I wondered what I did in my past life to garner the attention of such beasts.
As they stared into my soul, my sweat dropped like balls and I was beginning to think I was going crazy.
"Am I hallucinating?" I asked myself, only to hear an answer back.
"I'm afraid not. Would introducing ourselves warrant ease?"
The first was the one who'd spoken was cool and refined, his expression unreadable behind his wire-frame glasses.
"I am Mammon, Fourth Prince of Hell," he said. "Lord of Greed. Master of trade, wealth, and desire."
He adjusted his tie with precision, I had not even noticed he wore an tuxedo in this summer heat. "I prefer reason over chaos. You'll find me... reliable."
There was something cold about him—like the glint of a credit card before it ruins your life.
Next came a tall figure with deep crimson eyes and tousled dark hair. He moved like a predator, slow and languid, until he was suddenly at my bedside. He had dyed magenta hair, the most distinguishable amongst them.
He crouched down, lips curled in a smirk, and cupped my chin with fingers tipped in gold rings. My eyes bulged at the sudden disposition.
"Asmodeus," he purred. "Sixth Prince of Hell. Lust, darling. You've heard of me."
I slapped his hand away but he grinned wider. "Feisty. I like that."
Behind him stood a lean man with sleek red hair and an air of pure disdain. He didn't bother stepping closer. His arms were in a cross against his broad chest and he looked at me as if I was his personal punching bag.
"I'm Lucifierre, Second Prince," he said curtly. "Pride incarnate. You'll find yourself kneeling down to me later."
Huh? did I hear that right?
His gaze traveled over me like I was a broken toy. "Tch. Is this really the one?"
I didn't answer. Lucifierre and I are definitely not going to be friends.
Suddenly, I felt something cold press against my cheek, like silverware. A low chuckle erupted from the next figure—a golden-haired man with wide, curious eyes and a childlike grin. He was holding... cake?
He offered it to me like a peace offering.
"Beelzebub," he said cheerfully. "Say aaah—!"
I didn't know, but my mouth obeyed. At least he was different. I'm glad. Finally, a child and someone normal. All of these guys are intimidating!
"It's surprisingly sweeter than it looks like," I commented. The dessert he gave me cooks like a bland pudding, however, it is too sweet that I immediately coughed when the sugar dissolved in my throat.
"Cakes and parfaits are my favorite." He optimistically informed me. "But-! I presume that you are the tastiest among them all, am I wrong?"
"Y-You are definitely wrong."
The one who followed wasn't standing like the others.
He was already there—reclined in my computer chair like it had always belonged to him. Draped in black silk that shimmered like smoke, he lounged with the effortless grace of someone who had no intention of moving. The fabric spilled over the armrests like shadowy vines, and his posture was the embodiment of complete disinterest.
He hadn't moved an inch since I opened my eyes. Not even to blink.
His hair was the color of fresh snow—soft, cloudlike—and his lashes fluttered faintly as he lazily regarded the ceiling. His baby blue eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, looked more suited for staring at stars than people. Ethereal was the only word I could think of.
Honestly? He looked more like a fairy prince than a demon.
Without glancing in my direction, he spoke in a dreamy, almost drowsy murmur.
"Belphegor. Fifth Prince of Sloth. Don't wake me up unless it's the end of the world."
His voice drifted through the air like a lullaby, curling into the corners of the room like smoke from a dying candle.
I stared at him, unsure if I was supposed to say something.
He yawned, long and slow, like the very act of existing bored him to tears.
Before I could respond, the next one appeared—lean and fluid like a shadow slipping through cracks.
He stood near the doorway, silver hair gleaming under the room's dim light, but with a strange greenish hue at the ends that shimmered when he moved. His eyes were sharp amber, far too bright to be kind, and they scanned the room with a restless energy that unsettled me.
He leaned against the wall with arms crossed, a silver coin flicking deftly between his fingers. It made a soft clink each time it flipped, like a ticking clock winding down. The half-smile on his lips was the kind that said he already knew something you didn't—and he planned to enjoy watching you figure it out.
He looked like a viper waiting for its moment.
"Leviathan," he said smoothly, his voice like silk stretched over something sharp. "Prince of Envy. You probably hate me already."
I blinked. "What—why would I—?"
He smirked, never missing a beat.
"See? That's how it starts."
The coin vanished into his palm.
And something about that smile told me it wasn't a joke.
Finally, the last one stepped forward.
He didn't speak right away. He didn't need to.
The air shifted. He was taller than the rest, but it wasn't just his height—it was the way the very atmosphere bent around him. Gravity seemed heavier. Shadows crawled to his feet like loyal dogs.
His obsidian horns curled back like a crown forged in the heart of a dying star. His long onyx hair cascaded past his shoulders, fluid and silent, like the night had draped itself upon him willingly.
He wore a high-collared coat, layered in crimson and black, as if dipped in blood and ash. It wasn't clothing—it was war regalia, regal and lethal.
The moment he moved, the room quieted.
Utterly.
Asmodeus stopped smiling.
Mammon straightened his spine.
Even Belphegor, lounging in apathy just seconds before, sat up—awake, alert, wary.
None of them dared interrupt. Not with him here.
He didn't look at them. His crimson eyes were locked onto me—burning, ancient, and absolute. They didn't just look at me. They unmade me.
My heart was hammering in my chest. My instincts screamed to kneel, to lower my gaze, to run.
But I couldn't move.
Then he spoke.
And the world bent.
"I am Satania of Wrath."