So you’ve what? Searched every mirror in the building?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “You little pervert.”

“I had to brute-force a connection through several floors of cheap residential plumbing,” she snaps, smoothing down her lapels. “I’ve spent the last few hours scanning every reflective surface in this tenement until I found the one that had your particular stink. You are making me work, Malachi. And I hate working. You will return immediately.”

I snort, shaking my head. “No thank you.”

“You cannot stay,” she snaps. “You know the rules, and you are disobeying them vehemently by indulging yourself and being careless.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “I am not being careless.”

My mind flickers back—just for a microsecond—to the altercations in the street. The worm in the suit, the fucking insect, the sickeningly satisfying crunch of Leo’s phone in the pharmacy.

Okay, maybe I have been a tad bit careless.

“You crossed without clearance,” she says between gritted fangs. ”No confirmed documentation. No veil-anchored form or mortal-safe shell. You’re unbound and unregistered. You will come back. Now. Before this becomes a problem you can’t charm your way out of. You’re on borrowed time.”

“Aren’t we all?” I counter, a slow grin spreading across my face.

She leans closer, her reflection warping as the Veil strains beneath the sheer weight of her presence. “You are a pain in my ass.”

“I’d apologize,” I say with a chuckle, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles, “but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

“Don’t,” she says calmly. “I’ve intercepted this before the Higher Divisions noticed. I don’t want to have to start the process of bringing you back, Malachi. Because if I do, they’ll find out. And if this escalates, it won’t just be you facing consequences.”

I want to laugh so fucking hard that the tiles rattle and the foundations of this flimsy little apartment shake.

That’s why she’s standing there talking instead of hauling me back by the horns. She despises paperwork almost as much as she despises admitting fault; a full-scale recall operation is a nightmare of red tape, and she’s shit-scared of the fallout.

For once, the suffocating bureaucracy that’s crushed me for my entire existence is doing me a favor. All she has is a mirror, a temper, and the desperate hope that if she sounds authoritative enough, I’ll walk myself back into line and spare her the humiliation of filing a confession of failure.

“This is not a game.” Agitation bleeds through the cracks in her composure. “So do as you’re told, or you’ll be wheeled into the Pits for a full public display—naked, bound, horns strung for the entertainment of the crowd. And when that’s done, you’ll spend centuries chained in Soul Recovery, transcribing the screams of the newly damned by hand. In triplicate, with your fingernails. Do I make myself clear?”

I lean one elbow against the sink, water still sliding down my shoulders. “Crystal,” I purr. ”Very vivid. Really paints a picture. But I’m afraid—no matter how transparent the threat—I regret to inform you that I still won’t be returning to Hell.”

“If you do not return, I’ll be forced to initiate a full inquiry. If the Compliance Wardens come for you⁠—”

“Oh, not the Compliance Wardens,” I deadpan. “Anything but the Compliance Wardens. I’m terrified.”

The mirror ripples, a sudden surge of heat and emberlight blooming against the glass. Glowing sigils scatter into the steam like sparks as a slip of parchment materializes, drifting through the surface of the glass to land right in my wet hands. I turn it over, squinting through the condensation at the polished script of the Ninth Division.

It’s the usual threatening horseshit, condensed into a list of my failures: Unauthorized Incursion. Unregistered Status. No Veil Anchorage. Etcetera, etcetera.

Beneath the charges sits a glowing, embossed transit sigil—a one-way, self-serve mandatory recall voucher.

“Tear along the dotted line, apply one drop of demonic ichor, and step cleanly through the resulting dimensional tear.”

Naturally, the fine print notes that this particular sigil doesn’t take me to my quarters, or even to the holding cells. It’s coded to drop me directly into Intake Processing.

Below that, the Terms of Grace—a seventy-two-hour countdown for me to crawl back into my cage before the Enforcement squads are authorized to come and fetch me back like a lawless dog.

“Sign it and send it back so the system registers your receipt of notice,” she demands, her image in the glass shimmering with anticipation.

I hum thoughtfully, tracing the edge of the paper with my thumb. Then, without breaking eye contact, I bunch the parchment into a tight ball and pop it into my mouth. It crackles softly between my teeth, dissolving into a satisfying grit of ash, sulfur, and concentrated spite.

“What is wrong with you?” she snarls, her face contorting with a mix of disgust and disbelief.