Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Devildom was quiet at night.

A different kind of quiet. The kind that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, suffocating, making every small sound louder than it should be.

The kind of silence that let you hear your own thoughts—dangerous things, thoughts. They crept in between the seconds, between breaths, curling around the beat of his heart. And lately, Mammon was breathing too much.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the moonlight from the window cutting sharp silver lines across the mess of his room. The mess wasn’t his, not really. It was Levi’s game console he’d borrowed and never returned, Asmo’s jacket he’d spilled soda on, then tried—and failed—to clean, Satan’s book he found on the floor and forgot to put back.

Nothing in here really felt like his anymore. Not even himself. If he could rip out the need buried deep in his chest and toss it into the street, he would. Hell, he’d rip out the rest of himself if it meant quiet.

He stared down at his hands. Calloused knuckles, the familiar weight of old rings. The same hands that used to swipe credit cards and win impossible bets with a cocky grin. Now they just trembled, a sharp contrast to the confidence that once radiated from him.

He wanted to be better. He really did.

Not because anyone told him to—but because he was tired.

Tired of the yelling. Tired of being the scapegoat. Tired of the guilt that stuck to him like tar every time something went wrong. Tired of being the joke. Because that’s what he was to them, wasn’t he? The greedy one. The thief. The idiot.

No one saw the days he resisted. And maybe that was the worst part—not that they didn’t believe him, but that they never even thought to look.

They didn’t see the things he wanted but didn’t take.

Like how he'd walked past the jewelry shop near Ristorante Six with a demon-crafted chain that sparkled like frostbite in the window—walked past it seven times before the ache in his chest stopped screaming for it.

Or how he returned a lost wallet he could’ve easily pocketed without blinking.

Or how he hadn’t used his Goldie card in over a month.

And yet, when Mammon entered the dining hall that morning and heard the sharp tone of Lucifer’s voice slicing through the air—“Mammon, I know you were in my office. My pen’s missing again.”—it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

He tried to argue, to defend himself. “Wasn’t me, I swear—”

But his words fell flat. A familiar routine. No one even looked surprised.

He left before he could say something stupid. Before he could break something. Before he could remind them he was the Avatar of Greed—a title they seemed more than happy to shove in his face whenever it was convenient.

He made it to his room, door locked behind him, before the heat behind his eyes burned out.

And that’s when he slipped.

Not into greed—but into something else. The kind of weakness that came when you’d been holding yourself up for so long that you couldn’t anymore.

He didn’t steal. He didn’t buy anything. Didn’t gamble. Didn’t even yell.

Instead, he curled into himself like paper folding in flame and whispered into the suffocating darkness “I don’t wanna be like this anymore…”

But he was. He was like this. It was in his name. In his blood. His sin.

He hated it. He hated himself for it.

For the want. For the ache. For the need to have more—even if all he really wanted was someone—anyone—to believe he was trying.

Mammon clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. The tears never came, they never did anymore.

Outside, the night stayed silent.

Mammon shifted on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging limp between them. The soft glow of the  lamp behind him cast long shadows across the floor, catching on the golden trim of his jacket, now tossed carelessly over the chair.

It was quiet.

Too quiet for the House of Lamentation, even at this hour.

His fingers twitched.

He looked down at his hand like it belonged to someone else.

A day hadn’t gone by without someone accusing him of something. Lost Grimm? “Mammon.” Broken mirror? “Definitely Mammon.” Missing jewellery? “Why are we even asking?”

He wasn’t innocent—not even close. He had taken things before. A lot of things. He’d lied, schemed, conned his way into and out of more trouble than he could count.

But he was trying. Lately, he really had been trying.

And no one seemed to notice.

Or worse—they noticed and laughed like it was cute. Like he was cute for even bothering.

The next morning started the way most of Mammon’s days did lately.

With a headache.

He woke up to sunlight that felt like judgment—hot, merciless, undeserved, and a knock on his door that wasn’t really a knock—more like a threat dressed in rhythm.

“Mammon. Breakfast. You’re late.”

Lucifer’s voice.

Of course.

Mammon rolled over and pressed a pillow to his face. Two minutes, he told himself. Just two to remember why he was bothering to get up at all.

But Lucifer didn’t wait.

The door opened—without permission, like always—and Lucifer stood there, arms crossed, the weight of his disappointment already heavy in the air.

“You said you’d help Diavolo with that student welcome orientation today. He’s waiting.”

“Tch… I know,” Mammon muttered, dragging himself up. “Can’t a guy breathe first?”

Lucifer’s gaze was sharp. “Then maybe stop wasting time gasping like a fish and act like you have a brain in that thick skull.”

The jab wasn’t even original. Mammon didn’t flinch. Just stared at the floor and waited for the storm to pass.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, pushing past Lucifer. Their shoulders brushed. Mammon didn’t look back.

Later that day, after doing exactly what he was told—smiling through introductions, guiding new students with fake enthusiasm, waving goodbye with sore cheeks and soreer pride—Mammon found himself wandering.

Not home. Not toward the House of Lamentation, and definitely not toward Lucifer’s glare.

Just walking. No destination. Letting his legs lead, hoping maybe his thoughts would shut up if he kept moving.

He walked for hours without even realising it. By the time he looked up, night had settled—and he was still walking, alone.

The Devildom at night was strange. Quiet. Almost… gentle. Like the realm had different rules once the streets emptied. The neon buzz of shopfronts faded, replaced by the hum of far-off thunder, the occasional flap of wings overhead.

That’s when he found the alley.

It wasn't one he recognized, which was odd—he knew most of the streets around the shopping district. But this one was new. Or maybe it just always slipped past him.

It was narrow, almost unnaturally so. Tucked between two old buildings like a secret. Mammon paused. He should’ve kept walking. He almost did.

He didn’t know why he ended up in that alley. Maybe he was looking for trouble. Maybe for silence. Maybe just somewhere that didn’t feel like the suffocating walls of that damn mansion.

Then he heard a voice—low, smooth, like smoke coiling through the air.

“Rough day, greedling?” The voice slithered through the dark, curling around him like smoke.

Mammon froze. The voice was unfamiliar, but the word—

Greedling.

Only demons used that. Highborn ones. Older than they looked.

He turned.

A man stood in the shadows, A figure stepped out of the shadows. Tall. Thin. Dressed in black with eyes like oil-slick glass. His eyes were sunken but glowed faintly gold, too gold.

There was something wrong about him. Not threatening. Just… wrong.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mammon muttered. “I ain’t lookin’ for company.”

The man chuckled, slow and dry. “Most addicts say that before the fall. You’re just earlier in the story.”

Mammon bristled. “I ain’t an addict.”

“No?” The man tilted his head. “Not addicted to wanting more? Not aching every night for things you tell yourself you don’t need—and hating yourself for wanting them anyway?”

Mammon’s fists clenched. “Ya don’t know me.”

“Don’t need to. I know sin.” The man’s hand slipped into his coat, and for a second Mammon tensed, half-expecting a weapon.

The figure smiled. “I’m someone who makes burdens lighter.”

Mammon turned, already walking away.

“Wait,” the voice called again, not louder, just… stickier. “You don’t want money. You don’t want praise.” The man leaned in, eyes glinting.  “You want control. Am I right?”

Mammon froze.

The silence stretched. And then—

“I’ve got something that might help.”

Then he pulled out a small silver case.

He opened it slowly. Inside were neat rows of matte black capsules. They didn’t glow. Didn’t pulse with magic. They looked… ordinary.

“Suppressants,” the man said. “Temporary. Mild. Designed for demons who’ve had enough of themselves.”

Mammon narrowed his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

The man smiled. “There isn’t one. First dose is free. If it doesn’t help, return it. Or throw it away. No deal. No binding. Just choice.”

Mammon didn’t move. His body screamed to walk away. But his hands… they twitched.

He remembered Lucifer’s glare.

Asmo’s snickering behind perfectly manicured hands.

The sound of his own voice shaking when he insisted he hadn’t done it.

“Take one,” the stranger said. “Just one. The weight gets quieter.”

Mammon stared.

“I ain’t an idiot,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say you were.” The man offered the cas with one hand. “Take it. Don’t take it. Hell, throw it in the trash. Doesn’t matter to me. But it’s free. And you can return them if they don’t work. That’s my offer.”

Mammon didn’t move.

The man smiled again, more like a grin this time. “You’ll think about it.”

Mammon looked down.

The man pressed the case into his hand. It was cold against his hand.

“Just this once,” Mammon said, more to himself than to the stranger.

“That’s how it always starts,” the man replied, eyes glittering.

He looked down at the case in his palm. It was heavier than it should’ve been.

When he looked up, the alley was empty. He was gone. Just like that.

Back in his room, Mammon stood up and crossed to the mirror. He looked at himself.

Messy hair, tired eyes, shoulders a little more slouched than usual. He didn’t look like the Avatar of Greed. Didn’t look like a sin incarnate. Just a guy who hadn’t slept in days. Just… tired.

“What’s the point?” he muttered under his breath.

The reflection didn’t answer.

He opened his drawer, revealing a small, neatly stacked pile of Grimm coins. Ones he’d saved instead of stolen. A folded receipt from when he paid back Asmo. A pen he returned to Levi after borrowing.

Proof. His proof that he was trying.

And none of it mattered.

Because all they ever saw was Mammon the Thief.

He closed the drawer gently, but his hand lingered there.

His throat tightened. Not from sadness exactly. From something heavier. Like guilt shaped into a noose. Just… pressure. Like something heavy had been sitting on his chest all day, getting heavier and heavier until he couldn’t breathe without it pressing into his lungs.

He sat again on the bed. The case gleamed faintly in the dark.

He didn’t open it. Didn’t take one.

Just stared.

For a long, long time.

—

Mammon didn’t take the pills.

Not that night.

He came close. Held the case in his hand, flipped it open, stared at the neat black capsules sitting like secrets.

But something in him twisted.

A part of him still believed he could beat this on his own. That if he just held out a little longer, someone would notice—would say “You’re doing good, Mammon,” or “I see how hard you’re trying.”

That maybe next time he was accused of something, someone—just one of them—would ask, “Are you sure it was Mammon?”

So instead, he buried the case beneath a pile of old shirts in his bottom dresser drawer.

Out of sight. Out of reach.

Out of hope.

The next morning started like déjà vu. The House of Lamentation was its usual chaos: clinking cutlery, shouting over who ate whose pudding, chairs scraping the floor, half-dressed demons trying not to look awake.

Mammon slipped into the dining room late. On purpose.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Asmo said without looking up from his mirror.

“Bet he was out blowing his allowance again,” Levi muttered. “Or crying over some shiny thing he couldn’t steal.”

“Mammon,” Lucifer said sharply, not even pausing his tea, “My ledger is missing 3,000 Grimm from last night. I’m not in the mood for games.”

Mammon’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t touched a single Grimm. Not Lucifer’s, not anyone’s. Hell, he hadn’t even gone near Lucifer’s office.

He sat down slowly, fists tight in his hoodie sleeves.

“Wasn’t me,” he said, voice low. “I ain’t taken anythin’.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Levi scoffed. “It’s you. It’s always you.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Beel said quietly—but his voice was swallowed by the others.

“Even if it wasn’t you this time, it usually is,” Asmo added with a shrug. “So really, can you blame us for assuming?”

Mammon stared at the table. The plate in front of him blurred. He hadn’t realized how tight his throat felt until swallowing became a challenge.

No one noticed.

Lucifer stood, stacking his dishes with practiced indifference. “If the money isn’t returned by tonight, you’ll be cleaning the Cerberus kennels for the next week.”

The faintest trace of something else—maybe concern, maybe irritation—flashed in his eyes before he turned to leave.

He left the room. The others followed, one by one, their conversations shifting to weekend plans and exams.

Mammon sat in silence, fists clenched in his sleeves, while the clatter of silverware faded away like static. Nobody turned back. Nobody asked.

No apology. No second guess.

Mammon was alone at the table. Again.

Just Mammon. Always Mammon. 

Chapter Text

The only sound in Mammon’s room was the scratch of a pen against paper.

He lay flat on his stomach on the bed, pen clutched in his left hand, a small leather-bound journal spread open before him. The pages were dog-eared, some smudged, others creased with too much emotion pressed into too small a space.

He only wrote in it when it got really bad.

Tonight qualified.

He stared at the blank page, the words sticking in his throat before they ever touched paper. Then, with a deep breath, he started writing.

Journal Entry – Day 7

Didn’t take anythin’ today. Walked past a whole shop window full of enchanted watches—like real enchanted. Stuff that could probably fetch triple in resale on the underground circuit. But I kept my hands in my pockets and kept walkin’.

Didn’t even look back.

Guess that’s somethin’.

Helped MC carry groceries back from RAD after class. She offered me some Grimm for it. I said no.

Still think about it. Not the Grimm, just… that someone offered.It felt weird. Kinda nice. Like they thought I was worth payin’ instead of just watchin’.

He paused, staring at the last sentence.

“Worth payin’.”
He grimaced.

Lucifer told me to stay out of the vault again. I wasn’t even near it. He didn’t even check. Just assumed.

Levi asked if I stole his credit chip. I didn’t. It was under his game case. But he still didn’t apologize when he found it.

Sometimes I think maybe if I act perfect for a full month, maybe two — just maybe — they’ll start treatin’ me like I’m not a walkin’ screw-up.

But I guess it don’t work like that. Not when I’ve already messed up too many times.

They don’t believe me. An’ maybe they got reasons. I’ve lied before. I’ve taken stuff.

I’ve stolen, conned people, I gambled with money that wasn’t mine.
There’s always a scheme. Always a shortcut.
I thought if I could just win enough, maybe it’d make me worth somethin’.

So yeah, I guess most of the crap they say about me’s true. I don’t fault ‘em for dislikin’ the demon I’ve become.

Sometimes I am the greedy, selfish bastard they say I am. I was Greed, capital G, gold teeth and sticky fingers.

I get why they’re sick of me. I do.

Hell, I get sick of myself too.

But it still hurts, y’know?

Sometimes I just wish they’d treat me like a brother, than a person they scorn, a person they are forced to tolerate. I wish they’d love me even though I’m... different.

We all have our struggles, our own sin to battle. I just thought, they’d be more understandin’. That they’d relate more. We’ve all fallen short with our sins — not just me. But in the end, whether I’m in the wrong or not, I'm always the problem — always in the wrong.

When somethin’ breaks and they don’t even check. Just, “Mammon.” No pause. No proof. Like I’m not even worth wonderin’ about.

It’s not even the punishment that stings — it’s that none of ‘em stop to think maybe I didn’t do it. Not this time.

I just want to be a better demon. A better brother.

‘Cause I love ‘em.

Even when they treat me like I’m nothin’ — I still do.

I’m the second-born. That used to mean somethin’. I used to protect ‘em. Fight for ‘em. Bleed for ‘em. Now I’m just the punchline.

The idiot.

The mistake.

But I’m more than just my sin.

Ain’t I?

I’m tryin’. I swear I’m tryin’.

I got receipts. Actual receipts.
I’ve been returnin’ things. Real things. The things no one even notices, but I still have to do it. Just to prove I’m not the same ol’ thief they think I am.

An’ they don’t even notice.

He reached for a folded stack of paper on the nightstand — thin white slips, RAD merchant stamps, item codes, “PAID IN FULL – NO RETURN” at the bottom of each.

One from the coffee shop. One from the bookstore (he returned the grimoire Satan loaned him—clean, no torn pages). One from Levi’s merch fund (he paid back that missing 800 Grimm no one remembered loaning him in the first place).

He taped one of them into the journal, like a kid clinging to a gold star.

Still fallin’ behind in class, though.
I’ve been tryin’ — really tryin’. But it’s hard to study when yer head’s full’a noise.

Hexes and Curses are still a mess. No matter how many times I reread the textbook, it’s like the words rearrange themselves just to spite me.

Math, at least, still makes sense. Numbers don’t lie. Equations don’t change their mind about ya halfway through. It don’t talk down to ya. Ya do the work, ya get the answer. Simple.

Everythin’ else? Feels like I’m always two steps behind.

Asked Lucifer once if he could help explain that reversal incantation from Hex Theory. He said I should stop making excuses and actually apply myself.

He doesn’t get it. None of 'em do. I am applyin’ myself. I just ain’t got room left in my head right now.

Food’s still weird. I only take what I need. Beel offered me his extra fries today and I said no. He looked confused, but didn’t say anythin’.

I don’t know if it’s workin'. Not stealin’ doesn’t make me feel better, it just makes me feel invisible.

I didn’t steal.

I didn’t lie.

I didn’t brag.

So what am I?

It’s like without my sin, I don’t exist to 'em.

The ink smeared slightly. He didn’t realize he was crying until the blot appeared.

Mammon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then set the pen down.

He stared at the ink long after the words dried.

His handwriting wasn’t neat, but it was steady.

His gaze flicked to the drawer.

The pills were still in there. Still untouched.

He wasn’t gonna take one. Not tonight.

But knowing they were there—like a fire extinguisher behind glass—calmed something deep in his chest.

Just in case.

He closed the journal and slid it under his pillow.

Then lay back, staring at the ceiling.

He was proud of himself. He really was.

But gods, he was tired of trying so hard just to be seen.

Chapter Text

Mammon had made it to Day Eleven.

Eleven days of no stealing. Eleven days of no lying, no sneaking, no deals made in the shadows behind RAD’s gymnasium. He even ignored the demon who offered to sell him a limited-edition cursed fang necklace—a steal at just 2,000 Grimm.

He walked away.

Eleven days.

Day Fourteen

Mammon stood in front of a shimmering pair of obsidian boots in a store window.

Black and gold. Limited edition. Hand-stitched hellbeast leather. They were practically made for him.

The boots gleamed in the window like they were calling to him—his heart skipped, and a tightness crawled up his throat. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to feel the leather beneath his fingertips, to claim them as his own

He pressed his hands into the pockets of his jeans until his fingers turned white, knuckles hurt. The pain sometimes grounded him, reminding him of his failures, of lucifers punishment, the disappointment in his brothers eyes.

The voice in his head whispered:

  “It’s just one pair. You’re the Avatar of Greed. It’s who you are.”

Mammon exhaled, turned around, and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

Day Seventeen

“Mammon, did you touch my enchanted candles?” Asmo whined, arms crossed as he leaned in the doorway to the kitchen. “The vanilla one’s gone!”

Mammon looked up from his hell-sauce noodles. “What the hell would I want with yer wax sticks? I didn’t touch ‘em.”

“Sure,” Asmo replied, voice sickeningly sweet. “Just like you didn’t touch my face masks last week or Levi’s figurines the week before.”

“I didn’t!”

Asmo only rolled his eyes and left the room, humming to himself.

Mammon didn’t finish his hell-sauce noodles.

Day Twenty Three

Mammon tapped his pen against the desk. Unlike the other subjects, math was something Mammon could actually do. The patterns, the formulas, the logic—it was like a game of chance, only here the odds were in his favor.

As he solved the last equation, a small, proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The numbers felt like a language he understood—something clean, structured, not chaotic like his other studies.

He let out a breath, a quiet relief.

Maybe I’m not just a screw-up, he thought, rolling the pen between his fingers. Maybe there’s somethin’ I can actually get right.

The problem had been easy. Maybe this was where he belonged. If only school was full of more things like this—straightforward, clean, measurable. No guesswork. No incantations that made no sense.

It felt… good. Like he was finally winning.The world around him seemed a little lighter, like the weight on his shoulders had shifted, just for a second.

For a brief moment, Mammon forgot the feeling of constant hunger, the relentless pressure of his greed that had always been there, always waiting to strike, the constant need to prove himself to everyone who had already written him off.

Day Thirty

He paid for a snack from the vending machine.

Beel blinked in confusion. “You’re using Grimm now?”

Mammon gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, well. Tryna turn over a new leaf, I guess.”

Beel smiled. “That’s good. You’re doing good.”

It was the first time anyone had said that.

It stayed with Mammon all day, warm and strange.

He almost cried.

Day Thirty Six

Mammon stood in front of the potion ingredients, staring at the small vial of Cinnamon Basil Essence and Nightshade Oil. The last time he tried to brew this potion, it turned his hair green for two days. He was sure it wasn’t the spell, it was just the instructions.

“Maybe the notes weren’t clear,” Mammon muttered to himself. “Or I missed a step.”

As he added the Nightshade Oil, the mixture bubbled up dangerously. Mammon’s heart skipped. Not again.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “This should be easy. Just like math, right? It’s just patterns. Just gotta follow the formula.”

He tried again. This time, it fizzled without any explosion.

Mammon stood back, staring at the potion in his hands. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

A small victory. A tiny spark of something he could call progress. Maybe he wasn’t a complete idiot. Maybe he didn’t have to be perfect at this.

He glanced over at the others, wondering if they'd even notice. Would they care?

It didn’t matter, he realised. For once, it wasn’t about their approval—it was the first time in weeks that he’d made something work. He wasn’t a failure today.

He knew he wasn’t great at potions—but this? This was something he could hold onto.

Even if it was just a potion that didn’t explode. And maybe that was enough.

Day Thirty Eight

Lucifer was storming down the hallway like thunder wrapped in velvet.

“MAMMON.”

Mammon stiffened. “What now—?!”

Lucifer held up a golden timepiece. The enchanted kind nobles wore to show off status. Cracked. The hands frozen at 3:33 AM. “This was found my office. Broken.”

Mammon blinked. “I didn’t even go near yer office today.”

Lucifer didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. His silence was far more suffocating, the unspoken accusation like a weight pressing down on Mammon’s chest. He could feel the weight of his past mistakes creeping back into the room, crowding out all other thoughts. It wasn’t the punishment that hurt, it was the feeling of being trapped in a role he couldn’t escape.

“You’ll pay to replace it. Whether you took it or not.”

—

That night, Mammon sat on his bed with his head in his hands, fists pressed to his temples like they could keep the pressure from building too high.

His journal sat open beside him. Entry on Day 38 was unfinished.

“Today I got blamed for somethin’ I didn’t do again. And I know I should let it go, but it still stings. It always stings. No matter how many times.”

He stared at the last sentence.

Then closed the journal.

His gaze flicked to the drawer.

He didn’t open it.

Just looked.

Like something was whispering to him from inside it, calling to that hungry, aching part of him that no matter how hard he tried, never really shut up.

He walked away from it.

Tried to sleep.

Didn’t.

Day Forty One

Mammon sat at his desk, he furrowed his brow, staring at the textbook on Curses and Hexes—his worst subject. The more he tried to focus—to understand the symbols, the more they twisted in front of his eyes. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

He had thought of asking Satan for help, but the frustration of not getting it right—of being ridiculed for not being smart enough—was eating him up.

He’d tried. He really had. But every time, it felt like the book was laughing at him.

Why am I even botherin’?

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t understand the theory—it was the details, the ancient symbols, the specific incantations that kept tripping him up. He knew numbers, knew the logic behind a good gamble, how to read patterns, how to make things work in his favor.

He could do the odds in his head faster than anyone in his class. But this? This wasn’t numbers. This wasn’t a clean pattern. It was chaos wrapped in ancient words.

He looked at the page. Hex of Unseen Shadows. He didn’t even know what half the words meant. The incantation felt foreign. The symbols looked like something he'd tried to cheat off of before.

This is the one thin’ I can’t seem to get right, he thought.

It didn’t matter how hard he studied, how many times he tried. Curses didn’t make sense to him. Nothing clicked.

Mammon sighed and closed the textbook. His hands ached from holding his pen too tightly, his shoulders stiff from sitting at the desk too long. He hadn’t even made it through a full chapter. He stared at the wall for a long time, trying not to hear the growing voice in his head that told him he wasn’t smart enough, that he didn’t belong in a place like RAD.

He could handle the money, the schemes, the conning. That’s who he was. Not this.

He clenched his fists. It was just too damn much. Everything else felt like failure. Maybe he was just… bad at this.

For a moment, he wondered why he even tried at all.

Day Forty Five

He slipped.

It was something small. Stupid.

It started with a sound.
The faint jingle of coins as a merchant set down her purse.

Mammon hadn’t even been looking—not really. He’d been staring at some cursed items, trying to decide if he liked them or not.

Mammon hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even planned to.

But now the purse was there. Sitting on the counter. Unattended.

He froze.

His fingers curled against his palms, nails digging in, desperate to anchor himself before he shattered.

Mammon, don’t, He scolded himself 

The jingle echoed in his head.

Just walk away.

But the greed came up like a wave—a tightness in his throat, a crawling in his fingers. Like thirst in the middle of the desert. The need to take was overwhelming, the need to take hurt like a snake coiling around you tighter and tighter, suffocating. His skin itched. His heart beat too fast, too loud.

No one was looking. The merchant’s back was turned.

His fingers twitched, aching to reach out, as if the coins were calling to him, singing a sweet, dangerous tune. The tightness in his chest grew sharper, like the pull of gravity itself. He hadn’t planned on it… but now, every part of him screamed for it.

The thought slid in, soft and poisonous.

“Just this once, no one will see you, just grab it and leave. You’ve been doing great this whole time you deserve a little break, a reward.”

I've been doin' great, haven’t I.

“Yes.”

I deserve this. Just this once, just a little.

“Yes! Take take take take take take take take take take…….”

He only took ten Grimm.

Just ten.

Pocket change.

Small enough to pretend it didn’t count. The purse was back where it belonged before anyone noticed.

Mammon walked away, chest pounding, heat crawling up his neck. He didn’t breathe until he turned the corner. And then the Grimm in his pocket burned like fire.

No one saw.

But he knew.

Twenty minutes later, he was on his knees in the bathroom, emptying his stomach into the sink.

—

That night, his fingers hovered over the drawer handle.

He opened it.

Stared down at the case.

Six perfect pills. Still gleaming faintly.

He took one out. Turned it in his hand.

He didn’t take it.

Just stared at it like it might bite him.

Then slowly, gently, he placed it back and closed the drawer.

But this time he didn’t walk away with resolve.

This time, he sat on the floor beside it, knees to his chest, and whispered, “I don’t know what else to do.”

The words hung in the air like a curse he couldn’t break.

Day Sixty Two

He skipped dinner.

Not on purpose. Just forgot.

No appetite anyway.

MC knocked gently on his door. He told her he was tired. Said it with a smile.

She looked worried, but didn’t push. She lingered—like she wanted to say something, but didn’t know how.

—

While lying with his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling Mammon was thinking about all that has happened these past two months. His progress, his slip ups.

Mammon was trying, he really was. But he didn’t know how much longer he could do this without breaking.

Maybe if his brothers were there to help or support, things would have been much easier,  MC helped but it wasn’t the same. Until then, he would continue to fight his Greed, try to be better for his brothers sake and everybody else, if not his own.

Chapter Text

The clink of silverware echoed faintly through the House of Lamentation’s dining room. It was warm tonight — laughter occasionally bubbled between Asmo and Levi, and Beel was already working on his third plate. MC sat beside Satan, chatting softly about a RAD assignment.

And Mammon?

Mammon stared at his plate.

The roast was perfect. Slightly charred edges, thick with sauce. The mashed scaldroot roots were buttery, steaming just the way he liked them. A slice of honeybread sat untouched on the corner of his plate, golden and glistening.

But he couldn’t eat.

His fork scraped slowly against his plate, pushing a piece of meat into the potatoes, then dragging it back again. He flicked a carrot aside. Mashed another one. Made a small hill and destroyed it with the back of his utensil.

Over and over.

A ritual. A distraction.

“What’s the point?” came the voice.

Low. Internal. Old. Familiar.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t react. But his hand twitched.

“You think this changes anything? Think sitting here, pretending to be something you’re not, makes you clean?”

Mammon swallowed hard. Kept dragging his fork in slow, looping motions. His food was cold now. So was his stomach.

“You’re still you. Still Greed. That never goes away.”

He shut his eyes for a second too long.

“They’ll never believe you. Never trust you. You’re just the scummy second-born who always takes. Who lies. Who can’t help himself.”

His hand tightened around the fork.

He knew better. He knew he was more than that. Didn’t he?

“Stop pretending. You want what’s not yours. Always have. Always will. You’ll slip again. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will. And when you do—”

“Mammon.”

Lucifer’s voice broke through, sharp and cold like a slap of ice water across the face.

Mammon blinked.

Everyone at the table had gone quiet. Six pairs of eyes, plus one human, all turned toward him.

“You’ve been playing with your food for fifteen minutes,” Lucifer said flatly. “Eat. Or don’t. But stop acting like a child.”

Mammon’s throat clenched.

“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes dropping to his plate. “Wasn’t hungry.”

Beel frowned faintly, pausing mid-chew. “You okay, Mammon?”

“Fine,” he said. Too fast.

Too practiced.

“They’re watching you now,” the voice whispered. “All wondering when you’ll screw up. They expect it. You always prove them right.”

Mammon’s heart pounded under his jacket. A dull throb behind his eyes. The fork clattered against the plate as his hand dropped to his lap.

He could still feel it — the pull. Not to steal, not tonight. But to take something. To own something. To fill that gnawing emptiness with anything just to silence the whisper gnawing at his insides.

Greed wasn’t always about money.

Sometimes, it was about being seen.

Sometimes, it was about not disappearing.

But to take something. To own something. To be something.

Anything that might fill the gnawing hollow in his chest.

Not hunger for food. Not desire for Grimm.

No, this was deeper. Older. Something lonelier.

  “Greed wasn’t always about money.”

Sometimes, it was about love.

About affection.

About the desperate, aching need to be wanted.

To be told, just once, without doubt or sarcasm,
“I’m proud of you.”
“I trust you.”
“I love you.”

Mammon blinked hard. His throat burned.

Because the truth was, he craved his brothers' love.

Always had.

He wanted their approval, their laughter, their support. Their arms slung around his shoulders not in mockery, but in real warmth. He wanted to matter to them — not as a joke. Not as a burden. Not as a punchline.

Just Mammon.

“They’ll never give it to you,” Greed whispered.

“They know what you are. You’re Greed. You're selfish. You lie. You take. That’s all you’ve ever done.”

“They don’t love you.”

“They pity you. Or worse — they’re just waiting for you to screw up again so they can say, ‘Told you so.’”

“You're not a brother. You're a liability.”

Mammon’s stomach twisted. His hands were clenched so tight under the table his knuckles ached.

“You think love fixes this? You think you can ever deserve it?” Greed laughed, low and oily. “You're a scummy second-born and they all know it. You’re not fooling anyone. You never will.”

“You’re nothing when you’re quiet,” the voice hissed. “You’re nothing when you’re good.”

He clenched his jaw. Hard.

“No,” Mammon whispered, barely audible.

MC tilted their head. “Did you say something?”

He shook his head.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn’t push further. Instead, he turned back to his own plate with that familiar, practiced elegance.

Mammon took a deep breath.

And slowly — hand shaking just enough to notice — he picked up the fork again.

He stabbed a piece of cold roast.

Lifted it.

Ate.

 “There you go,” the voice chuckled. “Pretend all you want.”

He chewed. Swallowed.

Didn’t speak.

And for just a moment, it was quiet in his head again.

Not gone.

But quieter.

Mammon sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

No lights. No music. Not even his D.D.D. The only sound in the room was the soft ticking of the old wall clock — not magical, not cursed. Just… plain. Quiet.

He’d changed into his hoodie and sweatpants, still damp from the shower he took to drown the ache in his chest.

It didn’t work.

He kept thinking about the food he didn’t eat. The way Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. How no one else spoke up.

The weight of Greed’s words still sat heavy in his gut, thick like oil. They don’t love you. They never will.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Not the sharp, commanding knock of Lucifer. Not the aggressive thump of Satan or the lazy tap of Belphie.

Gentle.

“...Mammon?” came MC’s voice through the door.

He didn’t answer at first.

Another knock.

“You in there?”

Still no answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unfocused.

After a pause, the door creaked open just enough for MC to poke their head in. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Mammon didn’t stop them.

He didn’t move at all.

MC stepped in quietly, closing the door behind them. They crossed the room and stood in front of him, arms folded loosely, voice soft.

“You didn’t seem like yourself tonight.”

Mammon forced a weak chuckle. “When am I ever not ‘myself’? That’s kinda the problem, innit?”

MC didn’t laugh.

They just looked at him — really looked at him — and Mammon hated how seen he felt. Like they were peeling back the layers without asking, like they already knew what he was about to say and were just waiting to see if he’d be honest with them or not.

He looked down again, voice low.

“I’m tryin’, y’know?”

MC sat beside him, close but not too close. Enough for their presence to be felt.

“Yeah,” they said. “I know.”

“I ain’t stolen nothin’ in weeks. Been payin’ for stuff. Even paid back Levi last Tuesday. He didn’t even notice. Just assumed I never borrowed from him in the first place.”

His throat tightened. “An’ still—anythin’ goes missin’, it’s me. Every time. Doesn’t matter what I do. They already got the story written.”

MC didn’t interrupt. Just let him talk.

“I’m tired, MC.” His voice cracked, raw and strained. “Not just like… tired-tired. I mean I’m so tired of tryin’ so hard and havin’ it not matter. I keep thinkin’ maybe if I was just better, quieter, less—me—they’d start seein’ me like I ain’t just… Greed.”

He clenched his jaw. “But maybe they’re right. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.”

Silence.

Then MC reached out, slowly, gently, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Greed isn’t all you are,” they said softly. “It’s just a part of you. Not the whole.”

Mammon didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. If he did, he might cry. He hadn’t done that in front of anyone in centuries.

“Maybe…” he whispered, “...maybe it’s the part that ruins everything else.”

“No,” MC said firmly. “It’s the part that taught you how to care. How to love too much. You feel things deeply, Mammon. You just never had anyone teach you what to do with all of it.”

He laughed bitterly. “Love? Please. They don’t love me. I’m a freakin’ parasite to them.”

“They don’t know how much you’re hurting,” MC said, voice barely above a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face this alone.”

Mammon finally looked at them.

His eyes were glassy, exhausted.

“...You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He stared at them for a long moment, as if waiting for the ground to give out beneath him — for the world to snap back to the cruel one Greed kept whispering about.

But it didn’t.

MC stayed.

Quiet. Steady.

—

Later after MC left, Mammon sat in the quiet again. The ticking clock. His own breath. 

For a second, he thought maybe… maybe he could believe them.

Maybe.

"They’re wrong," Greed murmured, silk-slick in his skull. "You’ll see."

Mammon swallowed hard. He didn’t answer.

Chapter Text

The heat in Hell’s Kitchen was stifling.

Smoke clung to the air, tinged with brimstone and something that might’ve been ghost chili oil. Demons barked orders, pans clanged like weapons, and magical fire roared unpredictably beneath iron cauldrons and cursed stoves.

Mammon ducked to avoid a flying ladle and cursed under his breath.

“Table six wants another round of soul-seared ribs!” someone shouted from across the kitchen.

“I just gave ‘em one—!” Mammon started, but the order slip smacked him in the face mid-sentence.

He caught it, gritted his teeth, and turned back to the infernal grill.

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t the kind of place where you could afford to fall behind. Chefs disappeared mid-shift. The meat didn’t always come from animals. And the food? It fought back if you didn’t cook it right.

It was brutal.

And Mammon kept coming back.

He had modelling shoots on weekends — those didn’t pay much anymore, but they kept his face on billboards, reminded the Devildom who he was. Who he used to be.

He worked at the Devildom Café three mornings a week — polite, fake-smiling, scrubbing teacups and dodging flirty succubi.

But it was here, in the fire, blood and noise that Mammon found something close to silence in his own mind.

Here, he didn’t think.

Didn’t feel the itch under his skin. Didn’t hear that voice in his head whispering about Grimm, about worth, about what he deserved.

He just worked.

He slammed a slab of screaming meat down on the grill, flipped another cursed steak before it sprouted teeth, then reached for the soul rub spice mix with practiced speed.

The cuts on his hands had mostly healed from the last shift.

He’d stopped noticing the burn on his wrist from the haunted fryer.

“You’re just buying time.”

The voice of Greed, always lingering, slithered in while he stirred the cursed cauldron.

“You think drowning in work is the same as healing? You think they’ll forgive you just ‘cause you’re tired?”

He gritted his teeth and stirred harder.

“Shut up,” he muttered, too low for anyone to hear.

“You’re running yourself into the ground for a bunch of brothers who’ll never say thank you. And what happens when you stop moving, huh? When there’s no shift, no job, no noise?”

“You’ll hear me again.”

He slammed the ladle down harder than he meant to. Soup splashed onto the counter, hissing where it touched the stone.

“Hey, Mammon! Keep it together or I’m tossing you into the soup next!” one of the senior chefs growled.

Mammon shot him a thumbs-up, forcing a grin. “All good, boss!”

The chef muttered something in Infernal and went back to flaying a phoenix carcass.

Mammon sighed. Pressed his hands into the counter. His arms ached. His feet were numb. He hadn’t eaten since morning.

But this?

This pain?

This was control.

He was paying off what he owed to the witches — slowly. Grimm by Grimm.

He gave Satan his last paycheck from the café to repay the “lost” book fund — even though Satan hadn’t asked.

He slipped 200 Grimm into Levi’s game stash after that misunderstanding last week.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t want credit.

Just wanted the ledger in his head to balance out.

“Order up!” Mammon called, sliding the plate onto the serving window with a practiced flick.

He didn’t stop moving.

He couldn’t afford to.

“You can’t slip if you never slow down,” he told himself.

“If ya never let yourself want, then ya won’t have to take.”

But deep down, even under the noise and sweat and chaos, the hunger still pulsed like a dying star.

It wasn’t gone.

Just buried.

And the clock on the wall ticked louder every time he dared to breathe.

Journal Entry – Day 68

 I think I’m startin’ to lose track of how many days it’s been.  Days without stealin’. Days without slippin’. Days without… being me.

 Been working so much lately, I don’t really have time to think. Which is good. Thinkin’ leads to wantin’. An’ wantin’ leads to mistakes. At least work is loud. Loud enough to drown it all out.

 Lucifer hasn’t said anythin’. Maybe that’s good. No yellin’ means no slipping up. Right?

Still owe the witches 3,700 Grimm. Down from 5k. Been chippin’ away at it. Satan’s paid. Levi too. Asmo never noticed I repaid his cologne bottle. Probably assumed it got restocked by a ghost.

 I’m tired. Like deep-in-the-bones tired. But I’m doin’ the right thing. This is what being better looks like. Right?

...Right?

I dunno. I’m starting to feel like I’m workin’ so hard to erase who I am, but I’m still here. Still me. Still hearin’ it.

Still hungry.

Not for food.

For……somethin’ else. Somethin’ I don’t even know how to name anymore.

The fire snapped against the cursed skillet as Mammon flipped a demonic tenderloin mid-sizzle. Smoke clung to his hoodie, which he’d tied around his waist an hour ago when the heat got unbearable. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes were tired, distant, but focused — until he heard a voice that nearly made him drop the pan.

“Whoa,” said Beel’s deep, surprised voice. “Mammon?”

Mammon looked up, blinking through the steam. Beel and Belphie stood near the front counter, peering behind the kitchen gate. Beel had a menu in hand and an apologetic half-smile, while Belphie leaned on the counter with the exact kind of amused tilt to his mouth Mammon had come to dread.

Mammon cleared his throat, grabbing a clean towel to wipe his hands.

“Y-Yeah? What are you two doin’ here?”

“Beel dragged me out to get Hellfire fries,” Belphie said dryly. “Said he was starving. Again.”

Beel scratched the back of his head. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

Mammon shrugged, trying to act casual. “Yeah, picked it up a few weeks ago. Y’know. Gotta pay off debts somehow. Can’t exactly ask Lucifer for a Grimm loan, now can I?”

Beel’s brows furrowed slightly. “You’ve already got your modeling stuff, and the Café shifts, right?”

Mammon stiffened. Just a little.

“Yeah,” he said, quick and light. “This one’s just… temporary. Helpin’ me stay outta trouble, that’s all.”

Beel’s gaze lingered. “You look kinda tired. Are you sleeping enough?”

“I’m fine, Beel,” Mammon said, forcing a grin. “Y’know me, I run on charm and caffeine.”

Belphie snorted.

Mammon’s smile faltered.

“Yeah, that’s real charming,” Belphie drawled, narrowing his eyes. “What’s this all for? You working yourself half-dead to prove what? That you can not screw up for once?”

Mammon bristled. “I ain’t tryin’ to prove nothin’.” He could feel the heat rising in his chest, that itch to defend himself before they could accuse him of failing again. “I’m just—”

“Please.” Belphie rolled his eyes. “You’re doing this so someone’ll pat you on the head and say ‘good job,’ like you’re some neglected hellhound.”

Beel frowned. “Belphie…”

“What?” Belphie shrugged. “It’s true. You think working yourself into the ground is gonna erase the fact that you're you, Mammon? That you’ve been screwing things up since the Celestial Realm?”

Mammon’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t askin’ for applause. I’m just tryna do better. But guess that don’t mean nothin’ comin’ from me, huh?”

Belphie tilted his head lazily, resting it on his arm like he was already bored. “No one asked you to change.”

“Yeah?” Mammon shot back, voice rising. “Well, no one told me to stay the same, either!”

A beat of silence.

The kitchen behind him kept roaring — oil popping, steam hissing, a cleaver slamming down in the background — but the moment between them sat quiet. Too quiet.

Beel looked at him again. Really looked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself to be better, Mammon,” he said, voice low. “You can rest, too. You’re allowed to.”

Mammon’s throat worked, but nothing came out. His eyes stung a little — probably the smoke.

“I gotta get back to the line,” he mumbled, turning before they could see too much. “Your food’ll be up soon.”

He disappeared back into the heat and smoke, fists clenched, heart loud in his ears.

And somewhere deep in the corner of his mind, Greed whispered:

“You tried, and still, they don’t believe in you.”

“So why not give them what they expect?”

Chapter Text

Mammon sat on the bed with the silver case in his hands. Just staring at it.

Mammon didn’t take the pill.

He buried the case deeper into the drawer, beneath shirts he never wore and receipts he never threw out. A part of him wanted to throw the whole thing into the fire. But he didn’t.

He just… left it there.

Waiting.

Over the next week, he doubled down on his efforts.

He turned down the limited-edition collector’s card Levi left on the counter, even though his fingers itched the second he saw it. He buried his hands in pocket ignoring the itch to take. He easily could’ve, no one was around to see him. But it would always go back to him. Because he was Mammon, he was Greed.

His Greed screamed for him to take.

He didn’t.

He returned a bag of Grimm he did find on the sidewalk to the exchange center.

He ignored the urge to swipe a gold-stitched scarf Asmo left behind in the living room—just left it on the couch, untouched, even when no one was around to see it.

No one noticed.

Or if they did, no one said a word.

Journal Entry – Day 70

Didn’t take anythin’ today either.

I thought maybe someone would notice I gave that card back without a fight. Levi didn’t even say thanks. Just yanked it outta my hand and mumbled about fingerprints.

I don’t do this for praise. I swear I don’t. But sometimes I wish…

Just once…

That they’d say, “I see you tryin’.”

That night, Mammon was heading to the kitchen for water when he overheard voices from the common room.

“He’s been acting weird lately,” Levi muttered. “Quieter than usual. It’s freaky.”

“You mean responsible?” Asmo said with a laugh. “Yeah, definitely not his usual vibe.”

“Maybe he’s planning something,” Belphie yawned. “That’s what he does—plays dumb, then pulls something shady.”

“He’s been making an effort.” That was Beel. Always Beel. Quiet, dependable. “I think he’s trying.”

“Trying to what? Bore us to death?” Levi muttered. “Look, if Mammon’s suddenly behaving, I’m suspicious. That’s not normal.”

Mammon stopped in the hallway, water bottle dangling in his hand. He stayed there, just out of sight, holding his breath.

He waited.

Hoped.

But nothing more came.

No one defended him. Not really.

Even Beel’s few words of empathy didn’t feel like much, like real concern— more like pity.

No one said they were proud.

Just speculation. Dismissal. Assumptions.

He backed away, footsteps silent.

The next morning— breakfast was another test. Mammon sat down early. Poured juice for Beel. Didn’t touch the last slice of bacon. Didn’t hoard anything. Despite Greed asking for more. He didn’t take, didn’t complain. 

He even held back a snarky comment when Asmo called him “a glorified raccoon in sweatpants.”

But Lucifer still eyed him like a problem in progress. “If you’re planning something, Mammon, drop it. I don’t have time for your usual nonsense today.”

Mammon forced a laugh. “C’mon, ain’t I allowed to have a decent day without everyone thinkin’ I’m runnin’ a scam?”

No one responded.

Even Beel didn’t meet his eyes.

Journal Entry – Day 72

I gave Levi his stuff back. Helped Belphie with his stupid tower of pillows. Didn’t say a word when Lucifer used me as an example of what not to do in front of the new exchange students.

Still nothin’.

I don’t know what else I can do.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m only quiet ‘cause I’m plannin’ somethin’.

But I’m not. I just… I’m tired.

I’m tired. Not just from the work, or from the shift, or from the crap I do for 'em… I’m tired of holdin’ everythin’ in.

Every time I turn down somethin’ I want, it feels like someone’s drivin’ a spike into my chest. If I stop—just once—I’ll break.

Maybe I want to. But I can’t. Can’t let anyone see. Can’t let them know. But damn, I’m tired.

Greed doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t take days off. I’m starvin’ for things I won’t let myself have. Every time I say no, it hurts. Like I’m holdin’ my breath underwater.

Inorin' Greed ain't easy, y'know. It always reminds me of itself. Sometimes it gets so bad, I end up with an awful headache—like my head's gonna split open.

I love ‘em. I do.

Even when they make me feel like I don’t belong here anymore.

The gym was empty.

Which was exactly why Mammon had come here.

It was late—well past dinner. Everyone else had retreated to their rooms or had gone out. But Mammon had too much in his chest to sit still, and too much in his head to sleep.

He didn’t do much. Just sat on the bench by the wall, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up, staring at the punching bag swinging lightly in the dark.

He hadn’t touched it.

He wanted to.

Wanted to punch something. Scream. Break. But breaking things was just another tick against his name. Another reason for Lucifer to sigh, another reason for Levi to say “See? He always messes up.”

So he just sat.

Until the gym door creaked open.

Heavy footsteps.

Mammon didn't turn. He didn’t need to.

“Didn’t think anyone’d be here,” Beel said quietly, stepping into view.

“Didn’t think anyone’d care,” Mammon muttered, eyes still fixed ahead.

Beel didn’t respond right away. He walked to the mini-fridge in the corner, grabbed a bottle of water, then came to sit on the floor next to Mammon. Not beside him on the bench—on the floor. Like he wasn’t trying to crowd him.

They sat in silence for a while.

Just the sound of Beel opening the bottle and Mammon's quiet, uneven breathing.

“You’ve been… different lately,” Beel said finally, voice low.

Mammon scoffed. “Let me guess. You think I’m schemin’ too?”

Beel shook his head. “No.”

That surprised Mammon more than it should have.

“I think you’re tired,” Beel said. “And trying not to show it.”

Mammon turned away, jaw clenched. His hands were trembling in his lap.

“You know,” Beel continued, “when you’re really quiet… that’s when I worry the most.”

Mammon’s throat tightened. He didn’t have a smartass reply ready. That alone felt wrong.

“You’re not sleeping much. You’re eating less.” Beel paused. “You didn’t even take the last slice of strawberry cake last night.”

Mammon laughed, hollow and small. “Damn, I really must be broken.”

Beel didn’t laugh.

“I just don’t want you to break trying to be someone you’re not.”

That hit harder than any punch to the gut.

Mammon looked at him then—really looked. Beel wasn’t accusing. He wasn’t judging. He was just… there. 

Grounded. Solid.

“They’re right, though,” Mammon muttered. “‘Bout me. 'Course I’m greedy. I’m the Avatar of Greed. What else am I supposed to be?”

“You’re also my brother.”

That shut Mammon up.

Beel twisted the cap back on his water and stood, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t stop trying,” he said gently. “Just don’t try alone.”

Mammon stared at the empty spot where Beel had been long after he left.

For the first time in weeks, his chest didn’t feel so crushed.

But he still didn’t move.

Chapter Text

The RAD Council Chamber was as formal as ever—grand stone columns, magical lanterns casting a flickering glow, and a long polished table that stretched too far for the size of the room.

Mammon slouched in his chair near the end, chin resting on his hand, trying to keep his eyes open while Lucifer droned through logistics and scheduling with Barbatos and Diavolo.

“As part of the cultural exchange initiative,” Lucifer said, flipping a page on his clipboard, “a week from now, all council representatives will attend a supervised educational trip to the Obsidian Historical Vault Museum in lower Devildom.”

Barbatos nodded. “We’ve arranged special access to the archive wing. Historical artifacts, relics from the Great Celestial War… even objects from the human world—carefully preserved, of course.”

Mammon’s stomach sank.

Relics. Artifacts. Treasures.

He could already feel it—greed curling in the back of his throat like smoke. His fingers twitched at the thought of gold-lined relics and century-old gemstones, ancient tomes with forbidden markings. Things that sparkled. Things that whispered “take me.”

“Mine,” Greed murmured. “They’re yours if you’re fast enough.”

He clenched his fists in his lap, nails biting into his palms.

“The area will be magically protected,” Barbatos added, glancing up. “Tampering with any exhibits will result in expulsion from the program—and possibly worse.”

Mammon swallowed.

Of course Lucifer looked straight at him then. Like his name was already printed on the expulsion notice.

“That includes you, Mammon,” Lucifer said, voice sharp. “You will not touch anything. I don’t want so much as a fingerprint on a display case.”

“Tch,” Mammon muttered, folding his arms. “I ain’t stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” Levi said under his breath, not quietly enough.

“Does the museum accept preemptive apologies?” Asmo chimed in with a fake-sweet voice. “Might as well get ahead of the damage.”

“Let’s just put him in handcuffs,” Belphie yawned, feet propped on the table. “Save everyone the trouble.”

The jabs stung more than usual today. Maybe because they weren’t even said with anger—just boredom. Like they were habits. Reflexes.

Mammon stared at the table and bit the inside of his cheek.

No one even noticed Beel’s frown from across the table.

No one noticed how Mammon’s fingers curled tight into fists in his lap.

“Mammon,” Lucifer said again, slower this time. “This trip is important. If you sabotage it—intentionally or otherwise—there will be consequences. Is that clear?”

Mammon didn’t look up.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Crystal.”

Once the meeting was done, the others filed out of the council room in scattered pairs—Asmo and Levi bickering about what to wear to the museum, Belphie yawning loud enough to rattle glass, Satan muttering something about the historical relics he’d get to see, Beel left something about getting more snacks before leaving RAD, Lucifer muttering something under his breath about itinerary compliance.

Mammon lingered behind.

He didn’t really know why. Maybe he was waiting for everyone to leave so he didn’t have to walk next to them. Maybe he just didn’t want to face the silence of his room yet.

He was halfway to the door when he felt it—eyes on him.

“Mammon,” came Diavolo’s warm voice from behind him. Not commanding. Not cold. Gentle.

He stopped. Turned, slowly.

The Demon Prince stood near the table, arms loosely crossed, a calm expression on his face. Barbatos stood just behind him, gloved hands folded neatly.

“May I speak with you for a moment?”

Mammon nodded, keeping his face blank.

Diavolo didn’t approach, didn’t close the distance like Lucifer would. He simply motioned toward a nearby window alcove, and Mammon followed.

“I imagine this trip might be… uniquely challenging for you,” Diavolo said, eyes kind but sharp. “With your particular sin.”

Mammon’s jaw tensed. “Yeah. No kiddin’.”

“You’ve been unusually quiet these past few weeks,” Barbatos added, speaking for the first time. “And more restrained.”

Mammon blinked. “You been spyin’ on me or somethin’?”

“Not spying,” Diavolo said with a smile. “Just noticing.”

That stopped Mammon cold.

Noticing.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone used that word in a way that didn’t feel like accusation.

“I know how difficult it must be,” Diavolo continued. “To resist something that is… woven into your very nature. Greed is no small thing. Especially when you’ve lived with it for so long, it becomes a part of how others define you.”

Mammon looked away, swallowing hard. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter if I fight it or not. No one cares. To them, I’m always gonna be the idiot who takes too much.”

“That may be true of your brothers,” Barbatos said, his voice quiet. “But not of everyone.”

Mammon blinked, surprised. Barbatos rarely said things like that unless he meant them.

“There is strength in restraint,” Diavolo added. “And even more in trying, despite knowing you might fail.”

He stepped closer then—not in authority, but in solidarity.

“If the burden becomes too much,” Diavolo said softly, “you may speak with me. In confidence. You do not have to carry this alone.”

Mammon stared at him. No words came.

Not for a long time.

Then, almost too quietly, “...Thanks.”

Later that night, Back in his room, Mammon sat at his desk under dim lamplight.

His journal lay open.

The pill case stayed hidden—buried deep beneath sweaters and a fake bottom drawer. He hadn’t looked at it in days.

Instead, he opened a worn, dog-eared guide to the Obsidian Historical Vault Museum —notes scribbled in the margins from past student trips, diagrams of the exhibits, lists of wards and enchantments surrounding the artifacts.

He wasn’t studying for fun.

He was planning how not to fall apart.

“You just gotta get through one day,” he whispered to himself. “One museum. One room full of shiny, cursed crap. You can do this.”

His hands trembled as he wrote.

Journal Entry – Day 84

Museum trip next week.

Lucifer gave me the ‘don’t ruin this’ speech in front of everyone.

They all think I’m gonna fail.

Like it’s not even a question. Just a matter of when.

Can’t blame ‘em, right? Greed’s my whole deal. But still…

They’re not even scared I’ll do something.

They expect it.

And for once, I’m scared they might be right.

Barbatos and Diavolo said I’ve been quiet lately. That I’ve changed.

They noticed.

They noticed.

That’s the first time in a long time I felt like someone was actually listening.

Still scared outta my damn mind about this trip.

But maybe…

Maybe I don’t gotta prove anything to Lucifer.

Maybe I can prove it to myself.

Chapter Text

The halls of the House of Lamentation were quiet, for once.

Mammon paced his room for the fifth time in the last hour, hoodie half-on, journal tucked under his arm. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stop thinking about the museum. About glass cases full of things that hummed with magic. Shimmered in low light. Whispered his name, even in dreams.

He tugged his hood lower and stepped out into the hall. Maybe walking would help. Or breathing.

Or pretending this wasn’t going to be the hardest thing he’s done since the fall.

He didn’t expect Satan’s door to be open.

Didn’t expect to see the demon himself hunched over his reading chair, the dim light of the candles flickering across his face. Floating enchanted candles and scattered tower of books lying around, half-forgotten.

Mammon paused.

Satan noticed. “You just gonna hover, or what?”

“Didn’t know you left your cave unlocked,” Mammon muttered.

Satan rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was doing research.”

“Research?”

Satan turned, tossing a glossy museum guidebook toward him. It landed at Mammon’s feet.

“That museum we’re going to? It’s got The Crown of Delphos.”

Mammon blinked. “The what now?”

“Cursed crown from the second demon war,” the blonde explained, spinning in his chair. “Said to drive anyone with greedy intent mad the moment they touch it. You know—paranoia, hallucinations, ego-driven spirals… your usual Tuesday.”

“Sounds like a load of haunted junk,” Mammon muttered, picking up the guidebook.

But his fingers lingered on the photo.

The crown was blackened gold, encrusted with red stones that glowed faintly—like eyes. The inscription beneath it read:

“He who craves shall wear it in ruin.”

Satan leaned back, crossing his arms. “Just saying… you might wanna stand at the back of the tour group.”

Mammon stiffened. “You think I’m that weak?”

Satan hesitated—just a beat too long.

“I think… you like shiny things more than you like rules.”

Mammon’s grip on the book tightened.

“Look,” Satan added quickly, “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just saying—if you do mess up, don’t drag the rest of us down with you.”

That stung.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t cruel. But it was honest in that sharp, Satan way.

Mammon wanted to snap back. Wanted to yell.

Instead, he said nothing.

He turned the page in the guidebook and stared at the crown again. The hunger stirred in his chest, subtle and hot and sickly sweet.

He could almost feel it.

Almost hear it.

You’ve earned this. Just one touch. One claim. You deserve to have something of your own—don’t you?

His jaw clenched.

“I ain’t gonna mess up,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”

Satan scoffed. “You say that every time.”

Mammon turned to leave, book still in hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “But this time, I mean it.”

Journal Entry – Day 87

The Crown of Delphos.

A cursed crown that latches onto greed and shreds the mind.

Lucifer’s gonna watch me like a hawk. Satan already thinks I’ll snap. The whole room’s gonna expect me to fall flat on my face.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

Because this time, it ain’t about provin’ them wrong.

It’s about provin’ me wrong.

One more test. Just one.

And I’ll pass it.

Even if it breaks me.

The smell of pancakes and sizzling bacon filled the air, mixing with the faint hum of magical enchantments keeping the room warm. The usual chaos of breakfast in the House of Lamentation was in full swing.

Mammon sat at the far end of the table, trying to force a semblance of normality into his actions as he shoved half of a pancake into his mouth, chewing slowly. He kept his eyes down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

The others, however, were anything but subdued.

“Belphie, are you seriously sleeping while eating?” Levi grumbled, glaring at his younger brother, who was laid out across the table with a fork still in his hand.

Belphie snored lightly, face mashed into his plate, completely oblivious to the chaos around him.

“Tch. Ugh, whatever.” Levi turned back to his stack of pancakes, muttering under his breath, “I don’t know why we bother with these dumb trips. It’s all so boring.”

“It’s a museum trip, Levi,” Asmo chimed in, putting on his usual playful grin. “Not a trip to the arcade. But if you want, I could give you a makeover and make you look absolutely fabulous for the event. A little glitter, some sparkles…” He waved his hand dramatically, as though casting an imaginary spell. “The perfect accessory to your misery.”

“I’m not wearing glitter,” Levi shot back, pushing his headphones back up. “And I’m not wearing anything you pick out, Asmo.”

Meanwhile, Beel was scarfing down a fifth plate of pancakes, his attention focused on the food but still managing to interject every so often with a quiet, “Mmm… This is good,” before returning to his meal.

Mammon barely noticed the teasing. His mind kept wandering, his thoughts tracing the museum, the artifacts, the crown—his chest tight with the mounting pressure of what he had to resist.

“Mammon.” Lucifer’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Are you listening?”

Mammon blinked up, startled, and saw the expectant gaze of Lucifer from the other end of the table.

“I said,” Lucifer repeated, his eyes narrowing, “do try not to make a fool of yourself today. I expect you to behave like a proper representative of RAD. You will not touch anything at the museum, do you understand?”

Mammon nodded curtly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. No touchin’ anythin’. You can count on me.”

The brothers all exchanged glances, and Levi snorted into his drink.

“I’m not even sure you can not touch things,” he muttered under his breath, while scrolling through his D.D.D. “It’s you we’re talking about.”

Mammon’s hand tightened around his fork, but he didn’t reply. There was no point.

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?” Mammon finally asked, turning toward Levi. “You think I’m gonna fail just ‘cause I’m the Avatar of Greed?”

Levi just smirked. “What else am I supposed to think?”

“Stop bickering, all of you,” Lucifer interjected before the argument could escalate. “We’re all leaving in an hour. So, no drama. No outbursts. And Mammon,” he added, looking straight at the second-born, “especially you. You will not make us the laughingstock of Lord Diavolo’s event. I will not have it.”

Mammon’s jaw tightened at the mention of Diavolo.

Diavolo. The Demon Prince would be there, too. His presence alone seemed to cast an invisible weight in the room, despite his usual good-natured demeanor. Mammon had nothing but respect for him, but the pressure was starting to feel overwhelming.

The conversation shifted as Asmo continued to babble about “fabulous museum outfits” and Beel suggested stopping for snacks along the way. But Mammon’s mind was far away.

In an hour, they would leave.

And everything—everything—would be different.

Chapter Text

The brothers gathered outside, bags slung over shoulders, waiting in line for the transportation portal. The morning sun cast a pale light across the grounds, and there was a sense of impending anticipation in the air.

Lucifer checked his watch, his patience as sharp as ever. “Hurry up, Mammon. We’re not waiting for you.”

Mammon was trying to get a grip, mentally prepping himself to survive the day. He had read through the museum guide one more time, focusing on the crown in particular. The ancient artifact that was rumored to amplify greed and pull those who sought it into madness. He could almost feel the weight of it on his skin, even now.

Beel’s stomach growled loudly, cutting through his thoughts.

“Stop making noises with your stomach,” Levi grumbled, but Beel just gave a lazy grin and patted his belly.

“Sorry,” Beel said. “I’m just thinking about what I’m going to eat when we get there.”

Asmo joined in, “You really have your priorities straight, don’t you?”

Then, just as the tension was about to settle into awkward silence, a familiar voice rang out from the entrance of the RAD courtyard.

“Good morning, everyone!” Diavolo’s cheerful tone cut through the air like a summer breeze. His presence instantly brightened the mood as he approached with Barbatos at his side. “Are we all ready to leave? I do hope everyone is excited for today’s adventure!”

Mammon straightened up, mentally steeling himself. Diavolo was always kind, always gentle with everyone, but his arrival was still like the calm before a storm. The Demon Prince’s eyes glinted with curiosity as he gave a small smile toward Mammon, almost as if he could sense something brewing beneath the surface.

“Ah, Mammon,” Diavolo said, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “I trust you’ll be on your best behavior today?”

Mammon offered a tense smile. “Ya can count on me, Your Highness.”

The words were true, but they didn’t feel like they came from his heart. He wasn’t sure anymore.

The museum trip was about to begin. With Diavolo’s gentle presence and Lucifer’s sharp commands, the brothers set off, unaware of the turmoil brewing inside Mammon.

And as they stepped through the portal, the Obsidian Historical Vault Museum awaited—full of treasures, temptations, and a crown that could change everything.

The portal dropped them off in the heart of lower Devildom, where the air was thick with the scent of old books and history—a far cry from the more lively, chaotic corners of the realm Mammon was used to.

As they made their way to the Obsidian Vault Museum, their convoy passed through winding streets lined with ancient, crumbling buildings, many of which seemed to whisper stories of their past. The museum itself loomed ahead, a vast structure made of polished black stone, its towering walls etched with symbols Mammon didn’t recognize.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting toward the windows of the museum, where silhouettes of relics danced behind thick glass. So close. Just a few feet away, and yet...

“So close,” Greed whispered, smooth and intimate in his mind.

“All you have to do is reach.”

“Try not to look too eager, Mammon,” Asmo teased, sliding up beside him, his voice dripping with sweetness. “You’ve got that look in your eyes.”

Mammon tried to ignore the fluttering in his chest and forced his gaze forward. “I ain’t lookin’ at anythin’.”

“Sure you’re not,” Levi snickered. “I saw that. You were practically drooling over the cursed goblets in the last window.”

Mammon clenched his fists, keeping his head down. His brothers had a way of knowing exactly where to poke. Asmo, especially, seemed to find endless amusement in getting under his skin.

“You know,” Asmo continued, leaning closer, “I hear some of the relics inside can amplify desires. They’ve even got artifacts that choose their owners. Could be fun to… test that out, right?”

Mammon’s heart skipped a beat. Amplify desires?

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be chosen?” Greed murmured.

“You wouldn’t even have to take it. It would come to you.”

His grip on his jacket tightened. It took everything in him to swallow back the knot in his throat.

“Shut up, Asmo,” Mammon muttered, trying to sound unbothered. “I don’t need no cursed junk.”

But the idea lingered. The crown… The power it could give him. His hands trembled, but he forced them to stay steady.

The inside of the Obsidian Museum was just as Mammon had imagined—high ceilings, cold stone floors, and countless displays filled with ancient relics, shimmering in dim, enchanted light.

The group walked together, their steps echoing in the silence of the vast hallways.

Lucifer led the way, as always, with his usual air of unbothered authority. Diavolo moved close by, chatting with Barbatos, though he occasionally shot a glance over at Mammon, his expression thoughtful, though masked in his usual warmth.

Beel and Asmo were off to the side, likely to look at food or, in Asmo’s case, flirting with every staff that looked half-interesting. Satan had his head buried in the museum’s guide, eyes scanning over every piece of information like it was an exam. Levi was entertaining himself with a switch he brought along for the trip. Belphie trying to stop himself from just lying down and sleeping.

But Mammon?

He couldn’t look away from the shining objects around him. They called to him. The golden chalices, the crimson rubies, the ancient coins scattered throughout the exhibits.

Every step he took felt like one closer to breaking. His teeth clenched.

“Mammon,” Lucifer’s voice pierced his thoughts. “Stay with us.”

Mammon snapped back to reality. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“No wandering off,” Lucifer warned, a subtle threat under his calm tone. “We are here to study. Not to… indulge.”

Mammon’s eyes flicked to a display case with a set of ancient rings inlaid with dark gems. He felt the tug in his chest, the familiar ache—just one ring. One little thing would be enough.

But instead of reaching out, Mammon forced himself to look away, though it cost him. He felt Lucifer’s eyes on him again, sharp and judging.

“Just keep it together,” he muttered to himself, just loud enough for his brothers to hear. “It’s only one day.”

“You say that like you’ve got any control,” Satan shot back, barely glancing up from his guide. “Honestly, Mammon, what do you think is gonna happen the second you see something shiny?”

Beel stepped closer, his voice low but sincere. “Mammon... you don’t have to prove anything today.”

For a moment, Mammon just stared at him.

Beel never mocked him. He never doubted him. Beel understood without needing to say it. But that only made Mammon feel worse. Because Beel believed in him—and he still didn’t believe in himself.

“I’m fine, Beel,” Mammon said quickly, his voice strained. “Just… don’t worry about me, okay?”

Beel only nodded, sensing the tension in Mammon’s voice. But Asmo didn’t miss it.

“Mammon,” Asmo purred, suddenly at his side again, “you’re clenching your hands again. Try to relax, darling. No one’s watching.”

Mammon ignored him. Didn’t even bother to answer him, instead focused on getting through this day without making a fool of himself.

Chapter Text

The longer they wandered through the museum, the more Mammon felt the weight of it all.

It was suffocating.

The hall stretched endlessly before him, filled with all manner of ancient treasures—each one more enticing than the last. Silver daggers with runes that shimmered faintly in the low light, golden chalices that seemed to glow with unspoken power, glowing gemstones that hummed quietly beneath their glass cases.

Everything was a temptation. Every relic, every trinket, every artifact whispered to him, just like the greed that lived within him. The sensation wasn’t new, it was just stronger. Louder.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white as they dug into his palms. The sensation was overwhelming, like they were tugging at him, demanding his attention. His chest tightened with the weight of it, a pressure like invisible chains wrapping around his ribs.

The itch in his fingers was unbearable, like the feeling of something just out of reach, taunting him. A pull, a need—a voice urging him to take it, to hold it, to make it his.

One touch, and the ache would vanish.

“Take me,” they whispered. “Take me, and you’ll be complete.”

His once-sapphire eyes were turning gold—consumed with greed.

All the moments he’d ignored his greed, buried it under layers of restraint, were now coming back with a vengeance—rising up, demanding his attention. It was like being crushed beneath the weight of it. His senses were heightened, and the treasures around him seemed to hum with a quiet, seductive call, beckoning him to take them.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow, but the voice of Greed didn’t care. It was always there. Always watching. Always whispering.

“Just one thing. One trinket. One little possession, and everything will be better.”

“You could sell this. It’d fetch a high price. You deserve it.”

It was so loud. Almost deafening.

He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but the gold from his vision burned behind his eyelids, pulling at him, urging him to look again. To take it. His body twitched, fingers aching with the need to grab, to seize.

Mammon could feel the pressure building, a tight knot of energy in his chest, clawing its way upward. It was inescapable. And the longer he stood there, the louder it became. It gnawed at him, scraping at his insides with burning fingers.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent, wrapping around him like chains.

“Everything here is yours to take. You can have it all. No one will know. No one will care.”

“You’re the Avatar of Greed. This is your birthright. Take it.”

He squeezed his wrist tighter, the skin pulling beneath his fingers, the pain enough to ground him for a second. But then he saw the glimmering gold of an ancient coin—just on the edge of a display—and the desire surged again, fierce and impossible to ignore.

He knew what he had to do.

He couldn’t touch anything. He’d made it this far, hadn’t he? He had to control it.

But the longer he stood there, staring at the artifacts, the louder the voice became. The more it clawed at him. His senses were on fire.

He staggered, only half aware that he’d fallen a step behind the others.

“Mammon.”

Lucifer’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp, cold. A careful observation—one that could see through every mask, every defence.

Mammon froze, feeling the weight of his brother’s gaze even before he turned. He fought to steady his breath, but the pulse of greed in his veins kept quickening, like a heart racing toward its own destruction.

Mammon turned to face him, trying to appear calm, trying to keep the tension from his body. “Yeah, Lucifer?”

Lucifer’s gaze swept over him, a long, deliberate look that made Mammon feel like he was being dissected. For a moment, the older demon said nothing. He just studied Mammon, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he could sense the struggle bubbling beneath the surface.

“You’re not going to give in to your… urges, are you?” Lucifer’s voice was quiet, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

Mammon’s chest constricted, but he forced a smile onto his face. “What, ya think I’m gonna break already? I’m just lookin’ ‘round, Luci. No harm in that, right?”

Lucifer didn’t answer immediately. He just watched Mammon, his eyes calculating, like he could see the cracks in Mammon’s resolve.

The pressure in his chest was unbearable. His nails dug into his palms, the sting of pain a tiny anchor against the roaring tide inside him.

And then, after a long pause, he spoke again. “I trust you’ll remain disciplined. If you do decide to touch anything, remember that the consequences will be yours alone to face. And I will not protect you.”

The threat was clear in his words, and Mammon felt it like a physical blow. His breath caught, and for a moment, the buzzing in his head almost drowned out Lucifer’s words.

Mammon’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t dare show it. Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax, trying to play it off. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. No touchin’ anythin’. Don’t worry, I can control myself.”

The words came out rough, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Lucifer. The hunger in his chest only grew louder, mocking him, testing him.

Lucifer’s eyes lingered on him for another moment, and then, without a word, he turned back to the rest of the group, clearly satisfied with whatever silent conclusion he’d drawn.

But Mammon’s relief was fleeting. His body, his mind, his soul—they were all still trembling under the weight of the temptation. And Lucifer’s presence? That just made it worse. The scrutiny felt like a constant pressure, squeezing the air from his lungs. He wasn’t free. Not yet. Not until he got out of here.

As he walked through the museum, his steps felt heavier, like the weight of every gaze was pressing on his shoulders. His brothers were around, but they felt so distant. Levi was fiddling with his D.D.D., his usual indifference to the world around him a sharp contrast to the war raging inside Mammon. Beel was still focused on the food displays, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts of the next meal. Satan had his nose buried in yet another book, his murmured commentary about the artifacts just a dull backdrop to the maelstrom of greed in Mammon’s head.

And Asmo, always in tune with the slightest change in mood, had drifted off with Barbatos, talking to the staff about whatever interested him most. But none of them really saw the way Mammon’s hands clenched into fists, the way his nails scraped against his palms in an effort to keep himself grounded.

The pressure was unbearable. The voice of Greed kept calling to him, louder now, pushing at the edges of his mind like a wild beast desperate to escape.

“Take it. Take everything.”

The restless, pulsing need that gnawed at the edges of his sanity, whispering in his ears, curling around his thoughts like a serpent. His hands twitched. His fingers ached, ached for something—anything. His nails scraped against his skin, biting into the soft pads of his fingers.

He clenched his fists again.

A light brush on his arm pulled him from the growing madness, and he flinched, pulling his hand back from the glass case of a glittering goblet, its jeweled surface whispering his name in a voice that sounded almost like a lover's.

“Mammon?”

It was Levi. He was standing next to him now, his eyes fixed on the relics in the distance, completely unaware of the battle raging inside Mammon. Mammon’s breath was shallow, the buzzing in his head loud, overpowering.

Levi glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. “You okay there, bro? You’ve been standing in front of that case for a while.”

Mammon’s lips barely moved as he forced a tight, brittle smile. “Yeah, fine. Just… lookin’ at the stuff.”

Levi snorted, turning his attention back to the display cases. “You and shiny things, man. It’s like watching a raccoon with a hoard of treasure.”

Mammon’s nails scraped against the sides of his fingers again. Levi’s words barely registered. The voice in his head was too loud. The buzzing too constant.

Mammon swallowed, forcing himself to breathe, but the voice wouldn’t stop.

“Just take it. It’s yours, Mammon. It was always meant for you.”

He pulled his jacket sleeves down, trying to hide his trembling hands. It wasn’t just the Crown anymore. It was everything.

Mammon’s breath came out in shaky gasps as the room seemed to close in around him.

Lucifer’s presence loomed over him, like a shadow. Mammon didn’t need to look to know he was there. His older brother’s eyes were always watching, always judging. Lucifer’s scrutiny was sharp, cutting into him with a sharpness that Mammon could feel in his very bones. He could almost hear the unspoken words. If you mess this up, you’ll ruin everything.

Mammon’s chest felt tight, but he pushed it down. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let himself slip, not now.

This was going to be the longest six hours of his life.

After what felt like hours the group paused for a break, and Mammon seized the opportunity to slip away from the others. He couldn’t take it anymore. His head was too loud, the hunger inside him too sharp. He needed a break—needed space.

He just needed a moment. A moment where he didn’t have to hear the artifacts whispering to him. A moment where he could breathe.

He found the nearest washroom and locked himself in. The cold, dim space was a quiet refuge from the chaos in his mind. Mammon leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His eyes were wide, glassy, the familiar gold of greed flickering at the edges of his irises.

The cool, sterile air of the bathroom contrasted with the heat building inside him. He splashed cold water on his face, his hands shaking as the liquid hit his skin. He did it again. And again. The shock of it cleared his mind, just a little. His breathing steadied, but it didn’t cut through the fire burning under his flesh.

He gripped the edge of the sink, trying to ground himself. “Two hours,” he muttered to his reflection, voice barely a rasp. “Just two hours left. You’ve been doin’ great. Ya can do this. Just… two more hours.”

But it was a lie. His chest tightened, and the voices in his head howled louder, relentless.

“Take it. All of it. Everything here belongs to you. You deserve it.”

Mammon gritted his teeth, splashing water on his face again, willing the thoughts away. He could still feel it, the buzzing sensation in his fingertips, the desire curling in his gut like a snake ready to strike.

He gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles white, trying to push the hunger down.

His hands were shaking, his reflection blurred in the water on his face. He gripped the sink harder, nails digging into the metal as if to hold onto himself, to hold onto something real.

I can do this. I’ve done it before. I’m stronger than this. Just make it through. Don’t give in.

He splashed water one last time, his hands trembling as he wiped his face dry with the back of his hand. Slowly, he lifted his head and stared at his reflection, the tightness in his chest still there, but less suffocating. For now, at least.

Ya’ve got this. Yer the great Mammon.

Mammon straightened, took a deep breath, and stepped back out into the museum.

The light outside felt harsher after the dim calm of the washroom. Mammon blinked against it, the noise of the group distant, like it was underwater. The hum of voices, the shuffle of feet, the faint click of heels—it all pressed at his senses. He tugged his hood up, hands still stuffed deep in his pockets, and tried to look normal. Whatever that meant.

Mammon turned his head, avoiding the display cases, doing his best not to look at the treasures gleaming nearby. Their shine reflected the faint light in the room, mocking him. It was hard to remember the last time he hadn’t felt this way—this bad, this overwhelmed.

“Come on, Mammon.” The voice was light, teasing, but it still made him flinch. He hadn’t heard Asmo walk up. That was the thing about his brother—always appearing when you least wanted to be seen.

“I see that look in your eyes,” Asmo said with a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in those dusty old things.”

Mammon blinked rapidly. Asmo was standing beside him, grinning as usual. His gaze was sharp and knowing, the kind that always seemed to see too much.

“Shut it, Asmo,” Mammon muttered, a weak laugh escaping his lips as he turned away, his hands still tucked tightly into his pockets. “I ain’t lookin’ at nothin’. Just... admirin’ the architecture, y’know?”

Asmo laughed, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, sure. Architecture. You’re just trying to look innocent so you don’t get caught red-handed when you start swiping things. Again.”

Mammon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything more. He knew Asmo was just teasing, but the words stung more than they should’ve. The truth was worse than the jokes. Asmo knew. They all knew. Mammon was the Avatar of Greed. His weakness, his hunger, was always there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.

Mammon turned away, boots clicking sharply on the floor, needing space. Asmo didn’t follow—but someone else stepped into his path.

“Mammon,” came a different voice—gentler, warmer, but unmistakably attentive.

Diavolo.

“How are you holding up?”

Mammon jumped slightly, surprised at the prince’s approach. Diavolo had a way of catching him off guard. 

He forced a smile, though it felt tight, like a mask slipping over his face. "I’m fine, Yer Highness," Mammon muttered, trying to sound casual, though the words were strained, like they were forced past a dam that was about to break. "Just a little… distracted. That’s all."

Diavolo tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but his smile remained gentle.

“Distracted, huh?” Diavolo repeated, voice lilting with a touch of curiosity. “Is something bothering you?”

Mammon swallowed hard, trying to ignore the buzzing in his head, the clamoring of his greed that wouldn’t stop.

He clenched his hands into fists again, squeezing his wrist as if the physical pain could ground him. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

“Nah,” Mammon answered too quickly. “Nothing's botherin’ me, really. Just a lot of old stuff in here, y'know? Makes a guy think.”

Diavolo’s gaze softened, it wasn’t a look of judgment. It wasn’t even the usual carefree, charming smile he wore. There was something more attentive in the prince’s expression—something that made Mammon feel seen.

“I know how you can be with… shiny things,” Diavolo said, his voice quieter, a hint of understanding threading through his words. “But I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Mammon.”

Mammon’s chest tightened. Was that trust? Or a test dressed in kindness? He couldn’t tell anymore.

“I’m fine. Really,” Mammon said again, more firmly this time, trying to shake the tension in his body. “I’ve been dealin’ with this crap for ages. I can handle it. Just need a little more time.”

Diavolo’s eyes didn’t leave him, though. There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time with a soft but reassuring tone.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, Mammon,” Diavolo said gently. “You’ve got people here who care about you. Don’t forget that.”

Mammon froze. His breath caught in his throat. The weight of those words, that gentle reassurance—it was almost too much. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that Diavolo and the others cared, but it was so hard. The greed, the overwhelming weight of his past, his sins—it made him feel so alone.

“Thanks, Lord Diavolo ,” Mammon finally muttered, a forced smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Diavolo seemed to sense that Mammon wasn’t fully there—wasn’t ready to accept that help yet. He simply smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Take your time,” Diavolo said quietly, then added, with a teasing grin, “But just don’t break anything while you’re at it.”

Mammon chuckled weakly, though it felt more like a reflex than genuine amusement.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it together,” Mammon said. The words rang hollow, but he hoped Diavolo couldn’t hear the cracks in his voice.

After a few more minutes of walking through the museum, Mammon could feel the tension in the air start to shift. The next display was ahead, and he knew—he knew what was waiting for him.

They had finally reached the section dedicated to the more cursed artifacts—items of immense power and danger. Mammon’s breath caught in his chest when he saw it.

There, in the center of a display that shimmered with ancient magic, was The Crown of Delphos.

It was a thing of beauty, no doubt. Dark gold intertwined with intricate runes, its jagged design meant to evoke the image of an ancient kingdom. But more than that, it held history, the kind of history Mammon couldn’t resist. It was powerful, dangerous—and all he could hear was the call.

The moment he laid eyes on the crown, the buzzing in his mind intensified. It was louder, more persistent, like a thousand voices screaming in his ear to take it. To wear it. To claim it for himself.

His hands trembled.

“The Crown of Delphos,” Diavolo’s voice broke through the noise in his head. “One of the oldest and most powerful symbols of greed and desire.” His voice carrying over the murmurs of the group. “Legend has it, this crown was forged in the heart of greed itself. A symbol of a ruler’s power, but one that destroyed those who sought it without balance.”

Mammon could barely hear him. His focus was completely on the crown. The crown that could make him invincible. It would satisfy every hunger he’d ever felt. It would fulfill the emptiness that had been gnawing at him his entire life.

He wanted it. So badly.

Mammon’s hand twitched again. His fingers ached, desperate to touch it. The crown could give him power, strength—everything he had ever wanted. All his desires, his hunger, could be sated in a single moment.

His wrist throbbed, a constant reminder of his need to hold back. He gripped it harder, nails biting into his skin, trying to pull himself together.

Just one thing. One touch.

His fingers scraped against his palms, nails cutting into his skin to stop himself from reaching out. He shoved his hands into his pockets, fists clenched tightly around the fabric, the fabric of his own restraint. He could feel the blood pulsing beneath his skin, could feel the sharp ache of his nails digging into his wrist to ground himself.

It was all he could do to stop himself from stepping forward, from reaching out to touch it.

His mind occupied by the thought of the Crown. Calling him.

“Take me and wear me.”

“Take me and you’ll have everything.”

“Take me. Take me. Take me. TAKE ME—“

“MAMMON!”

Asmo’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and panicked.

He froze.

He looked down. Blood.

His nails had dug into his skin again—so deep this time that it had drawn blood, the crimson staining his hand, dripping to the polished floor beneath him.

He had been so distracted, so consumed by his own hunger, that he hadn’t even noticed. His chest tightened, the buzzing in his head was deafening. The crowd, the noise, his own heartbeat—everything blurred into white noise. His hands went numb, and his mind spun.

Satan and Asmo rushed to his side, but Mammon barely registered their presence. The voice in his head was louder than anything they said.

He was caught between two worlds—the one that was urging him to take everything and the one that reminded him of his brothers, of the ones who cared about him.

It was all too much. His heart raced

The pain in his wrist grounded him for a moment, but as the blood pooled beneath him, the guilt came rushing back.

The group had gathered in the small, quiet courtyard outside the museum. The once grand, imposing exhibits now seemed so distant, so unreal, like they had happened in another world. Mammon sat at the edge of the fountain, his hands resting in his lap, his body still tense from the ordeal.

His brothers had long since moved away from the museum’s entrance, chattering with excitement about the relics they had seen, the history they had learned.

But Mammon was lost in his thoughts. He was still there, staring down at the bloodstains on his hands—stains that had been wiped clean hours ago but that still felt like they were etched into his skin.

I did it.

I didn’t take the crown.

The thought echoed in his head, but it felt too fragile, like a glass statue that could shatter at the slightest touch.

For the first time in months, Mammon allowed himself to breathe. He had resisted. He hadn’t taken the crown. He hadn’t fallen into the same old trap of greed, the same old temptation that had ruined so many of his past decisions.

To think maybe, just maybe, he could change. Maybe he could fight this. Maybe he wasn’t doomed to be consumed by his own greed.

Mammon flexed his fingers, the memory of the tight grip he had held around his wrist still fresh in his mind. Even now, he could feel the ghost of his greed crawling beneath his skin, lurking in the corners of his thoughts, just waiting for the next moment of weakness.

“Oi, Mammon!” It was Satan. “What are you doing just sitting there? Come on, we’re all headed back to RAD. You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

Mammon forced a smile. “Nah, just… thinkin’.”

He sat next to Mammon, eyeing him in that way he always did when he wanted to figure someone out.

“You okay?”Satan asked quietly, his usual teasing tone softened. “I mean, you looked… like you were struggling back there. Not to mention, you’ve been real quiet.”

Mammon sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to admit just how close he had come to breaking. But there was something in Satan’s gaze, some unspoken understanding, that made Mammon feel… seen.

“I’m fine, Satan,” he said, his voice firmer now, even though the words felt foreign. “I didn’t… take it.” He paused, his throat tight. “I resisted.”

Satan blinked at him, then smiled—just a little, but enough to make Mammon’s heart thud painfully.

For a moment, Mammon felt his chest swell with something unexpected—pride. Maybe he was stronger than he’d thought. Maybe he didn’t have to fall into the same old patterns. Maybe he could change.

But the ache was still there. The hunger. The weight.

“You should head back, though,”Satan added, standing up with a lazy stretch. “I think Lucifer’s looking for you.”

Mammon nodded, pushing himself to his feet, feeling a little unsteady. He wasn’t sure whether he should be proud of himself or terrified of what came next. He hadn’t taken the crown, but it didn’t feel like a victory yet. Not fully.

Journal Entry – Day 89

Okay, so...

I didn’t take the crown. Didn’t steal anythin’. Didn’t even touch anythin’.

Yeah. I know. Shockin’. Go ahead, write it down. Mammon walked through a museum full of cursed gold and magical relics and left empty-handed. That’s gotta be worth somethin’, right?

It wasn’t easy. Hell, it felt like every single damn thing in there was screamin’ my name. Every whisper in my head, every itch in my fingers—it all came back full force. Worse than ever.

Felt like I was bein’ pulled apart from the inside out.

But I held on.

Barely.

There was this moment—lookin’ at that crown—I swear, I almost forgot where I was. Forgot who I was. It was like Greed itself just crawled inside me and tried to tear me apart.

I still feel it. Like it’s sittin’ right behind my ribs, waitin’ to pounce the second I blink wrong.

But I didn’t let it win. Not this time. I kept my hands in my damn pockets and walked out of there with nothin’. Just sweat, blood, and a massive headache.

Lucifer didn’t say much, but I saw the way he looked at me. Like I was two seconds away from blowin’ it all to hell.

And maybe I was.

But I didn’t.

Satan actually sat with me for a bit after. Didn’t say much either, but I think… maybe he got it. Like he saw it, y’know? The fight I was havin’. I’m not used to that. Feelin’ seen like that. Kinda messes with yer head.

Anyway. I’m back home now. Got my bed, my blankets, and about thirty pillows piled on top of me. Should feel like a win, but... all I can think is:

It’s gonna happen again.
Next time, Greed’ll come back stronger. Louder. Smarter.
But so will I.
I’m not the same guy I was a year ago. Hell, I’m not even the same guy I was this mornin’.

And yeah—I’m still Greed. That part of me ain’t goin’ anywhere.
But maybe… just maybe… I’m learnin’ how to live with it. Without lettin’ it eat me alive.

So yeah.
Day 89.
Still breathin’. Still fightin’.

Still the Great Mammon.

Chapter Text

The days following the Obsidian Vault were the best Mammon had felt in months. He’d resisted the call of the crown, successfully fought back against his greed for weeks now, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to breathe—maybe even believe he could change. The taste of control was like a sweet, forbidden fruit. He was getting better. He was better.

Still, ignoring his nature hadn’t come without a cost. The longer he went without feeding into his greed, the more his body seemed to protest. Some nights, the urges crawled beneath his skin like static, keeping him awake. On others, he’d wake with a pounding headache or find his hands trembling for no reason at all. His body ached more than it used to—like restraint had weight. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t slipped in four months. He was proud of that. For the first time in forever, he felt like he was becoming someone worth believing in.

Mammon was untouchable now, wasn’t he? He’d cracked the code. He’d figured it out. He was a new Mammon.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

But time had a way of blurring the line between confidence and overconfidence. And in the weeks that followed, Mammon allowed himself to relax, just a little. To let his guard down. Maybe it was the thrill of the museum, the rush of the success, or maybe he just wanted to believe he could handle it all on his own. Whatever it was, Mammon stopped fighting as hard as he had before.

And that’s when it happened.

It was a simple mistake. A moment of weakness. A stupid thing that shouldn’t have made him slip, shouldn’t have deterred his progress.

A misstep that shattered everything.

Mammon had been wandering through the streets of the Devildom, mindlessly browsing a market of trinkets and oddities. He told himself he wasn’t looking for anything, but then he saw it. A silver ring, small and ornate, lying in the dust. Glinting like it had been waiting for him.

Someone must’ve dropped it while browsin’ through the markets, he thought. They’d probably come lookin’ for it. 

He could just take it and give it back. Be a good demon.

He’d done this before—returned lost things.

Greed whispered in his ear, its familiar voice like honey, sweet and dark.

“You need it. It’s yours for the taking. It’s just a small little ring. No one will notice. Just this once. Take it.”

His hand moved before he could stop it. His fingers hovered, itching to grab. That thrill, that satisfaction that had once consumed him.

For a split second, Mammon’s mind was clear. He was just going to pick it up, find the owner, and do the right thing—nothing more, nothing less. The idea of returning it was simple, clean, a small act of redemption. He could still do this. He could still make the right choice.

But as his fingers brushed the cold metal, something inside him shifted.

It was like the ring wasn’t just an object anymore. The moment he touched it, a wave of satisfaction rolled over him, a deep, heady rush that he hadn’t felt in months. A thrill shot up his arm, prickling his skin. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. His chest felt tight, then warm, as if the ring had ignited a spark inside him.

The familiar warmth of greed, of ownership, flooded his veins. It wasn’t just taking the ring—no, it was the feeling of possessing something. The weight of it in his hand. The relief, the satisfaction that his hunger for more had been fed, even if just for a moment.

It had been four months since he’d felt this. Months of holding himself back, of living in the restraint that had become his life. And now, here it was. That sweet rush, the one that made everything else fade into the background.

For a moment, he considered letting it go. He could still turn it in. He could still be the good demon who does the right thing. But the ring, the warmth flooding his chest, clouded every thought. His mind was dizzy with the pleasure of ownership, the relief of indulgence. It was like nothing else existed outside of that moment.

His mind clouded further, the intentions of returning the ring suddenly distant, forgotten. All he could feel was the warmth in his chest, the relief that told him he was no longer empty. No longer starved.

He held it in his hand, his grip tightening instinctively. He hadn’t meant to take it. But now that it was his, now that the satisfaction was coursing through him, he wasn’t sure if he could let go.

But then, in the background, a voice. Distant, but still familiar.

“Mammon.”

Lucifer’s voice. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t Lucifer. But it might as well have been. Just a memory. A warning. It was a reminder of everything he had worked for. Everything he had promised himself.

He froze.

For a heartbeat, the rush faded, replaced by a sharp pang of guilt. He remembered the promises, the resolve, the pain of restraint. The image of Lucifer—standing there with that disappointed look in his eyes—flashed before him, almost painfully. He could still stop. He should stop.

But the ring felt so good in his hand. The satisfaction, the relief—it was like a balm for a wound that had been gnawing at him for so long. He didn’t want to let go.

And just like that, the voice was gone. A fleeting memory. A distant echo.

Without another thought, Mammon took the ring.

Later, when he returned to the House of Lamentation, the weight of his actions hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d taken it. He’d given in.

He told himself he’d return it. Tomorrow, maybe. Drop it at lost and found or just drop it where he found it.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let it go

It should’ve been easy. He’d resisted the Delphos Crown. A Crown that turned greedy demons into madness. He’d walked through a museum full of cursed treasures untouched. But this little ring had him in its grip.

And it wasn’t just the ring. It was the feeling that came with it—the thrill, the rush of greed coursing through his veins. The sense of satisfaction that told him he wasn’t empty anymore.

Mammon’s room was dim, the only light coming from the moon casting soft shadows on the walls. He paced back and forth, his footsteps heavy against the wooden floor, his mind a mess.

The ring sat in his palm, cool and smooth, like it belonged there.

His heart beat faster the longer he stared at it, his fingers tracing the smooth surface, almost hypnotized by the cool, gleaming metal.

It wasn’t cursed. It wasn’t magical. Just valuable. Pretty. Shiny.

And it felt good.

“Just a ring,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper, as if convincing himself. “It’s just a ring. No big deal, right?”

He threw himself onto his bed, tossing the ring onto the nightstand. His eyes fixed on it like it had a life of its own, its simple beauty now mocking him. The thing should have been easy to return. He’d done it before. He’s been good at returning things lately. No one would notice it was gone, and he’d be off the hook, clean and simple.

His hands shook slightly as he reached for it again. “It’s just a ring,” he reminded himself, his voice low but urgent. “No one’s gonna notice. It’s not like it’s some priceless heirloom, despite how expensive it was. It was still just a ring.”

But his mind wasn’t buying it. His heart pounded louder now, the faint echo of his guilt creeping in.

“Don’t do it, Mammon,” he whispered, a warning to himself. “Ya’ve come so far. Four months. Ya promised. No greed. Not anymore. This—this is exactly what ya can’t do.”

He flopped back onto the bed with a frustrated groan, staring up at the ceiling. “Just this once. It’s not like I’m stealin’ from a museum. Just a ring. I’ll sell it. Or keep it. That’s not so bad, right?”

The temptation was like a slow poison in his veins, curling around his thoughts, choking off any semblance of reason. The ring was so small. So insignificant. He’d returned things, despite every part of him screaming to just take it.

But this ring was different. This was something that could easily slip by unnoticed. It was just so... shiny.

Mammon’s hand twitched, itching to reach out and grab it again. “I’m not a thief,” he muttered, even though his own voice didn’t sound convincing. “I’ve changed. I don’t need this crap. I don’t need anythin’ from anyone. Not anymore.”

He’d told himself he’d changed.

But here he was.

And the worst part?

He wanted it.

The shame curled in his chest like fire. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

A bitter laugh escaped him, the sound of it hollow in the quiet room. He had been doing so well— four months without falling into his old habits, four months of avoiding that gnawing, hungry feeling inside him that always craved more.

But now? Now, that little ring was all it took to unravel everything.

“I don’t need this. I’m not goin’ back to my old ways. I’m not.”

He let out a breath, tension pouring from his body. Maybe he could return it. Maybe it’d be fine.

“You know you want it,” the voice in his head whispered, soft and dangerous. “Just one little thing. It’s not like it’ll ruin everything? Who would even notice?”

The temptation was suffocating. His chest tightened, guilt and greed warring inside him. Four months of fighting this feeling, and now it was all crumbling away with a simple piece of jewelry.

“Maybe… maybe I deserve it,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve worked hard. Kept my promises. Just this once, no one’ll know. No one’ll care.” 

His fingers trembled as he reached for it again, the cold metal sending a sharp thrill through him. The satisfaction almost dizzying.

He could keep it. No one would find out. No one would blame him. And yet—

Lucifer’s voice echoed in the back of his mind again, stern and unforgiving.

 “Don’t even think about it, Mammon.”

Mammon froze. He could almost hear Lucifer’s disappointment, as though his older brother had somehow found him out already. He could picture the judgment, the scorn. He would know. Lucifer always knew.

“No. No, I can’t. I can’t do this.” He threw the ring back onto the nightstand, rising to his feet and pacing again. 

But the doubt lingered. What if it wasn’t so bad? What if just this once didn’t matter? What if—

“What if this is the start of it all over again?” he whispered, voice cracking. “What if I can’t stop?”

The ring sat there, silent and unmoving, waiting for him to make a decision. Mammon’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides. He could be better. He had to be. He couldn’t let this moment destroy everything he’d worked for.

“Just put it back,” he ordered himself, but even as the words left his mouth, a part of him didn’t believe them. He wasn’t sure what would happen next. What he really wanted to do was take it, slip it into his pocket, and pretend it never happened.

But no. That wasn’t him anymore.

“I won’t be that Mammon again,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

So he didn’t sell it.

He shoved the ring deep into the back of the drawer. His fingers lingered a moment too long on the smooth metal. His hand shook. His eyes kept darting back, as if the ring might vanish if he didn’t keep looking. Finally, he slammed the drawer shut, pressing his palms to his face, heart pounding.

Locked it up. Out of sight. Out of temptation.

That night, Mammon tried to push it out of his mind, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that his brothers would eventually find out. They would always find out. They always did.

Three days had passed and Mammon still hadn’t tried to return the ring. It stayed in his drawer untouched, but not touching it wasn’t the same as letting it go.

The ring stayed hidden.

He hadn’t sold it. That was something. But he hadn’t returned it either. Couldn’t trust himself not sell it.

He wanted to be better. But the whispers never stopped.

So instead he just left it there in the back of his drawers, until he was confident he wouldn’t try to sell it.

And three days was all it took to ruin everything.

There was a knock at the door.

Then the bell.

Then Lucifer’s voice — cold, clipped.

“Mammon. Come here.”

In the entryway stood a demon — tall, nervous, fidgeting with his coat. “I… I lost a ring,” he explained, voice quiet. “Three days ago. I dropped it in front of the markets. Been asking around. Someone said they saw, who picked it up.”

Lucifer’s gaze cut like a blade.

“Mammon. Was it you?”

The room was silent. Beel looked down. Satan crossed his arms. Asmo sighed with a shake of his head.

Mammon could barely meet his brother’s gaze, his heart hammering in his chest. The guilt was suffocating. He tried to explain, but the words were just excuses. It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. I didn’t mean to…

Mammon hesitated — not because of the lie, but because of what telling the truth would mean. Still, he trudged upstairs, opened the drawer, and handed over the ring.

“I didn’t, sell it. I was gonna give it back,” he mumbled, like it mattered. “I was… I didn’t wanna ruin my progress. I was tryin’ to be better.”

The ring was snatched from his hand. The owner gave a grateful nod — more to Lucifer than to him — and left.

Then came the storm.

“You realize how this looks?” Lucifer’s voice echoed like a blade through the room. Cold. Controlled. Cutting.“You damaged our name. Again.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The disappointment was heavier than anger.

Lucifer exhaled, slow and tired, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

He turned and walked away.

“You had one job,” Levi muttered.

“I knew it,” Satan said coldly. “I knew you’d snap back eventually. It’s always the same story with you.”

The weight of Lucifer’s words hit Mammon harder than any outburst ever could. And the silence that followed felt like it suffocated him. They weren’t just disappointed in me… they were tired of me.

Tired of hoping I’d change

Levi’s mutter, Satan’s cold remark—they stung, yes. But there was a different kind of sting in Lucifer’s dismissal. It was like a final confirmation: Mammon’s done. He’s failed.

In the past, it had always been different. There had been moments, brief but genuine, when Mammon had felt like he mattered. There were times when Lucifer would pull him aside, speak to him with a rare tone of care, telling him he could do better, that there was still time for change.

Now, Lucifer just sighed and walked away. There was no more faith in him. There was no more hope.

“People change,” Mammon whispered. “I was tryin’—”

But his brothers didn’t care about his excuses. They never did.

“But you didn’t,” Belphie said flatly. “You’re still the same scummy second born. Always greedy. Always causing trouble.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Leviathan muttered, his tone low, but cutting. “We knew it was only a matter of time before you messed up again. You never change.”

Asmodeus’ voice, too, had that sharp edge. “How many times do we have to tell you, Mammon? You can’t just take whatever you want.”

Satan, always more measured in his words, still couldn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes. “You really thought you could change, didn’t you? You can’t outrun your sin. You’re always going to be the same, Mammon.”

Beel just stayed silent, not uttering a single word.

Each word felt like a punch to the gut, and Mammon could feel his heart sinking lower with each one. They were right. He was a thief, a liar. He had always been.

He was never going to change.

“No matter how hard you try to ignore me or cast me out… I’ll always be a part of you.”

“You’ll always be Greed. We are Greed.”

Mammon looked around at them — at the eyes that no longer believed in him. The weight in his chest crushed down. His lip trembled, but he forced a crooked grin anyway.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Guess that’s all I am, huh?”

He turned and walked away before they could see his eyes fill.

And in his room, alone, with the drawer still half open — Mammon sank to the floor, burying his head in his arms.

Because he hadn’t even wanted the ring.

But now it didn’t matter. Not to them.

Not anymore.

It was then, amidst the scorn and judgment from his brothers, that Mammon realised the truth: he couldn’t do this on his own. He had failed. His pride, his belief that he could control his greed—it had all been a lie.

After the museum, he had got comfortable— too comfortable. Letting his ego and pride get the best of him. He had let his guard down. 

He should’ve just left the ring.

It had only taken a single slip-up, a single moment of weakness, for everything to come crashing down.

That night, alone in his room, Mammon stared at this hands, his fingers trembling.

The rush of greed, the satisfaction, was still there, pulsing in his veins, and it made him feel… alive again. But he also felt hollow. Empty. Like the greed was the only thing that made him feel whole, but it was also the very thing that destroyed him.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t keep fighting this battle alone. Not when the urge to take was so strong, not when his brothers were already turning away from him, casting him back into the role of the scummy thief.

Mammon’s hand hovered over the drawer where he had kept the pills for months. He had avoided them, tried to tell himself he didn’t need them. He tried to convince himself that he could overcome his greed without them.

For so long, Mammon had believed he could conquer his own sin. He had told himself, I don’t need the pills. I don’t need to rely on anythin’ to control my greed.

But now, sitting in the quiet of his room, surrounded by nothing but the weight of his failure, he realized just how much he had been fooling himself. He had failed. And he was going to need help—whether he liked it or not.

The pills were the only way out. The only way he could control his sin. They were his last option, and he had waited too long.

With a shaky breath, Mammon opened the drawer.

There, amidst the dusty clothes and forgotten items, sat the small bottle of suppressant pills. He reached for it, his fingers trembling.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to rely on something like this. But he had no choice anymore.

His hand hovered over the bottle’s cap. The weight of it—so small, so final—was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

This time, he opened the bottle. Hands trembling, chest tight. Relief and shame collided in his veins.

Chapter Text

The bottle of pills sat in his hand—cold, heavy, like a stone he'd been carrying for months. Mammon stared at it for what felt like an eternity, his eyes tracing the smooth, matte black surface of the capsules, each one a silent promise. They were his ticket to control, his way out of the suffocating pit of greed he had fallen into once again.

This is the only way, he told himself, but the words felt hollow, like an excuse. I can’t keep livin’ like this. I can’t let ‘em see me like this anymore.

He swallowed hard, staring at the pills. For all the pride he’d once carried—the pride of being the Avatar of Greed—he couldn’t help but feel like nothing more than a failure in this moment. His brother’s words echoed in his head: “You never change.”

It hurt. 

But the sting of guilt wasn’t enough to make him stop. No, it was the fear of what would happen if he didn’t take them. If he didn’t shut off the cravings, the urge to take, to hoard, to fill the endless hole inside him that could never be satisfied.

He twisted the bottle open, the sound of the lid cracking loud in the silence of his room. Mammon hesitated for just a second, staring at the two black capsules in his palm.

Suppressants, designed to target a demon’s sin—blunt it, bury it, kill the craving at its source.

They looked harmless.

It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of everything he had tried to build, a reminder that he wasn’t enough to fight his own nature. But this was his last resort. He didn’t have any other choice. The voice of greed, that constant, gnawing whisper, had become too loud to ignore. His brothers were already looking at him like he was the same old scummy thief. He had no choice but to make it stop.

Mammon took a deep breath, then popped the first capsule into his mouth, followed by the second. He didn’t bother to swallow them slowly. He just let them slide down his throat, the cold, smooth texture of the pills reminding him of the numbness he knew was coming—slow, inevitable, merciless.

This is it, he thought, barely able to breathe as his stomach twisted in discomfort. There’s no goin’ back now.

The first few minutes were silent—too silent, like everything had come to a complete stop. Mammon sat back on his bed, waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting—some sort of immediate change? A click? A shift in his senses?

His stomach gave a dull twist, and a faint metallic taste crept onto his tongue. His hands were colder than before, fingertips clammy like he'd just come down with a fever.

But then, the numbness began to settle in. And for a moment, he swore his shadow twitched—just slightly—as if resisting the stillness overtaking him.

It started slow, almost imperceptible, like a slow tightening in his chest, as if his ribs were closing in on his lungs. A dull, heavy pressure settled behind his eyes, pulling his vision into soft focus. Then the fog rolled in, thick and silent, making his head feel like it was underwater—disconnected, slow, as if the world itself was pressing on him from all sides.

His head buzzed—not painfully, but like static crawling behind his eyes. His hands felt…strangely light, like they were no longer connected to his body.

When he reached for the bedframe to ground himself, his hand drifted off-target—fingers brushing air. The floor beneath him seemed to shift, like the world had tilted by a few degrees.

The tight, restless grip that had once been part of him—the constant need to clutch, grasp, take—slowly loosened, just a bit.

Then came the discomfort—sharp, unexpected. A chill ran down his spine. Goosebumps pricked along his arms, though his skin burned in places like fever and ice were fighting for control. His stomach churned, not just with guilt, but with something colder, chemical. His limbs twitched subtly, like his muscles couldn’t decide whether to tense or go limp.

His limbs began to feel disconnected, like they weren’t moving quite right. His mouth went dry. A bitter taste clung to the back of his throat. His heartbeat kicked up, too fast for the stillness around him.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, the emptiness hit.

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t like a deep, restful sleep. It was a hollow feeling—like someone had carved out his emotions, leaving him numb to everything around him. His heart felt lighter, but not in a good way. It felt shut off, as if someone had turned a dial down to zero.

He blinked, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in the dark. Not Lucifer, not exactly—but the shape of him, the shadow of his presence. It was as if the memory of his brother was reaching for him, but too far to touch.

The tired look in Lucifer’s eyes—disappointment, maybe? It wasn’t anger, it was something worse, something quieter.

It wore him down, without a word, without a sound. And in that moment, Mammon couldn’t tell if he was imagining it—or if Lucifer had really been there, and had left him behind just like everything else.

“You’re better than this,” the memory whispered. Or maybe Mammon imagined it. Lucifer never said it out loud, not once.

He tried to respond—to summon the burn of shame, the instinct to defend himself, to snap back with something clever or desperate. But the feeling wouldn’t come. Not anger. Not guilt. Not anything.

Lucifer’s face faded like smoke in his mind, the silence between them louder than any reprimand.

Even now, he couldn’t tell if he missed him—or just missed being seen.

Mammon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake off the sensation. His thoughts were scattered. The urge to take—to grab something, anything—was still there, but it was distant, muted, like it was happening to someone else. A quiet hum in the back of his mind. It was there, but it didn’t hurt as much.

He looked down at his hands, watching the edges of his fingers tingle with an unfamiliar numbness. For a moment, he couldn’t feel them at all. The world around him seemed to blur and fade. His breath became shallow, and he felt strangely detached—as though he were observing himself from a distance.

This is what it feels like to have control, Mammon thought bitterly. This is what it takes.

His mind, once sharp with thoughts of greed, was now clouded and slow.

Mammon’s thoughts were sluggish now—like trying to wade through thick fog. His usual sharp instincts, the ones that had always been in tune with every heartbeat of his greed, were dulled, muffled. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t get a clear grasp on anything. Even his memories felt distant, like faded photographs, their edges blurred and forgotten.

It was like his mind had gone on autopilot, and his body was following its lead.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Not like being calm, not like being free—but like drowning in syrup. He’d thought he would feel in control, but all he could feel was unfamiliar weightlessness, like the ground had quietly disappeared beneath him.

And yet, even in this numbed state, he couldn’t escape the gnawing sensation that he had lost something important. The pills were working, no doubt about it. They had shut down the rush, the claws of greed that had always had a vice grip on his heart. But in doing so, they had taken more than he expected. More than he was ready to let go of.

Mammon tried to focus, but every time his mind even began to latch onto a thought, it slipped away, like trying to hold onto sand. He looked at his hands again. The numbness was creeping higher, up his arms now. His fingers, once so quick and clever, now felt stiff, distant. The pads of his fingers tingled, not in the usual sharp way, but in a dull, unfeeling hum.

This is fine, he thought. He wanted this. He had to want it. He couldn’t keep living like this—couldn’t keep hurting himself and everyone else with his insatiable hunger. He swallowed, the dryness in his throat making it hard to even taste the pills’ remnants as they settled in his stomach, solidifying the numbness.

It’ll be better this way, he told himself, but the words felt hollow.

That familiar pull to take something, anything—more—was still there. Fighting the pills, trying to take back control. It still lingered in the back of his mind, faint, but there.

And then, it came. The whisper.

It started slow, like the wind rustling through dry leaves. At first, Mammon thought it was just his mind tricking him, that small, desperate voice calling to him from the shadows of his thoughts.

“Take it,” greed whispered, a voice that was at once familiar and foreign—slithered through the haze.“Grab something. Anything. You can feel it... you can have it.”

Mammon’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t like before—there was no rush, no fire that blazed in his chest. But it was there. That itch, that gnawing need to seize and consume.

He clenched his hands into fists, but the weight of them felt odd now, distant, like they weren’t even his.

But the pills had already begun their work, and the voice of his greed was starting to strain. The whisper became louder, more insistent, like it was struggling to break through the growing fog in his mind.

“ Mammon... you don’t have to do this. Take it. Take everything.”

For a moment, Mammon felt the old familiar urge—like a hot knife pressing against his chest—but it was weak. Distant. He swallowed, trying to focus through the haze. He could still hear it, but it was harder now, the words warped and distorted.

“You don’t need this....  You never needed these pills.…. Take it all.…. you’re the Avatar of Greed…”

The voice fractured, distorted—like it was screaming through a thick pane of glass.

Mammon squeezed his eyes shut, his heart racing. It slammed in his chest—too fast, shallow, like his body had forgotten how to breathe properly. A cold sweat slicked his neck and lower back.

The pressure in his chest intensified, but it wasn’t the familiar suffocating weight of his sin. It was different—faint, like it was being forced back into a box, locked away. His legs were numb now. When he shifted, they dragged like dead weight, slow to obey.

Just at the edge of his vision, trailing behind him in the moonlight, was a second shadow.

Thinner than his own, warped and wrong, but still tethered to him like something alive.

It moved when he didn’t, flickering like candlelight. Twitched when he breathed.

His greed. His sin.

The pills gripped harder. The shadow twitched, then shuddered—as if trying to hold itself together. Mammon stared, heart pounding, as cracks began to splinter through it, like glass under pressure.

And from inside that breaking silhouette came the voice—distorted now, glitching, desperate.

“You think this makes you strong?” Greed snarled. “This isn’t control. This is surrender.”

The voice fractured mid-sentence, warping into static, pieces of it skipping and echoing through his skull.

“You can’t do this to me,” Greed hissed, its edges glitching like a broken radio. “I’m you. I’ll always be you.”

“You’ll feel it again. You need to. I’ll come back. I always do—”

Shut up, Mammon thought. Just shut up...

The shadow crumbled at his feet, reduced to ink-like dust before fading entirely into the floorboards.

And then, for the first time in weeks, there was silence. Not the kind that soothed, but the kind that echoed—emptiness that rang in his bones.

The whispering was silenced. Not by him, but by something else. Something far stronger than his own will. Greed’s voice was pushed down, stifled, struggling beneath the weight of the suppressant in his bloodstream. He almost wanted to laugh, but there was no humor in it.

There was only the overwhelming sense of something slipping through his fingers—something that defined him for so long.

But it was quiet now. The emptiness took over, and it was all Mammon could hear. The space inside him that had always been filled with the fire of his sin was now hollow, vacant. The voice that had once driven him, that had told him to take, to hoard, to be greedy, was now nothing more than a distant hum.

And yet, even in its absence, Mammon couldn’t bring himself to feel relieved. The emptiness, the hollow feeling that had followed him for so long, now seemed too quiet. There was a certain heaviness in the silence—something suffocating in its stillness.

No pain, no hunger, no shame—but no warmth either. His laughter, his panic, his pride—drained out like water from a cracked jar.

The pills had done their job. Greed, the fire that had always burned so brightly in his chest, was muted. But at what cost?

Mammon’s fingers twitched, feeling distant and numb. The usual hunger was gone, and with it, the sense of purpose that had always anchored him. The old Mammon—the one that had lived for the thrill, the rush—was nowhere to be found. And in his place was a version of himself that felt like a shadow. A blur.

He didn’t know if this was a good thing—or the worst thing that could’ve happened. The craving was gone.

But it wasn’t just the hunger that had disappeared. It was the fight, the fire that had kept him alive for centuries.

Without it, he was a hollow shell. No greed, no pride, no joy, no hate. Just a gaping emptiness that stretched farther than he could see. Who was he now? What was he now? The weight of the silence pressed against him, and the more he tried to hold onto something—anything—the more it slipped away.

There was nothing left, not even the struggle to keep his head above water. And it terrified him.

For the first time in ages, he didn’t know who he was without the craving. Without his greed.

Now, there was only silence. Only the absence of the one thing that had always defined him.

And as the room around him grew quieter, Mammon finally let out a shuddering breath. The numbness settled deeper, as if it were sinking into his bones, spreading to places he didn’t even know existed.

His jaw had slackened without him realizing. His chest rose and fell in slow, automatic waves—breath without intention, movement without presence. Even his skin felt wrong, like he was wearing it out of habit. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Greed would return. He knew it would. It always did. But for now, for just a moment, he was left with nothing.

By the time the fog of the pills had completely settled in, Mammon felt completely alone in his own body. His emotions were barely there. His anger at his brothers, his guilt over his failure, his pride at resisting the crown—everything had faded into an eerie nothingness.

But even more haunting than that was the growing realisation that he didn’t feel anything.

In place of it, there was only empty silence. And while it was peaceful, Mammon couldn’t help but feel the gnawing absence of who he really was. The greedy part of him was gone, but so was everything else.

He didn’t know if that was a good thing.

The craving was gone. But so was the fight. And without it... what was left of him?

The control he had so desperately craved now felt like a curse.

His vision blurred, and Mammon staggered to his feet. He could barely keep his balance. Everything around him felt far away, like a memory he couldn’t quite place. The familiar weight of his sin had been replaced with an even heavier burden: the weight of not feeling anything at all.

A stillness that wasn’t peace, but paralysis. Like he’d been hollowed out and left behind.

Was this really worth it?

The suppressant pills had done what they were meant to. Mammon was free from the constant, crushing weight of his greed. But the cost was higher than he had expected.

He had silenced the war inside him. But in the quiet, he couldn’t tell if he’d won—or just lost something he could never get back. And now the weight of it seeped into his bones.

He didn’t know if this was the right choice. Just that it was the only one he had left.

Chapter Text

The aroma of freshly made toast filled the kitchen as the brothers gathered around the table. The clinking of silverware mingling with the sounds of their occasional chatter.

The brothers were already settled in, each with their usual plate of food. As always, Beel was quickly devouring his meal, while the others picked at their food or sipped their drinks, though today, there was something... different in the air.

Mammon shuffled into the dining room, a little later than usual. The remnants of the suppressant pills still clung to his system, leaving him feeling… strange. His head was slightly foggy, his body feeling a touch too light and distant, and the toast under his fork felt like it was made of wax—but at least it was different from the gnawing hunger of greed that usually consumed him. That was something, right?

He slumped into his seat, his usual antics weren’t there. He didn’t shout for his fair share of toast. He didn’t try to sneak a little extra food when no one was looking. Instead, he sat, quiet, pushing his food around aimlessly. His fork tapped against his plate in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

Asmo was the first to speak up, his voice dripping with honeyed mockery as he leaned across the table, his eyes gleaming. "Mammon, darling, you’ve been so... quiet this morning." He pouted dramatically. "What’s the matter? Did you finally realize we’re all better than you at everything?"

Mammon didn’t answer. He just stared at his plate, pushing around a piece of toast that had gone cold. His stomach twisted with an uncomfortable feeling that he couldn’t shake—guilt, regret, and that nagging sense that he had failed. Failed in front of his brothers. Failed at controlling the very thing that had defined him for so long.

The guilt still fresh, weighed heavier than any hunger, more suffocating than anything the pills could dull.

He wasn’t even sure why he had taken the pills at first, but he knew now—this was why.

The ring.

His greed.

His brother’s judgemental and taunting comments.

The fight he had inside his head that raged until he couldn't keep it at bay. This awkward, unspoken silence was a direct result of his slip-up. He couldn’t face them, not with the constant judgment from the night before still lingering like a heavy shadow.

He had felt their disappointment like a thousand cuts.

“Mammon?” Asmo prodded again, his voice rising in volume, teasing. "Cat got your tongue?"

Beel, noticing the lack of his usual brotherly enthusiasm, frowned, his voice soft. “Mammon… Are you okay? You’re not eating…”

Mammon didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the table, his thoughts swirling in a cloud of guilt and shame.

Beel’s concern grew, but the others? They took it differently.

Levi snorted. “Oh, look at you, Mammon. The great second-born is suddenly too good to eat now? You’ve really hit rock bottom if you’re skipping breakfast.” He scoffed, sinking back into his chair with a smirk. “I thought you never missed a meal, no matter what kind of mess you’re in.”

Mammon didn’t react. He barely even blinked.

The room felt both too loud and too far away, voices muffled as if he were underwater. The fork in his hand was the only solid thing he could feel, its metal biting cold against his fingers, anchoring him to a body that didn’t feel like his own.

His brothers’ words didn’t sting anymore—at least, not in the way they used to. They were just... noise.

“I think he’s just embarrassed.” Belphie’s voice cut through the room with his usual cynicism. “After everything that happened yesterday, I can’t blame him. He’s probably just sulking about looking like an idiot.” He yawned, clearly unbothered by Mammon’s change in demeanor.

Satan crossed his arms, his voice sharp but noticeably more measured than the others. “You were doing well. Months without a single incident. And then this?” He let out a quiet, frustrated breath through his nose. “I don’t understand how you let it happen. After all that effort—why throw it away for that?”

He looked away, shaking his head, but his fingers twitched against his arm like he wanted to say more—and chose not to. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.”

Mammon’s fingers tightened around his fork, but his mouth remained shut. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say to make them understand. His silence was the only thing left.

The others noticed, and the tension in the room grew. Something was off. Mammon was always good for some kind of sarcastic comeback, but now... nothing.

“I mean, really, Mammon, you did make a fool of yourself. Not that any of us are surprised.” He twirled his fork, grinning. “Honestly, I’m ashamed to even be related to you at this point.”

Belphie, from the end of the table, snorted. “Pathetic. You got caught stealing a ring. Again. What’s the point, Mammon? Why even bother?”

Mammon could feel it long before Lucifer opened his mouth—that stare, sharp as a blade against the side of his face. He didn’t dare look up.

Lucifer hadn’t said a word yet, but his cold gaze was locked on Mammon, his disapproval weighing down like a heavy cloud. “You’ve embarrassed us again, Mammon,” he said, his voice calm but sharp. “Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions? We have a reputation to maintain, and you’ve made it that much harder to uphold.”

Mammon still didn’t say a word. The weight of their words pressed down, suffocating, like a cold hand on his chest. The pills had dulled everything, even his ability to fight back.

“Well, whatever,” Levi shrugged, trying to hide a smirk. “I guess it’s just one more day for Mammon to sulk in silence. I swear, you’ve been extra dramatic lately. What’s your deal? You trying to get attention with this ‘mysterious’ act?”

Mammon just blinked, his gaze lingering on the table, too disinterested in Levi’s jabs to react. His posture had shifted slightly more—hunched, almost as if he were trying to withdraw from the world around him.

Beel was the only one who didn’t join in the taunting. “Mammon, if something’s really wrong, you can talk to me,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes full of concern.

But even Beel’s concern wasn’t enough to draw any reaction from Mammon. He sat there, as still and silent as a statue, his mind far away, his thoughts clouded with the shame of his actions and the guilt that clung to him like a shadow.

Levi sneered at Mammon’s unresponsiveness. “Look at him. He’s so ashamed he can’t even argue back. What’s the matter? Finally figured out you’re the screw-up of the family?”

Mammon flinched, but didn’t respond. He simply stared at his plate, his fingers still tapping the handle of his fork, lost in the suffocating weight of everything that had happened.

Asmo, ever the observant one, leaned back in his chair with a raised eyebrow. "Wow, you're not even gonna try to defend yourself? Mammon… you’re not ashamed of yourself, are you?" He asked the question lightly, but the knowing smile on his face showed he was pushing for a reaction.

"You were so loud before, bragging about your progress. Did that ring change things? Or did you just get lazy?"

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and all he wanted was to sink into the ground and disappear. The words they said weren’t even wrong—he had been loud, bragging, overconfident. But now? Now he just wanted to hide from them all.

Satan’s gaze softened slightly, but the bitterness in his voice remained. “You were doing so well, Mammon. But I guess it was all just a show, wasn’t it? You can’t change. Not really. You always fall back into your old ways.”

Asmo leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his lips curled in that familiar smirk—but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Something almost uneasy.

“Ugh, seriously, Mammon. This whole silent treatment thing? It’s getting really boring.” He twirled his fork lazily, voice laced with mocking disdain. “Where’s the drama? The whining? The excuses? The part where you get all flustered and start yelling at us like a kicked puppy?”

His gaze lingered on Mammon for a moment too long, his smirk faltering just slightly—almost like he was expecting, wanting, some kind of reaction.

“It’s weird when you’re quiet,” he muttered, tone sharper now, like he was trying to shake something off. “You’re not supposed to do that. At least be entertaining if you’re going to screw everything up.”

He scoffed, flicking his hair back with a flourish, but didn’t look at Mammon again.

Lucifer finally spoke again, his voice cutting through the noise. “Enough.” His tone was sharp, and the room fell silent immediately. His eyes flicked over to Mammon, but there was no warmth, no sympathy. Only a cold, disappointed glare. “I don’t want excuses. I want you to fix this. Make it right, Mammon. If you’re trying to prove that you can change, start by admitting your mistakes. You can’t just sweep this under the rug.”

Still, Mammon remained motionless. He didn’t look up, didn’t respond, just kept his gaze fixed firmly on the table. The brothers’ words swirled around him, but none of them seemed to reach him.

Beel sighed and, for the first time, his voice held a touch of frustration. “Seriously, Mammon, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you saying anything? Please, talk to me.”

Belphie yawned loudly, clearly uninterested. “Who cares? It’s Mammon. He’ll always be the same annoying idiot.”

But Mammon still didn’t look up.

The brothers exchanged uncertain glances. It was clear that the Mammon they knew—the one who would fight back, even when things were bad—wasn’t here today. There was something more... hollow about him.

Lucifer’s disappointment hung heavy in the air as he turned away from the table. “If you don’t have the strength to fix your own mistakes, then I’ll handle it.” He left without another word, the others following suit in their own ways, leaving Mammon behind in the silent, suffocating room.

Later that day,

Mammon sat in silence, his mind a thousand miles away from the laughter and mockery that still rang in his ears. The air felt thick with their words.

As he fiddled with the small bottle tucked in his pocket, his hands trembled, but not from the usual rush of greed. No. This felt like something else. Something deeper, more suffocating.

The suppressant pills had started to feel like a crutch. A way to escape, to avoid the harshness of his own thoughts and of their taunting jabs. But as he stared at the bottle, Mammon couldn’t help but wonder: Was it really helpin’ him, or was he just sinkin’ deeper into a pit he couldn’t climb out of?

No matter how much he tried to avoid them, the whispering of his own greed—the same damn feeling that had haunted him for centuries—was always there, waiting for him to slip. And he had slipped.

He had felt it in his bones, deep down. He wasn’t good enough to change on his own. Not without this.

But even as he stared at the small bottle in his hand, the guilt was still there. The voices, soft and dangerous, urged him to give in. To keep going, just a little longer. Maybe the pills would be enough to push the darkness back.

But was that really him?

Mammon’s thoughts were fractured, a chaotic mess, but in that moment, he felt like the pills were the only thing that could pull him out of the void.

Taking one last deep breath, he swallowed.

And for the first time in days, he felt the creeping weight of control settle in.

The fog spread again, heavier this time. His body felt lighter, as though he was floating. The world around him grew distant, the noise of his thoughts muted. But even in that moment of numbness, he felt something worse than the hunger.

He felt empty.

Later that night, Back in his room. Mammon sat in bed.

The silence pressed in, the same silence he’d begged for and now hated. His hand moved before he thought about it, reaching for the pen, as if putting the words on paper might make the quiet less suffocating.

Journal Entry – Day 132

Didn’t sleep much last night. Not really.

Laid in bed, starin’ at the ceiling like it owed me somethin’. I kept waitin’ for that voice to come back—ya know, his voice. But it was quiet. Still. And not the good kinda quiet.

The pills are workin’. I guess. If workin’ means I don’t feel like stealin’ the buttons off a guy’s coat just ‘cause they look shiny. But it also means I ain’t feelin’ much of anythin’.

Yeah... I took them yesterday.

Didn’t wanna, swear I didn’t. But I felt it, crawlin’ up the back of my neck again. That itch. The voice.

The pills make it quiet. Too quiet. But if I stop, the voice comes back. Greed. Him. Me. Whatever we are. He’s always waiting in the corners of my mind, like mold in the walls.

They don’t get it. They never really did.

They think I took the ring because I’m selfish. Because I’m the “same ol’ Mammon.”

And maybe they’re not wrong. But none of ‘em saw what it felt like inside my head before I took it. Like drownin’ in want. Not for power. Not for glory. Just… for relief.

One second of silence.

Now I’ve got silence, all right. Whole damn day of it.

I hate it. The want. 

But I hate the silence more sometimes.

Got up feelin’ like I was wearin’ someone else’s skin.

Walked into the kitchen like nothin’ happened, like I didn’t almost ruin everything again yesterday. They were all already there—laughin’, eatin’, talkin’ like I was just some ghost floatin’ in. Everyone actin’ like they didn’t say what they said yesterday. Like I didn’t hear every word.

No one said hi.

Not that I blame ‘em.

I sat down.

Ain’t said a damn word today.

Not ‘cause I didn’t wanna. Just... didn’t see the point.

Just starin’ at my plate like it might talk to me first. Didn’t touch a thin’. Couldn’t. Food don’t even taste right no more. Not since I took those damn pills.

Then it got quiet. Uncomfortable-like. I guess they’re finally seein’ it—how messed up I am. How broken I feel.

Then came the comments.

Lucifer told me to fix it. Said if I want to prove I can change, I need to make it right. But how do you fix somethin’ that’s in your blood? How do you prove anythin’ when the only thin’ people want from you is to fail quietly?

I don’t even know what I’m tryin’ to prove anymore.

Satan said I can’t change.
Asmo said he was ashamed to be related to me, called me borin’.
Belphie said I’m still the same greedy idiot.
Levi laughed in my face.

Beel asked if I was okay. He always does.

Only Beel looked at me different. Like he saw me and not just the mess I left behind. He's the only one who keeps tryin’. Told me I didn’t have to carry this alone.

But I didn’t say a word.

Couldn’t.

What was I supposed to say?
“Hey guys, sorry I tried to steal again, but don’t worry—I’m on magic suppressants now and feelin’ emotionally flatlined, thanks for askin’”?

Nah.

I couldn’t answer. Not even him. Not like this.

He doesn't deserve to carry that.

No one does.

I ain’t got nothin’ to say that don’t sound like an excuse. And even if I did, what would it matter? I already proved I ain’t strong enough to fight it without the pills. The second I saw that ring, I knew I was losin’ again. I felt it, like my chest was gonna crack open.

They wouldn’t get it. They don’t know what it’s like to live with somethin’ inside you that wants everythin’.

All the time.

Somethin’ that don’t shut up, don’t sleep, don’t let you rest unless you’re takin’ more. And then, when you do—when you take—everyone looks at you like you’re dirt.

I took another pill this afternoon. My hand was shakin’ when I opened the bottle. Like part of me knew what I was doin’ wasn’t strength—it was surrender. But I did it anyway. Because the quiet is better than the storm .

I miss feelin’ things. Even the bad stuff. The shame, the anger, the humiliation—at least those were mine. Now everythin’ feels secondhand, like I’m watchin’ my life through dirty glass. Like I’m not even in the room half the time.

I keep thinkin’ about that ring. Not because I want it—but ‘cause it was the moment everythin’ snapped. Like that tiny, stupid thing held all my progress hostage.
One slip. One moment. And now all they see is what I used to be…

Maybe that’s all I ever was.

So now I’ve got these pills—this damn bottle in my pocket—and they’re the only thing keepin’ me from bein’ that guy again. The greedy freak. The failure.

But now that I’m not him... I don’t feel like me either.

I’m just stuck somewhere in the middle. Too scared to stop takin’ ‘em, too tired to keep goin’.

Funny how I used to hate the voice. Now I’m listenin’ for it. Like some kinda sick habit. But he’s not talkin’. Not since the last pill.

It’s too quiet in here now

I thought gettin’ control back would feel like winnin’.

But this don’t feel like a win. It feels like... survivin’. 
And barely that. 

Maybe that’s all they’ll ever see when they look at me.
Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.

Chapter Text

The days had bled into one another in a haze of silence and pills. Mammon couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly felt anything—not hunger, not anger, not even that burning need for something more. Just quiet. Endless, suffocating quiet that pressed behind his eyes like a migraine waiting to bloom.

The pills had worked, but they’d worked too well—and the silence was never truly comforting. It was only a temporary relief, and the weight of the emptiness was growing again, eating at him from the inside out.

Mammon had run out of the pills the dealer had given him, the ones that had been his crutch for so long. They’d been free at first, but he knew—he knew—that nothing in the Devil’s realm came without a price.

The pills were gone. The quiet had slipped away. The weight of greed had returned, the  whispering in the back of his mind. It wasn’t loud at first, just a murmur. But soon enough, it was a growl, scraping at his insides, chewing through his thoughts—his skin prickling with a phantom itch he couldn’t scratch.

The relief the pills had given him had only made the hunger worse when they were gone. It was like something had shifted inside him—like he’d opened a door that couldn’t be closed.

And in that emptiness, the voice had crept back in. Not words, not really—but a hiss. A low, mocking murmur curling against his skull.

“Weak,” it seemed to whisper. “You can’t live without me.”

The itch under his skin flared, and Mammon’s fingers flexed like they were already reaching for something he didn’t have.

The hunger clawed at him again. He had to get more, silence the voice mocking him. He couldn’t face his brothers like this—not with Lucifer’s cold gaze or Asmo’s mocking laugh. He wasn’t strong enough to show them how broken he was.

He had to find the dealer.

And so, he found himself once again standing at the edge of that grimy alleyway, the one he hadn’t dared to revisit since that first night—the first time he’d gotten the pills.

He wasn’t sure if it would work again, but he had no other choice. The whispers inside him were getting louder again, reminding him of the emptiness. The hunger. The greed. It was all too familiar, and for the first time in days, it felt real again.

The strange, narrow space tucked between two old buildings. The dealer had found him there before. Maybe this time, he could find him too. He wasn’t sure where else to look, but this was the only place he could think of.

Mammon approached the alley with cautious steps, the dim light from the streetlamps casting long shadows. The hum of the city behind him felt far away, muffled, like it was on the other side of a thick wall.

He turned into the alley and hesitated. No one was there. The silence pressed in again, making the air feel heavier. He should’ve turned around. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

The alley was eerily quiet as he made his way in, his boots echoing off the damp pavement. He remembered the way the shadows had felt that night—dark and suffocating—but now, everything felt even colder. He wasn’t sure where to look or who to ask, but he had to find the dealer.

At first, there was nothing. Just the usual dark, empty stretch of narrow pavement wedged between two old buildings. A chill ran through him, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or something else. Something felt wrong.

The last time he had been here, he hadn’t been looking for trouble. He was just wandering. But this time, he knew exactly what he was after.

And that was even worse.

After a few moments of standing there, feeling lost and unsure, he finally found the courage to approach one of the familiar faces he’d seen around here before. A figure leaned against the graffiti-covered brick wall, a cigarette dangling from their lips.

“Hey.” Mammon’s voice cracked, even though he hadn’t meant for it to. “Y’know where I can find the guy who sells the.… suppressant pills?”

The person flicked the cigarette to the ground, stamping it out. They looked at Mammon like they were weighing him, sizing him up. Then they let out a low chuckle.

“You’re lookin’ for him, huh? Word’s already spread around. Guy like you, all desperate for the good stuff.”

Mammon’s stomach churned, but he pushed forward. “Where is he?”

The figure just grinned, all sharp teeth. “I don’t know where he is now, but you’re not the first one lookin’. Come back tomorrow. If you’re serious, he’ll find ya.”

Mammon didn’t argue. He just turned on his heel and left, feeling the weight of his failure press down on him like a thousand ton of bricks.

Mammon returned the next day, after a grueling shift at Hell’s Kitchen. His feet ached from the long hours spent running orders, his muscles sore from the constant tension, but it wasn’t just the physical exhaustion that weighed on him. It was the gnawing emptiness, the need for something to quiet the madness inside his head.

He stood in the same spot in the alleyway, a shadow of himself. His heart pounded in his chest, sharp and erratic, sweat cooling too fast on the back of his neck despite the stagnant air. Faster than it should have after working for hours. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. He needed the pills. He needed them more than he needed air, more than he needed to keep up appearances for his brothers.

It wasn’t just about the silence anymore. Every second without them felt like he was losing something—though he no longer knew what.

His hands twitched nervously as he glanced around. The alleyway was just as grimy as the day before, but something felt different.

It felt colder now, the walls pressing in like they were closing on him. Each step he took seemed to echo louder, the sound of his boots on wet pavement amplifying the silence. There was an electric hum in the air, like the alley itself was holding its breath.

And then, he saw him.

Mammon’s eyes swept the alley before landing on a familiar figure, a shape in the shadows.

The dealer. 

He hadn’t expected to recognize him right away, but he did. The man was leaning against the same brick wall, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak, but there was no mistaking him.

Something twisted in Mammon’s chest, but he couldn’t say what. Was it fear? Relief? It didn’t matter. He was here again.

The voice came—low, smooth, and now laced with something knowing.

“Looking for me again, greedling?”

For a moment, Mammon just stared at him, struggling to find his words, his mind fogged from the long hours at Hell’s Kitchen, the aches in his body only amplifying the hunger clawing at him.

“Look who decided to come back,” the dealer said, amused. “Couldn’t stay away, could you, greedling?”

Mammon froze, his heart pounding, more from exhaustion than anything else. There was no surprise in the voice, no judgment—just that same casual, almost amused tone. He knew Mammon would come back.

“Ya knew I’d be here,” Mammon muttered, voice tight, as if it were a confession he didn’t want to admit.

The dealer stepped out from the shadows, tall and thin, his coat dark and sleek against the night. His eyes, black as oil but glowing with a faint gold light, flashed in the low light. He had the same unsettling, ethereal quality about him, but there was something different this time—less like a figure of danger and more like a knowing presence. A person who had seen this all before.

There was just something magnetic about him, something that pulled Mammon closer even as every instinct screamed at him to run. The kind of presence that didn’t shout danger—it whispered it. Like a knife pressed flat against the skin, sharp enough to remind you it could cut at any second.

“Of course I did,” the dealer said, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They always come back.”

Mammon’s stomach churned at the way the words sounded—like they weren’t just about him, but about anyone who wandered into the alley and found themselves caught in the dealer’s web. “I ran out,” Mammon bit out, the words coming out rough, desperate. “I need more. Ya got it?”

“Of course I do,” he said, his voice smooth. The dealer eyed him, scanning him from head to toe as if measuring him. “And what’s your price this time?”

Mammon swallowed. The question hit him harder than he thought it would. What was his price? Could he really do this again? Could he keep selling himself in exchange for peace, for control?

But the hunger inside him—greed, that insatiable hunger—screamed louder than any shred of doubt.

“I need more. I don’t care what it costs.”

The dealer’s smile stretched, sharp and unreadable. It wasn’t a kindness, nor a threat—just an awareness, as though he knew exactly what Mammon would do before Mammon even realized it himself. “You’ll pay in one way or another. It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to lose.”

Mammon flinched, but his resolve didn’t waver. He needed those pills. He needed the relief.

The dealer gave him a long, lingering look, as though trying to decide something. Then he sighed, a sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

“And I knew you'd come looking for it. Greed always comes crawling back. It’s what makes us all so... predictable.”

Mammon’s teeth clenched. “I’m not like that.”

The dealer chuckled softly, stepping closer. His movements were fluid, like he was gliding, something not quite natural in the way he moved. “Oh, you don’t have to admit it. You’ve already proved it.” He gestured with a gloved hand, and before Mammon could even blink, the small silver case was in his hand, pressed into his palm and Mammon couldn’t stop himself from accepting it

“I told you before,” the dealer murmured, “It’s a temporary fix. The weight gets quieter, but it always comes back. Greedling, you’re chasing it. Chasing control, chasing peace... but it won’t last. Not forever.”

Mammon’s hand shook—more than he wanted to admit—the silver case cool and heavy in his palm. For a moment, he stood frozen, feeling the weight of it pressing into his skin. It was tempting. Too tempting.

His chest tightened, and a memory flashed—his brothers’ laughter, their teasing about his obsession with wealth, Lucifer’s cold disappointment. He could hear their voices now, like ghosts in his head, but they were distant, muffled by the hunger clawing inside him. His breath came faster, louder, until he exhaled a shaky breath. He didn’t know what was worse anymore—the noise or the silence.

He looked at the dealer, his gaze hardening. “Ya don’t know what it’s like.” The words sounded hollow even as he spoke them, because deep down, he knew the dealer understood exactly what it was like.

The dealer didn’t respond at first. He just studied Mammon, his gaze assessing, as though looking right through him. “No,” the dealer said finally, his voice softening. “I don’t. But I do know something about sin. And I know that those who seek control, who chase after silence, always think they can handle it. Until they can’t.”

Mammon swallowed, his hands shaking. His greed clawed at him from the inside, pushing him away from the pills. He didn’t want to admit it, but the hunger had become unbearable. He needed the relief. Just this once more.

“Why do ya do it?” Mammon asked suddenly, his voice hoarse. “Why give it to people like me? What do ya get out of it?”

The dealer’s smile was slow, calculating. “What do I get? Oh, greedling... that’s a question with many answers. But for now, I’ll say this: I offer what others won’t. A way out. A way to silence what’s inside. And in the end... everyone who takes it pays the price.”

Mammon didn’t like the sound of that.

“You’ll be back,” the dealer said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “And when you do... I’ll be waiting. The pills will quiet the noise again, but the hunger doesn’t go away, greedling. It just waits.”

Mammon’s mouth went dry as he looked at the dealer. The pills in his hand felt heavier now, like a promise and a curse at the same time.

“I just want the pills,” Mammon spat, his voice harsher than he meant it to be.

The dealer chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Of course you do. But remember, nothing in this world is ever truly free, Mammon.”

Mammon stood there for a heartbeat, his fingers tightening around the money in his pocket. The air felt colder now, the hum of the city outside almost muted. He could feel his brothers’ eyes on him, the sting of their mockery and judgment—but it didn’t matter anymore. It never did.

The hunger inside him pulsed, louder, stronger than anything he’d felt in days. He should walk away. He should throw the case back at the dealer and leave. But that voice, the one that had haunted him for so long, was too loud now. It told him to leave  and never come back. That he never needed them. But Mammon knew this was the only way.

Slowly, he pulled out the Grimm and placed it in the dealer’s hand. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The weight of his choice was heavier than any words could carry, feeling both relief and dread wash over him all at once.

The dealer tucked the Grimm away.

“Take them,” the dealer urged, his voice low. “Take them and find your peace—for now.”

Mammon looked down at the silver case in his hand, then back at the man, something bitter rising in his throat.

“What’s yer name?” he asked. His voice wasn’t demanding—just tired. Quiet. Maybe he was hoping a name would make the whole thing feel less like a transaction and more like... something he could understand.

The dealer paused, one boot already turning back toward the shadows. Then, without looking at Mammon, he said,

“People in your situation call me Caligo.”

Mammon frowned. “That’s not yer real name, is it?”

The dealer smiled, just barely. “A shadow’s name. That’s the name people like you use. It’s not my real one. But it’s enough for the kind of work I do.”

He met Mammon’s eyes one last time. “It’s the only name you’ll ever need.”

Without another word, the dealer slipped back into the shadows, leaving Mammon alone in the alley. The silver case in his hand. The hunger already stirring.

Mammon didn’t realize how badly he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled in the quiet of the alley. The weight of the silver case in his palm felt like a lead anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss he’d tried so hard to avoid. The pills, those little capsules of relief, now felt like his salvation and his doom in equal measure.

Already, his stomach twisted—not from the hunger of greed, but from memory. He remembered the bone-deep exhaustion when the last dose wore off, the way his skin had felt too tight, his heartbeat too fast. It scared him, but not enough to make him stop. Not enough to loosen his grip on the silver case.

He was supposed to leave. He was supposed to walk away from the alley and never look back. That was the plan. But every step away from Caligo felt like dragging himself through wet concrete. His fingers were already trembling, itching for the release.

A quiet laugh echoed in his mind.

You always come back.

It wasn’t just Caligo’s voice, though. It was his own—his own need for control. And the thing was, Mammon wasn’t sure if he hated it or craved it more.

The air felt suffocating as he walked, his eyes scanning the shadows, half-expecting to see Caligo’s glowing eyes watching him from every corner. The city buzzed around him, indifferent, as always. The rumble of passing cars, the distant chatter of voices, the faint hum of the neon signs overhead.

But it all felt distant. Empty. Like he was only half here, floating through the streets.

You’ll be back.

Mammon clutched the silver case tighter, his knuckles turning white, a tremor crawling up his arms and setting his jaw tight. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, too loud, too fast—he couldn’t tell if it was excitement or dread.

He’d promised himself—promised his brothers—that he wouldn’t let things get this far. But now, he was standing at the edge of the same cliff again. The only difference was that he had a choice.

But did he?

He could hear the pills calling him. Their silent promise to quiet everything down—to numb the ache that ate at him every day. The greed that would never be satisfied, the hunger that could never be filled.

He knew.

He’d be back.

They always came back.

Chapter Text

Night had settled over the House of Lamentation, its ancient walls humming with the hush of routine. Outside, the stars flickered behind low-hanging clouds, and the wind whispered across the stone balconies like an old friend with nothing new to say. Inside, however, all was still—a rare, almost unsettling calm.

The common room was dimly lit, bathed in the warm amber glow of the wall sconces. The occasional crackle of the fireplace filled the room alongside the steady rain tapping gently against the windows.

The rhythm of the rain created an oddly peaceful background noise, but it didn’t quite fill the silence in the room—like a soft, constant reminder that the calm was fragile. Mammon’s jacket, usually tossed carelessly across the back of a chair or draped over the arm of the couch, was nowhere to be seen.

Everyone was in their usual spots, absorbed in their own rituals like pieces of a puzzle that, for now, fit perfectly together.

For once, there was peace.

Satan sat in his favourite armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a blanket draped casually across his lap. Nose buried deep in a leather-bound detective novel, his brows furrowed as he traced the trail of clues in silence. Every now and then, he’d hum thoughtfully or scowl at a twist he hadn’t predicted.

On the far couch, Levi was hunched over his D.D.D., fingers flying with skillfull speed as digital explosions burst from the device—the volume respectfully low, as he lead his squad through a raid. The flicker of colorful battle graphics danced across his eyes, and he muttered the occasional curse under his breath—half in game rage, half in anime quotes.

Beside him, Asmo was perched on the edge of another couch, tongue poked out in concentration as he carefully reapplied a fresh coat of soft lilac polish to Belphie's nails—who was snoring softly, slumped against Asmo’s side, completely unbothered by the procedure.

Beel was on the floor, leaning against the coffee table with a bowl of Hellfire Cheetos in one hand—methodically chewing through it as if it were keeping him grounded— and a half eaten sandwich in the other. His expression was distant, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the door.

And, in his usual place near the hearth, Lucifer sat straight-backed with his third cup of steaming coffee. A stack of paperwork spread neatly around him, pen gliding smoothly across contracts and reports with that same familiar, composed intensity.

The silence wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable. Familiar. The rare kind of quiet that came with the absence of chaos.

Asmo broke it first, his voice light, almost wistful.

“It’s… kinda nice, isn’t it?” he said, glancing around, careful not to smudge Belphie’s still-wet nails. “We’re all here, together. It’s been forever since we just… existed like this. It’s so peaceful.”

Levi paused his game just long enough to scoff. “Don’t jinx it. This is the first time I’ve actually had a full gaming session without someone breaking the Wi-Fi or screaming down the hall.”

“I mean, we could start screaming,” Asmo teased, smiling slyly at Levi. “But I think I’ll enjoy the peace for now.”

But even he couldn’t deny it. For once, no one was yelling. Nothing was on fire. There were no arguments about chores, no cursing over lost Grimm, no shouts of “That was MY pudding!”

Lucifer hummed in vague agreement, flipping a page. “Mhm. It is rare.”

“Too rare,” Asmo added, sighing dramatically. “And this quiet too.”

Satan gave a distracted hum, eyes narrowing in thought. “Hmm. Almost suspiciously quiet.”

Asmo let out a soft, airy laugh. “Honestly, I forgot what it felt like to just relax with you all.”

Satan didn’t look up from his book, but he did answer. “That might be because someone always causes the disruption.”

Levi paused mid-game. “Wait… speaking of chaos… where’s Mammon?”

The room stilled slightly at the observation, subtle but noticeable. Even Belphie stirred in his sleep, letting out a faint mumble before sinking deeper into the cushion.

Asmo blinked. “Oh. He’s not here?” He looked around, as if Mammon had simply been hiding behind one of the furniture pieces like some kind of gremlin. “I thought he was holed up in his room like usual.”

“He had a late shift at Hell’s Kitchen tonight.” Satan lowered his book slightly. “He mentioned it earlier.”

“Oh, right.” Levi frowned. “Still feels weird without him causing some kind of scene.”

Asmo pouted. “That late? Isn’t that his third shift this week?”

“Fourth,” Beel corrected quietly.

Lucifer glanced at the clock on the wall. The hour was late. “He’s usually back by now.”

Asmo leaned back, looking thoughtful. “He’s been really quiet lately, huh? Kinda distant. Not even making excuses to sneak Grimm off me.” He pouted. “Not even trying to borrow my skincare—who is he?”

Satan nodded, tone more serious now. “He’s been avoiding all of us. He leaves early, comes back late. Barely says anything when his around us.”

Levi muttered, his eyes back on screen, “Guess he's still sulking over the ring incident. It’s was his own fault. We were just teasing.”

Beel’s chewing slowed.

Then he spoke.

“It wasn’t teasing.”

The room quieted. Belphie stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

Beel looked down at the bowl in his lap, his voice low—not angry, not defensive. Just honest.

“He worked hard, for months. Keeping his greed in check, staying out of trouble.” Beel’s brows drew together, his expression unreadable. “He really tried. And the second he slipped up… we all just jumped him.”

Silence followed. The fire cracked, soft and slow, like it was holding its breath for them. Even Belphie stirred slightly in his sleep, his nose scrunching.

Lucifer's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“We didn’t even ask why,” Beel continued. “Didn’t ask what happened. Just yelled, mocked him. Like everything he did before that didn’t matter.”

Asmo looked away, suddenly focused on blowing gently over Belphie’s fingers.

Levi muttered, fidgeting uncomfortably. “We weren’t that bad…”

“You all laughed. Told him he was pathetic, that he couldn’t change, that he’d always be the same greedy idiot.”

Asmo frowned, guilt flickering briefly across his face before he folded his arms. “We didn’t mean anything by it. Mammon always bounces back. He’s the one who makes a huge deal out of everything.”

“Still, Beel has a point.” Satan’s eye narrowed, gaze sharper than before. “We were unfair.”

Satan’s fingers curled into the blanket, a subtle sign of restraint. His gaze flicked briefly to the empty space where Mammon usually sat. He wasn’t used to feeling responsible, but the weight of Beel’s words lingered.

That surprised them. Levi looked over, blinking. “You’re siding with Mammon?”

Satan leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve noticed it too. He’s been different lately, not just quieter—withdrawn. Uncharacteristically so.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “At first I thought it was just exhaustion, but now I’m not so sure.”

Lucifer set his pen down at last and exhaled slowly, pressing a finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “He did make a mistake.”

Beel’s brows knit together. “So have all of us.”

Levi fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Look, maybe we were a little harsh. But Mammon’s always been like that. He gets into trouble, then acts like we’re the bad guys for calling it out.”

Satan, after a pause, nodded slowly. “That may be true. But I don’t think it excuses us from the way we reacted. There’s a difference between calling someone out and piling on.”

A tense silence followed. Lucifer exhaled slowly.

“Mammon’s the second-born. He’s supposed to set an example. That comes with responsibility—and consequences. When he slips up, it reflects on all of us.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to push him away,” Beel said.

Lucifer looked up sharply. ”He has to learn. I can’t always be there to catch him.”

“You say that,” Satan muttered, “but you always clean up after him anyway.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Because if I don’t, no one else will.”

Asmo crossed his arms, visibly uncomfortable now. “Can we not do this tonight? I thought we were having a good time. Mammon probably just lost track of time.”

Levi huffed. “Yeah. Or went to blow his Grimm on something dumb again. He’s not a child—he can handle himself.”

Beel shook his head. “You all say that like you don’t care.”

”But I know you do.” Beel’s hand, still holding the bowl of snacks, tightened around it slightly. His eyes, usually soft, looked over to the door once more—like he was hoping to see Mammon walk through it.

Silence again. No one argued with him.

Lucifer adjusted his gloves, lips drawn in a tight line. “He’ll come home when he’s ready.”

“...Yeah,” Satan murmured, softer now. “I’m sure he will.”

But none of them returned to their distractions right away.

Asmo gently set the nail polish aside and tucked Belphie’s hand under the blanket.

Belphie stirred faintly in Asmo’s lap, mumbling something in his sleep before settling again. The scent of coffee, old paper, and nail polish lingered in the stillness.

The fire crackled in the background, a sharp contrast to the quiet tension that had filled the room. The rain outside, which had been gentle, suddenly seemed louder, more insistent, as if it too was growing frustrated with the silence that had stretched too long. No one argued further, but no one really agreed, either.

None of them would admit they were worried.

But the tension in their shoulders, the flickering glances toward the door, the unspoken hope that Mammon would come stumbling in with some excuse or ridiculous story—those things said enough.

They were worried.

Even if they didn’t know how to show it. Not properly. Not yet.

The room felt heavier now. Like something was missing—and they’d only just noticed it.

Asmo shifted in his seat, his polished confidence dimmed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the blanket draped over Belphie, smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn’t there. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before—almost hesitant.

“Maybe… maybe we were kinda mean.”

Levi sighed and looked back at his game, but his fingers weren’t moving.

Lucifer reached for his coffee again, but he didn’t pick up his pen.

Beel looked toward the door again.

They all returned to their distractions, their peace disturbed now—not by chaos, but by the absence of someone who should’ve been there. Someone who, despite all the noise he made, had slowly learned to fall quiet. Too quiet.

The fire continued to flicker, casting warm light over the brothers.

And somewhere far from the common room, Mammon walked alone beneath the dark Devildom sky.

The silence hung between them, thick and uncomfortable, like a heavy fog that refused to lift. The flickering flames from the fireplace did little to chase away the sense of tension in the room. No one spoke, but the air was filled with unspoken thoughts—guilt the kind that didn’t always show up as words but lingered in glances, in the way no one quite met each other’s eyes.

A low, quiet hum seemed to settle around them. The kind of stillness that felt... wrong.

And then—

click.

The front door opened, breaking the uneasy calm. A pause hung in the air, just long enough for everyone to hold their breath.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, soft against the polished floors, yet purposeful, and then the faint sound of the door clicking shut. Silence returned, but this time, it felt... different. Less comfortable. As if something was about to shift..

Satan’s eyes flicked toward the door, his sharp gaze narrowing for a fraction of a second.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Satan muttered, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.

The brothers, all at once, turned their heads toward the door just as Mammon stepped into the common room, his posture slightly hunched from the weight of a large-sized paper bag in his arms.

His hood was still up, white strands of hair damp with rain clinging to his forehead. The bag he carried bore the unmistakable lavender-and-black swirl of Madame Scream’s, Devildom’s premier bakery, known for its indulgent pastries and infamous cakes.

“Oh.” Mammon blinked, clearly not expecting them all to be there. His voice came out a bit flat—tired, but not cold. “Didn’t think y’all’d be still be up.”

Asmo blinked, surprised. “You’re just getting back now?”

Levi squinted, looking back at the clock. “What time did your shift end?”

“Few hours ago,” Mammon replied, then nodded at the bag. “Stopped by Madame Scream’s. Thought I’d grab somethin’ for y’all. Gotta keep ya guys from starvin’.”

The brothers exchanged looks, their expressions shifting from mild surprise to a subtle but growing sense of discomfort.

Mammon’s grin, always a little mischievous, faltered slightly as he glanced around at them. 

He stepped inside, careful not to wrinkle the bag. “Got six boxes. Three for Beel, obviously—“ He tossed a glance at the massive demon by the coffee table, who was already looking like he might pounce on the pastries. ”The rest are for ya guys. Don’t fight over ‘em, okay?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“…You got us snacks?” Asmo asked, voice soft.

Mammon shrugged. “Yeah. I know y’all like Madame Scream’s...”

He set the bag gently on the table with a soft thud.

The guilt hit them like a punch to the chest.

Lucifer’s pen stilled mid-air.

Satan closed his book entirely.

Levi looked away, ashamed.

Asmo clutched his nail polish bottle a little tighter.

Beel's expression shifted first—from confusion to delight. He immediately shuffled over, his hands shaking with excitement as he carefully rummaged through the bag. His face lit up as he unearthed the stacked boxes.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, blinking at Mammon.

“Did it anyway.” Mammon tried to sound nonchalant, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Knew ya’d be hungry.”

Beel didn’t hesitate. He set the boxes down and gave Mammon a full-bodied bear hug so tight it lifted him half an inch off the floor.

“Mammon, you’re the best!” Beel said, his voice sincere and filled with warmth.

Mammon chuckled, though his shoulders tensed slightly under the sudden contact. He tried to hug back, hand patting Beel on the back. “Woah, woah. Can’t… breathe, big guy—!”

Beel, however, didn’t let go. He squeezed harder, burying his face into Mammon’s shoulder. “Thanks, Mammon! You didn’t have to do this. But I’m glad you did.”

“No problem, Beel. Ya know I’ve gotcha ya.” He smiled, but it was a little thinner than usual.

Beel quickly let go, but not before he cracked open one of the boxes and offered Mammon the first bite of a flaky chocolate tart. Mammon hesitated, then accepted it with a small, quiet “Thanks.”

The tension in the room unraveled like thread pulled loose from a seam.

“Okay, rude, but where’s my favorite—ah, yes! The vanilla bean moon buns!” Asmo chirped, grabbing a box and squealing in delight. His voice was light, but there was a softness in it, a subtle apology beneath the teasing.

Levi followed, eyeing the frosted mint-devil horns. “You actually remembered these? I haven’t had them in forever.” He turned to Mammon with a wry grin, a clear sign of him trying to brush off the lingering awkwardness from before.

Mammon just shrugged again. “Told ya, I listen.”

Satan chuckled under his breath. “Rare sight. Mammon being thoughtful without a catch.”

“Oi,” Mammon grumbled, but there was no bite to it. “Just tryna be nice. Y’know. For once.”

Lucifer was the only one who hadn’t moved. He watched the scene unfold, coffee cooling beside his paperwork, letting the warmth of the moment settle over them. The noise—the laughter, the soft bickering, Beel’s chewing, Asmo’s delighted humming—it all filled the room again.

Mammon stood a little straighter now. Smiling. Relaxed. It was the most at ease he’d looked in weeks.

Lucifer’s gaze softened just slightly, pride curling faintly at the corners of his mouth.

No one noticed—no one ever really did when Lucifer let his guard slip. Not when they were distracted, laughing over cake and pastries, filling the room with warmth. But he allowed himself a quiet, private moment to feel proud.

Levi was grumbling about sharing his half of the box with Satan. Asmo was begging Belphie to at least sit up and try a bite. Beel was contentedly eating straight from three boxes at once, while Satan was already dissecting the pastry layers like he was solving a culinary crime scene.

Mammon settled on the edge of the armrest, pastry still in hand, watching them. Just watching.

The air was warm. Comfortable. The kind of peace he didn’t realize he missed until he was sitting in the middle of it.

They were laughing together again. This was what he had wanted. Maybe it was a bit... different now, but it felt right.

He hadn’t been yelled at. No lectures. No teasing that cut a little too deep.

They liked the snacks. They were happy.

He had made them happy.

He had thought about this moment for so long, working for it, striving to be better, to be someone they could be proud of.

That meant the pills were working.

He wasn’t just doing this for himself anymore—he was doing it for them.

For his brothers.

His thoughts weren’t racing. The weight in his chest had quieted. The silence inside was soft now—more like a hum than a howl. And more than anything, he wasn’t messing up.

He felt the warmth of their subtle praise, the quiet respect they were giving him now. This was the way forward. No more mess-ups, no more lies, just moments like this. Moments where he could belong, could show them he could change.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the path to gaining their approval. To being a brother they could count on.

This was what getting better looked like.

His brothers smiling. Laughing. Eating. Together.

He took another bite of the tart, sweetness clinging to his tongue like hope.

Yeah.

He could do this.

The brothers continued to joke and talk, unaware of the silent struggle Mammon had endured and how much it had cost him to get to this point. But for tonight, that didn’t matter.

The House was peaceful. The storm was yet to come. And for now, they were just… a family.

The laughter in the common room wasn’t loud, but it filled the space like light filtering through clouds.

They’d started bickering over pastries, of course.

“I specifically saw Levi grab two of those mint horns—he’s hiding one!” Asmo accused, dramatically pointing.

“They’re limited edition!” Levi defended, half-hiding behind Beel. “And I haven’t had sugar in days—!”

“You had boba this morning,” Satan muttered, picking at a devil tart with all the care of a food critic.

“That doesn’t count!”

Beel reached over without warning, plucked the extra mint horn from under Levi’s sleeve, and passed it to Asmo. “Here.”

“Traitor!” Levi hissed, but there was no heat behind it.

Belphie, still half-asleep on the couch with streaks of lilac nail polish drying on his fingers, cracked open one eye. “Can’t believe Mammon came back from work and bought us stuff… Guess he’s not as much of an idiot as we thought.”

Asmo elbowed him. “Belphie!”

“What?” he yawned. “He is an idiot. Just… like, a sweet one, sometimes.”

Lucifer, still seated at the desk with his papers slightly askew, allowed himself a sip of his now-lukewarm coffee. His pen was laid down, the ink long dried on the last line he'd written. His gaze wandered back to Mammon—now squished in the middle of the couch between Levi and Beel, half-dozing off with a crumb-covered napkin in one hand.

The second-born’s hair was still a bit messy, hoodie slightly wrinkled, posture loose from exhaustion. He looked… small, almost. Not physically. Just—tired. But content.

Lucifer allowed himself a moment.

He didn’t often get to see this: Mammon at ease. The kind of ease that wasn’t faked, wasn’t forced to cover guilt or nerves or noise.

Lucifer couldn’t help but think about their earlier conversation. There was a subtle shift in his chest—a kind of tightness he hadn’t expected to feel.

He thought back to their last RAD outing—the museum trip. A quiet test, in his own way. The hall had been full of priceless relics, shimmering gems, and ancient enchanted artifacts that would’ve once made Mammon drool on sight. But Mammon hadn’t touched a single thing. Not even a glance lingered too long. He’d walked past displays that, a year ago, would’ve sparked a lecture and a disciplinary form.

Lucifer hadn’t said anything at the time. He hadn’t needed to.

He couldn’t help the quiet thought that surfaced, unbidden:

Maybe Beel’s right. Maybe we were too harsh.

Across from him, Satan leaned back against the cushions, eyes drifting lazily to the ceiling.

“You know,” he said idly, “for someone we constantly call selfish… he really didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah…” Levi muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “He didn’t even ask for grimm back.”

Asmo sighed, inspecting a heart-shaped bun. “I mean… We do tease him a lot, don’t we?”

“You? Tease?” Satan smirked. “Impossible.”

“Oh, hush.”

“Still,” Beel said quietly, licking chocolate from his thumb, “I think… we forget how hard Mammon tries. He messes up, yeah. But he doesn’t stop trying.”

No one disagreed.

Even Belphie had gone quiet again.

For a rare moment, the brothers simply existed. No yelling. No fighting. Just the quiet clink of pastry boxes, the rustle of wrappers, and the soft hum of belonging.

Lucifer leaned forward, placing his mug down with a gentle clink.

He watched as Mammon gave a lazy yawn, eyes fluttering shut. His smile—barely there, but real—lingered even as he leaned back against Beel’s arm, already slipping toward sleep.

Lucifer spoke softly, more to himself than anyone else.

“…He did good.”

Asmo caught it. Glanced sideways.

He didn’t comment, but he smiled.

For tonight, there was nothing to fight over. No lessons to teach. No messes to clean up. Just one quiet evening where Mammon didn’t feel like the family disappointment, and none of them needed to pretend they weren’t worried about him.

They wouldn’t say it—not out loud.

But maybe that was okay.

Mammon blinked himself awake, face smushed against Beel’s shoulder, the faint scent of sugar and spice still lingering in the air. One of Levi’s hoodies was draped half-over his lap—probably to keep him from getting cold while he dozed.

Someone was laughing—Levi, probably. Asmo’s voice chimed in a second later, something dramatic and sparkly and over-the-top. He could hear Satan’s dry wit sliding in beneath the noise, the crinkle of pastry boxes being torn open, Beel’s happy grunts as he chewed something crunchy.

It was warm here. Loud, in a good way.

He wiped the crumbs off his cheek and gave a small stretch, careful not to elbow Levi in the ribs. “Man, I think I dozed off.”

“You did,” Beel said, still chewing “You looked peaceful.”

Mammon blinked up at him, surprised. “Huh… Thanks.”

He stretched again, this time standing, and rolled his shoulders with a groan. “M’gonna head to bed. Ya guys have fun.”

Beel gave him a sleepy nod, still munching on the last bite of his third pastry box. “Night.”

The voices behind him didn’t stop as he walked off—Levi shouted something about stealing the last ghost puff and Satan retaliated by tossing a box lid at him.

And through it all, Mammon smiled. A real, soft one.

He padded down the hall, steps light, letting the quiet settle in again once he was far from the common room.

His chest swelled with something warm and fluttering.

This was how it was supposed to be.

The quiet click of his door shutting behind him was a stark contrast to the buzz of the common room. In the solitude of his space, Mammon exhaled. The tension rolled off his shoulders slowly, like he hadn’t realised how tight he’d been holding himself.

He peeled off his shirt and headed for the bathroom. The sound of rushing water filled the room as steam began to rise. The shower was quick, mechanical—just enough to rinse away the long shift at Hell’s Kitchen and the Devildom’s greasy night air.

The sound of the water from the shower had long stopped echoing off the walls. He stepped out, towel slung over his shoulders, droplets of water tracing down his bare chest. His sweatpants clung loosely to his hips, comfortable, familiar.

His hair was still damp, stubborn strands curling against his forehead. He ran the towel through it half-heartedly before slinging it over his chair.

The room was dim, cozy, the light from his nightstand lamp casting a soft gold hue over the walls. The silence now calming rather than suffocating.

On the desk sat the small silver case—the new batch.

It gleamed like temptation.

He stared at them for a moment.

But didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Instead, he pulled his old journal from his bag. The spine was bent and frayed, the pages stuffed with loose notes and little doodles, half-thoughts scribbled in the corners. Some pages had tear stains. Others were dog-eared, worn soft by fingers that kept going back.

He flipped past them slowly, familiar with the order, the weight of memory tucked into each one. Pages filled with messy scrawls of frustration, pain, hope, and guilt.

Until finally, he found a blank page.

Day 144.

He clicked his pen, let the tip hover for a second… then began to write.

Journal Entry – Day 144

Okay. Day 144.

Didn’t think I’d be writin’ today, but... here I am. Guess I’ve got stuff on my mind.

Today was long. Worked a double shift at Hell’s Kitchen — felt like I was on my feet for a century. My legs were killin’ me by the end. Some jerk demon told me I looked too fake when I smiled. Can ya believe that? Like I ain’t tryin’. I’m always tryin’.

But whatever. I didn’t drop anything this time. Didn’t screw up an order. Didn’t yell back. Just kept goin’. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?

After that, I went back to the alley again. Yeah — that alley.

He was there. Same spot like he never left. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Must’ve heard I came lookin’ for him. He’s always waitin’. Kinda feels like he’s always known when I’d show up anyway.

Still creepy. But I went.

His name’s Caligo. Said wasn’t his real name, just what people call him. He’s weird like that. It fits him, I guess.

Gave me a look like he already knew what I was gonna say before I opened my mouth.

He gave me the pills again. I didn’t argue this time. Said I’d pay the price, whatever that means. I paid with Grimm this time. 

Didn’t think too hard about it.

Well... I did. For like a second. Just stood there holdin’ the case wonderin’ maybe I shouldn’t, if maybe I could walk away. If I was strong enough to do it without ‘em.

Still not sure if I trust him. But what else am I supposed to do?

So yeah... I took ‘em.

I went to Madame Scream’s before headin’ home. Still had some Grimm left, so I figured—why not? Got somethin’ for everybody. Six boxes. Three for Beel (obviously). Other three split for the rest. Made sure to pick out stuff they’d actually like.

Citrus-y thing for Satan. Some fancy pink glitter crap, ones I know Asmo likes. Somethin’ light and fluffy for Belphie. Dark roast coffee mousse cake for Lucifer. Levi got those weird pastel jelly-filled things with the anime faces on ‘em. He likes those. Beel’ll eat whatever, so I just grabbed two of every flavor on the menu. Figured that way, he’d get a taste of everythin’.

Didn’t even think ‘bout keepin’ any for myself.

Got home, walked in and gave ‘em the boxes, said it was for after my shift. Told ‘em it was nothin’, just felt like gettin’ somethin’ sweet.

But the way they looked at me... like I caught ‘em off guard or somethin’. Like they weren’t expectin’ it.

Beel gave me this huge bear hug and Levi didn’t even yell at me for standin’ too close to his game. They smiled. They laughed.

Even Lucifer didn’t say anythin’. He smiled. Luci actually smiled. He thought  no one saw it, but I did. It was quick. Kinda proud lookin’. Not his usual smug, “I’m-disappointed-in-you” thing.

An’ y’know what?

They were all happy.

I made ‘em happy.

They were all smilin’ and  laughin’ ‘cause of ME.

Not by bein’ loud or dumb or messin’ things up. Not by bein’ the punchline or the mistake. I did somethin’ right. For once, I wasn’t too much or not enough.

It was quiet in a good way. Not like when my head won’t shut up. This was... soft. Like maybe I belonged.

This proves it, right? The pills… They work.

But… I don’t know. It ain’t like they fix everythin’. There’s this quiet inside me afterward—like the noise in my head just shuts off and leaves this empty space behind. It’s not peaceful. It’s like… nothing’s there. An’ that feels wrong.

Like I’m losin’ a part of me.

An’ that freaks me out.

I don’t know if I’m ready to like this feelin’. Or even accept it.

Still… if today’s any proof, if these pills are the only way I can keep my greed in check… If this is what it takes for my brothers to see me differently…

The only way to keep my brothers happy with me…

Then maybe it’s worth it.

I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to be ok with it.

But I can try.

For ‘em.

I can keep bein’ the Mammon they want. The brother they’re proud of.

Not the screwup. Not the greedy idiot.

I’m gonna get better. For ‘em.

Even if it means livin’ with this silence for a while.

I’m finally gettin’ it right.

Mammon stared at the last line. A soft smile pulled at his lips, tired but genuine.

His hand lingered over the period, pressing it a little harder than necessary.

He set the pen down.

The silence crept back in again. Not the bad kind. Not the suffocating, empty one. This one was… soft. Like a blanket.

He reached for the case without thinking.

His fingers found the edge. Opened it.

Just one.

Just to quiet the noise that had been eating at him all day.

He placed the journal on his nightstand and leaned back onto the bed, arm draped across his forehead, the pill dissolving beneath his tongue.

No voices. No noise. Just the steady hum of his thoughts settling.

And for a moment, everything felt still.

He smiled, eyes slipping shut.

Tomorrow, he’d do even better.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry – Day 192

Weird how this used to be hard. Sittin’ down, openin’ the book, puttin’ it all out. Used to take me like ten false starts just to get a sentence down. Now? Easy. Like breathin’.

Guess that’s kinda the point though, huh? Everything’s easier now.

I’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately. Not like the usual Mammon-thinkin’, where my brain’s racin’ and yellin’ and jumpin’ from one idea to the next. Nah. This is slower. Calmer. Clearer.

Not gonna lie, I wasn’t sure at first. I wasn’t sure if I could handle this quiet. The pills, I mean. They took the edge off, sure, but the silence that came with ‘em?

I didn’t know what to do with it.

It felt like the whole world was turned off. No greed, no cravin’. Just… nothin’. Not even the rush I used to get from gamblin’, or from those shiny trinkets that screamed my name.

At first, that nothin’ scared me. Scared me real bad. It’s not like I don’t love a little peace and quiet, but when it’s all ya’ve got, ya start to wonder if you’re really ya anymore.

It felt wrong. Like I was missin’ somethin’. Like there was this giant empty pit inside me and I was just throwin’ silence into it, hopin’ it’d fill the space. Thought I’d lose myself if I kept using’ ‘em.  But now?

Now it feels like I’ve found somethin’ I’ve been searchin’ for my entire existence: control.

The pills—they don't just quiet the noise. They make it so that the noise never gets loud. They keep everythin’ in check. My greed, my cravings, my lust for more... they don’t control me anymore. I control ‘em.

I thought I’d hate it—thought I’d resent the emptiness, the silence. But now, it feels like freedom.

I just can’t get enough of it. I look forward to the silence. I crave it. I don’t feel empty anymore.

The pills they just make everythin’ feel so calm.

I’m not addicted to anythin’ except the feelin’ of peace.

I can remember the first time I took them—how the rush of nothingness filled my mind and settled the storm inside me. The greed that burned in my chest… gone. I can breathe again. It’s a strange kind of relief.

And I don’t miss it. Not one bit.

My hands don’t shake anymore. I don’t think about the money slippin’ through my fingers, or how many chances I have left to make everythin’ right. I don’t think about anythin’ at all, really.

The first few days were… strange. Almost like a withdrawal. I thought I could still feel the hunger eatin’ at me. But it’s gone now. It doesn’t bother me anymore.

It’s like everythin’ I used to crave doesn’t matter. Like a filter was removed from my eyes. I’m not even sure I know what’s real anymore. It’s just me. The pills. And the silence.

I take more now. Pills, I mean. Not a stupid amount — not reckless. I ain’t dumb. Just… enough. Just when I feel that twitch in my gut, like the Greed’s about to start whisperin’ again. Or when I catch myself wantin’ to spend on somethin’ dumb just for the rush. One pill — maybe two — and it’s like that noise shuts off before it even starts.

It’s not like I’m high or anythin’. This ain’t about gettin’ a buzz. It’s about balance. Like finally walkin’ on a straight path without trippin’ over my own damn feet.

My modelin’ gigs, Hell’s Kitchen shifts, that café job—all of ‘em helped. Grimm’s stackin’ up like never before, enough to cover the pills and still have enough left over for a rainy day. I don’t spend recklessly anymore. Don’t gamble.

No debt collectors bangin’ on my door, no shady IOUs in back alleys. Just me, steady pay, and a full stock.

Turns out when ya ain’t burnin’ yer Grimm on shady deals or tryin’ to outbid demons in auction houses for stuff you’ll forget in a week, ya actually make bank. Who knew?

My savings are growin’, my brothers are happy, and I feel... I feel like I’m finally gettin’ it right.

Even my brothers notice it. They don’t treat me like a joke anymore. They don’t say much, but I see it. I think they’re secretly proud me or somethin’. Even if they don’t say it out loud.

It’s a different kinda feelin’. Still me. Still Mammon. I laugh with the guys
I’m still there.

But I’m not loud. Not overwhelmin’. Not a problem.

The pills just gave me the space to be who I always was underneath all that greed.

Yeah, sure — maybe I don’t get the same rush I used to. Maybe I don’t feel the highs like I used to when I landed a good bet or bought somethin’ shiny. But I also don’t feel the crash. The guilt. The fear. The spirals.

It’s worth the trade.

It’s worth it to sit at the table with my brothers and not feel like I’m waitin’ for the moment I mess it all up.

I can be with them now.

Laugh with 'em. Talk with 'em. Not compete. Not prove myself. Just be.

I like this Mammon.

I respect this Mammon.

An' if it takes one or two pills a day to keep this balance — to stay in control — then so be it. I can handle it. I’m not outta control. I know my limits

I think I could live like this forever. No more pain. No more uncertainty. Just… control. It’s the best feelin’.

I get it now. The pills? They don’t make me weak. They make me strong.

They’ve given me the one thin’ I’ve always lacked—the ability to keep my own damn self in line.

Maybe I was a fool before. Maybe I was too proud to admit that I needed somethin’ like this. But now? Now I’m doin’ fine. I'm gettin’ better, I'm feelin’ better, and I’m—I'm in charge. Isn’t that what matters?

When the pills run out again, I won’t hesitate. I’ll just... get more. And I won’t feel the anxiety that comes with waitin’ for that next fix. It’ll just be another step, another moment of calm. Another moment of peace. I’ve got everythin’ I need to keep it all goin’. To keep the noise quiet.

Maybe I’ll never feel the same again. Maybe that’s a price I’m willin’ to pay.

I’ve got the reins, and I’m holdin’ ‘em tight.

Mammon closed his journal with a quick snap, the leather creaking under his grip, the weight of the day’s entry settling on him like a soft blanket. His hand hovered above the pen for a moment before setting it aside, as if reluctant to disrupt the rare stillness that had settled inside him. He let out a quiet breath, the tension in his chest tightening briefly before easing.

His bed creaked under his weight as he shifted back, lying flat and staring at the ceiling, the familiar warmth of the room wrapping around him like a thick blanket. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t smother or make his thoughts crawl up the walls like before.

His hands hovered at his sides, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between his fingers in a soothing rhythm that helped calm his racing mind. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the slight ache in his knuckles a dull reminder that he had been holding something—something more than just his journal. The pills.

His gaze drifted to the window, to the faint light filtering through the curtains. The sounds of his brothers reached him, distant yet familiar—soft, low conversations mixed with laughter, footsteps, and the occasional clatter of someone in the kitchen.

Beel’s deep, content hum as he rummaged through the kitchen, Satan’s low voice in conversation with Lucifer, who was no doubt lecturing or giving a gruff remark about something trivial. Levi was probably in his room, mumbling to himself, likely ranting about his latest gaming obsession. Asmo in his room, live streaming on Devilgram. He couldn’t even hear the noise anymore, not the way he used to.

Before, he would’ve found the noise suffocating, like a constant buzz in his ear. The constant hum of voices, the interruptions of his thoughts, the bursts of laughter that would’ve made him anxious, wondering when he’d ruin the moment, or when his greed would show its ugly face and spoil the fun.

But now? It was just background noise. Normal. Comforting.

He smiled softly, eyes unfocusing as his thoughts drifted to the pills.

They’d changed everything, hadn’t they?

He hadn’t realised how much he craved control until he found it. He hadn’t expected the pills to do what they did. When he started, he’d taken them out of desperation—just to shut off the noise for a little while.

A last resort when he thought he was going to break. He didn’t even really know what he was doing. He just needed it to stop. To feel something that wasn’t more.

He'd wanted anything to silence the constant, oppressive flood of thoughts, the ever-present gnawing hunger to take, possess, consume. The silence had terrified him. The idea of being completely alone with nothing, had been too much to bear.

But now? Now, the pills were a part of him. Like a switch. Like flicking a light on and off.

Caligo had given him the choice. And Mammon had chosen.

And, in a strange way, it had saved him.

The hunger inside him was still always there, always lurking in the back of his mind like a nagging itch. But the difference now was he wasn’t chasing it. He didn’t need to.

Mammon wasn’t exactly sure what had happened after that first dose.

He hadn’t been able to understand it at first. It felt unnatural, like something was missing, like he wasn’t feeling things the way he used to. But then, slowly, the layers started to peel away.

Something had shifted in his brain, and once the hunger had been silenced, there was nothing left but an all-consuming sense of control.

Everything that had once felt too big to handle—his emotions, his desires—was manageable now. He didn’t feel overwhelmed anymore.

It was quiet now. More like a dull whisper than a roar. And it felt good.

The world didn’t feel as sharp anymore, but that wasn’t a bad thing. The emotions weren’t as intense. His desires weren’t so urgent, so frantic. It was a weight lifted, a burden eased. He didn’t need to drown in his greed to be Mammon anymore.

He could feel the emptiness in his chest, but now it wasn’t something to be afraid of. It was just a void. A peaceful one.

The pills didn’t make him numb, not really. They made him clear.

Let him think. 

The clarity he felt was empowering. He could think, could act, could make decisions without worrying if he was being impulsive or reckless. The old Mammon, the one who acted on every urge, every instinct, was slipping away—and with it, the things his brothers had always hated.

He wasn’t the screw-up. The loud one. The annoying, impulsive mess who’d ruin everything just to feel something—in the name of instant gratification. He was Mammon—just Mammon. The second-born who’d found a way to finally pull himself together.

He couldn’t imagine ever going back to who he was before. He didn’t want to.

It wasn’t just the pills. It was the feeling of control. The ability to be himself, to be seen as the brother they could depend on, the one they didn’t have to babysit or look after. The one they didn’t feel bad about.

Mammon still had his charm. He still had his moments. He still had that sparkle in his eye, that glint in his smile. But it was tempered now. Refined.

He’d fixed it. He’d fixed himself. At least, that’s what it felt like. No more uncontrolled bursts of emotion, no more embarrassing outbursts, no more sabotaging himself just to get what he wanted.

His relationship with his brothers had shifted. They respected him now, in ways he hadn’t expected. They’d stopped looking at him like he was a joke. Even Lucifer, as much as he’d try to hide it, seemed to have softened. Satan didn’t eye him like he was a ticking time bomb. Levi lets me touch his games without a meltdown. Asmo says his  “matured” even if he still teases him. Even Belphie had started taking naps on his shoulder again, that familiar weight a comforting reminder of the brotherhood that still tied them all together.

And Beel? He just looks at him. Real quiet-like. Like he knows I’m different now but doesn’t know what changed. 

Mammon had long stopped keeping track of time, though he had a rough sense of how many days had passed since that first moment he'd swallowed a pill.

It wasn’t like he had many other distractions anyway. RAD and work kept him busy, and his greed no longer pushed him to blow all his money in a single reckless night. He was saving now. He’d been saving for months. Not for anything important—just for more of the pills.

There was nothing else to want now—not with greed being silenced.

And that was the most liberating thing in the world.

But as the thoughts swirled through his mind, the unease slowly crept in. His hands found their way to his side, tracing the outline of the silver case on the nightstand. It was right there. Within reach.

He didn’t need to take one right now, did he?

His fingers twitched. The idea of going without was starting to feel wrong. His body seemed to crave it—like a dull hum in the background of his thoughts. He swallowed, his throat dry, suddenly aware of the tightness in his chest again. Maybe one more wouldn’t hurt. Maybe just to keep things in balance.

No, no, he was smarter than this, he was only gonna take enough for control, nothin’ more.

But then his hand drifted back to the nightstand again, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the case. His thoughts sped up. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, almost violently, to push the urge away.

He could hear Beel moving closer, the distant clatter of plates or silverware, and the sound grounded him for a moment. His gaze settled on the wall in front of him, his mind flickering through the image of his brothers, laughing, teasing, each of them in their own chaotic orbit. But they were all together. They were his brothers. They were proud of him.

Mammon tried to steady his breathing, but his fingers kept tapping against his thigh. He’d taken them before, a lot more often recently. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes even more. He’d told himself it was just to keep his head clear, to avoid the impulses—but was it really just that anymore?

His mouth went dry again as his mind spiralled.

Then came the fear. The fear of running out. The fear of the silence breaking. Because every time he ran low, the creeping anxiety returned. His hands would start to shake, and he’d feel like he was drowning again. The hunger would start to claw its way up his chest, like a cold hand gripping his heart. He’d feel the need to do something, to have something, to own.

The old Mammon, the greedy idiot who couldn’t control himself, would return.

He couldn’t go back. Not after all this.

Not after how good it felt to be in control.

The hand that had been tapping nervously on his thigh went still, fingers curling against the fabric of his sweatpants. He squeezed his eyes shut again, letting the weight of everything settle in his chest. The dread. The emptiness that would come if he didn’t get more.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling again, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The urge to take another pill settled into the background, quiet for now. He was okay. Everything was fine.

Yeah, he was fine. Everythin’ was fine. Nothin’ to worry 'bout… long as he kept it safe, just takin' enough... just to quieten the noise.

He let out a slow breath, pushing away the last of the uncertainty as his hand fell back to his side, resting there, loose, relaxed.

Mammon’s fingers brushed against the journal one last time before he let it fall onto the nightstand with a soft thud.

His mind was already fixated on the small silver case of pills on his nightstand. The last of his stock, a reminder of how close he was to the end.  He’d been working hard the past few weeks, and the steady savings had put him in a position where he could buy more whenever the supply ran low.

He had money. And he knew exactly where to get what he wanted.

It wasn’t a hard decision.

Now, it was just a part of his routine.

He knew where the pills came from. He knew the man who supplied them, and he wasn’t afraid anymore. He didn’t need to be. Caligo had been a lifeline, a strange kind of mentor, someone who understood Mammon’s desperation even before Mammon had fully realized it. Their meetings had become transactional, almost clinical. No pressure. No judgment. Just a trade.

A stop on the road to his peace.

“Better go get more…” Mammon murmured to himself, more as a formality than anything else. He already knew what he had to do.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting for a moment as he stretched his arms overhead. His muscles felt tight from the long day of work, but the tension was easier to ignore now.

He grabbed his jacket, slipping it on with a practiced motion, smoothing out the creases. His signature glasses followed, settling snugly on his face. The same outfit. The same Mammon. But not quite the same Mammon.

The uncertainty that once gripped him in the back of his mind—about his greed, his relationships, his life—had been smoothed over. The pills numbed it all, but in a way that felt… right. He was a man who knew what he needed and how to get it.

As he adjusted the collar, his elbow knocked something loose on the side table. A quiet clatter hit the floor.

He looked down.

Goldie.

The gleaming, gold-edged card lay at his feet, face up, catching a flicker of light from the lamp. For a second, he just stared at it. No spike of excitement. No panic about it getting scratched. No surge of possessiveness. Nothing.

He bent down, picked it up, rolled it once between his fingers. The weight of it—smooth, glossy, once comforting—settled in his palm.

It used to be everything.

It used to feel like power. Like his entire identity. Like his closest companion—the key to indulgence, attention, adrenaline. He'd whisper to it like it had a soul. Call it by name, like a lover. Like it understood him.

Once, he would’ve kissed the damn thing for luck before going out.

Now?

It just felt like plastic.

He gave a short, breathless laugh—not bitter, not amused. Just... acknowledging.

Then, with barely a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the couch without a second glance. The card landed face down against the cushions with a soft thup, as weightless and unremarkable as a receipt or some junk mail you didn’t need.

Mammon didn’t even watch where it fell. His hand was already on the door.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob.

For a moment, his thoughts flickered to his brothers—Beel, always the gentle giant; Satan, who would always be skeptical but never unkind; Levi, lost in his own world; Lucifer, the ever-distant leader; Asmo, the flirtatious charmer; Belphie, who might pretend not to care but always did in his own way.

He wasn’t the one they had to roll their eyes at or lecture constantly. And even if they didn’t say it out loud, he knew they were starting to see him differently. They were starting to respect him.

With a slow exhale, Mammon turned the knob and stepped into the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath him. It was a familiar route—straight out the door, past the kitchen where Beel would probably be lounging and rummaging for a snack, to the foyer where the front door was, and to the gates. The air outside had a sharpness to it, but it felt grounding.

The streets of the Devildom buzzed as usual, but Mammon no longer felt the overwhelming urge to drown out the noise.

He wasn’t running anymore. He was moving through life at his own pace, under his own control.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked, head held high, his mind already anticipating the transaction. The relief. The clarity. The quiet space that would come when the last of his stock was replaced.

Caligo’s place wasn’t far. It was a an old well known nightclub, a spot that no one paid attention to unless they were looking for something.

It was routine. And for Mammon, routine was everything now.

Mammon pushed open the heavy door to the nightclub with a quiet groan, the bass-heavy thrum of music spilling into the night air before it swallowed him whole. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the world outside, but the beat still pulsed through his veins.

The nightclub was alive with light and sound—neon sigils painted across the walls pulsed in time with the music, and bodies moved like waves beneath the strobing glow.

The atmosphere was loud—laughter, chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the ever-present hum of the DJ’s latest track. Neon lights flashed in wild patterns across the darkened room, momentarily casting the faces of demons into strange, colorful shadows. The air smelled of smoke, liquor, sweat hung thick in the air, and something sharp and sweet that clung to the back of his throat.

Mammon barely took it in. He’d been here countless times before.

He slid through the crowd like he belonged, some of the regulars raised their glasses in greeting, others calling out his name over the music. The Great Mammon never walked into a place unnoticed, after all. He nodded back a greeting to a few familiar faces—nothing too close, just a quick acknowledgment, a casual wave here, a raised chin there.

No one needed to know his real purpose. To them, he was just the second-born Avatar of greed, always with a grin on his face, always laughing too loud, always keeping things light. Tonight, however, that grin felt a little more hollow.

He adjusted his glasses, the weight of his jacket a reassuring presence on his shoulders. Mammon wasn’t here for the revelry. Hell, he could care less about the music or the crowds. The noise was only a cover, a mask. He was here to get what he needed, and nothing more.

He made his way to the bar, his boots clicking against the polished floor, blending in with the crowd. His movements were smooth, like someone used to being in this kind of space, yet there was a certain sharpness in his steps. Every motion was deliberate.

Sitting at the bar, he pulled his stool close, the leather squeaking slightly beneath him as he positioned himself just on the edge of the counter. Not too close to the other patrons, but not isolated either. It was a subtle balance—just far enough from the others that it didn’t look like he was there for anything specific, but close enough to seem like he was just a regular.

“Hey, Mammon, the usual?” the bartender, a wiry demon with broad shoulders, sharp red eyes and slick navy blue hair, asked casually, his voice low and smooth, though his gaze flicked briefly over Mammon’s face.

Mammon tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t one to show weakness, even here. “Yeah, yeah, the usual,” he replied, tossing his jacket over the back of his stool, the words flowing easily, like this was a normal night. “But make it a water tonight with extra ice, nothin’ too fancy.” No alcohol—he didn’t need anything dulling his senses.

The bartender didn’t bat an eye. He slid a glass of water across the counter over to Mammon without missing a beat, his hand moving with practiced precision. Mammon caught it with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The bartender paused for just a moment—long enough for Mammon to sense the subtle change in atmosphere—but the moment was fleeting.

His fingers tapped lightly against the glass as the condensation bled into his skin. It wasn’t thirst he was feeling. Not really. The water was just a prop, something to keep his hands busy. The real itch was still there, crawling under his skin, that gnawing whisper that silence alone couldn’t soothe.

Mammon leaned an elbow on the bar, engaging in idle chatter about the music, about some poor sap who’d passed out in the corner, about how the drinks were weaker than usual tonight. He laughed in all the right places, smirked when expected, even tossed a wink at a passing demoness who giggled into her hand.

Then, in the middle of a sentence about how the DJ really needed to switch tracks, he slipped in the words like a coin sliding into a slot.

“Y’know, I heard the house special’s better when you drink it slow,” Mammon said casually, his eyes darting to the glass for a second before he lifted it to his lips, pretending to take a sip, all the while watching the bartender through his peripheral vision. He’d said the words before, a phrase so innocuous it could pass for small talk.

But to the bartender, those words meant something else entirely.

The bartender’s lips twitched slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at one corner. His gaze shifted to the row of bottles behind the bar, before he gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll take your advice. Some things are better slow,” he replied, his voice just above a murmur, as if in response to something Mammon didn’t need to say outright.

Mammon’s smirk didn’t falter. That was the confirmation. The code. The signal that everything was set in motion now.

He raised his glass in a mock toast, letting the ice clink. To anyone else, it was nothing. Just Mammon being Mammon

Mammon leaned back a little, the tension in his body easing as he absorbed the subtle exchange. His gaze flickered around the nightclub, his face impassive, though his fingers tapped the glass of water in front of him, a small sign of his impatience. The whole room could have been spinning, but Mammon was focused on the task at hand, his thoughts already back to the pills he’d be getting, how they would quiet the nagging hunger gnawing at his gut.

After a brief moment, the bartender nodded once more, subtly, almost imperceptibly. It was as if Mammon had never said anything at all, and yet, that single exchange sealed the deal. Caligo would be here. Mammon just had to wait a little while longer.

The sound of the DJ dropped a beat, the bass rattling the windows as the crowd cheered. Mammon’s gaze drifted toward the dance floor for a moment, but there was no excitement there. He wasn’t interested in the chaos of the crowd, the loud laughter, or the spontaneous shouting. His mind was elsewhere, quiet but active, already focused on the price he was willing to pay for control.

He took another sip of his water, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the glass. It was a feeling he had learned to mask—shaking hands always gave something away. He didn’t let it bother him, though. It was just part of the routine now. Part of the price for the peace, the control, the numbness.

He wasn’t scared of it anymore. He wasn’t scared of anything anymore.

But deep down, buried under the layers of calm, he couldn’t shake the underlying fear that lingered—what if the pills ran out? What if he couldn’t get more? What if one day the craving was too strong, and he didn’t have the money or the means to get what he needed?

His hands clenched slightly around the glass. He didn’t let the fear show.

It didn’t matter. Not tonight. Tonight was a good night.

He had the control now.

Mammon looked up as the bartender slid a small note toward him with a subtle smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

The deal was done.

The bartender’s eyes flicked toward one of the servers as he motioned toward a young demoness standing by the bar, a girl with long violet hair tied high and a tray balanced on her palm.

She nodded, her movements smooth and practiced, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. Setting the tray down, she approached Mammon with a soft, professional smile, her heels clicking lightly against the floor. Mammon stood up, finishing his water in a single long gulp, he grabbed his jacket from the nearby stool as he dropped a few coins on the counter.

The demoness didn't say anything, just turned and started walking. She led him past the bar, through a side door that swallowed up the music and lights.

Mammon followed her through the narrow passage that led deeper into the restricted areas of the club. The air was colder here, the heavy, pulsating beats of the DJ barely reaching his ears.

The fluorescent lights flickered above them, casting long shadows along the walls. The corridors were familiar, narrow, and lined with thick, damp carpeting that muffled their footsteps. At one point, Mammon noticed the faint odor of old wood and leather, like the club hadn’t been renovated in ages, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, it felt strangely comforting.

When he first started coming here, it had been so different—anxiety gnawed at him, fear that someone might recognize him or catch him doing something wrong.

Every shadow had felt like it was watching him, every door a trap waiting to slam shut.

He'd wondered if he was getting in too deep, if this was something he’d regret. But over time, the fear had faded, replaced with routine.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not really.

He wasn’t addicted to the high, not like some of the other demons who came here, drowning themselves in drinks or chasing cheap highs for the thrill.

He wasn’t using the pills to escape his life or fill some empty hole. No, the pills didn’t give him a high; they gave him something else—control.

Mammon smirked to himself, walking a little faster, as if trying to shake off the creeping thought. He wasn’t like the other demons. He was better than that. He was doing this to be the best version of himself.

The demoness paused in front of a red wooden door, her smile flickering into something almost like sympathy. She pushed the door open, gesturing for him to go in. “He’s waiting,” she said, and with a soft nod, she disappeared down the hall.

Mammon’s heartbeat picked up slightly. The moment he entered the room, the familiar, sterile smell hit him—the heavy scent of leather, smoke, and a faint trace of incense. The room was dim, with soft, warm lighting that made everything look just a bit more surreal. There was a single couch in the center, a low coffee table, and a few chairs scattered around the room. The walls were adorned with abstract art, the kind that only demons seemed to appreciate.

And there, seated on the couch, was Caligo with one arm thrown over the backrest.

The first thing Mammon noticed was the thick smoke curling up from Caligo’s cigarette, hanging in the air like some sort of dark halo. Caligo was leaning back, eyes half-lidded, his gaze unfocused, like he was lost in a thought that only he could hear. His black coat was unbuttoned, exposing the dark shirt underneath, the faint glint of jewelry peeking out from his collar.

When Mammon stepped in, Caligo didn’t look up immediately, taking another long drag from his cigarette, savoring it, the tip glowing bright red. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke swirl around him like a veil before he finally turned his gaze to Mammon.

“You’re early,” Caligo murmured, his voice smooth, lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

Mammon didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a moment to examine the room. Familiar. Comfortable. Like he belonged.

Then, Mammon shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Couldn’t wait. Last stock’s almost gone, so I thought I’d drop by sooner rather than later.”

Caligo’s lips curled into a slight smile as he tapped the ash off his cigarette into the tray. “Well, you know where to find me.” He tilted his head toward the coffee table. “Make yourself at home, greedling.”

Mammon didn’t need any encouragement. He sat down on the chair opposite Caligo, he leaned back, arms crossed, a picture of nonchalance. But his eyes were sharp, watching—careful not to look too comfortable. He wasn’t here to chat; he was here for one thing and one thing only.

Caligo took another drag and then offered Mammon the cigarette, the smoke curling lazily between them. “You sure you don’t want one? Helps with the nerves.”

Mammon gave him a flat look and shook his head. “Not here for that, Caligo.” His voice was steady, but something flickered in his chest—a quiet hunger. But he forced it down. He was in control now.

“You sure?” Caligo’s smile deepened, but there was no malice behind it—just that same cryptic amusement.

Mammon glanced at the table. The pills were there, nestled inside a small silver case, gleaming like an unspoken promise. The sight of them made his pulse quicken, just a little, but he didn’t let it show. He’d gotten used to it by now—his hunger didn’t scare him anymore. It was a part of him now, a constant companion that he could control.

“I’m good,” Mammon replied, leaning back in his seat, keeping his posture casual. His fingers drummed against the armrest, the rhythm soft, but there was a tightness in his chest, a quiet anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.

“You always come in, straight to business. Not even a drink?” Caligo asked, resting his chin on his hand. “Most clients, they linger. They talk too much, beg too much. You’re different.”

Mammon shrugged, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “What can I say? I ain’t like most.”

That earned him a low chuckle, quiet and genuine—an unexpected sound, almost warm in the thick haze of the room.

Mammon didn’t move right away. He stayed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to settle between them before filling it with easy words. A little back-and-forth, nothing too revealing—harmless talk that drifted like smoke under low light. It wasn’t trust, not exactly. But it wasn’t tension either.

He knew better than to dig too deep, not with someone like Caligo. Still, every scrap mattered, every word exchanged was another thread he could pull on later.

A man like Caligo didn’t survive by being sloppy, and if Mammon was going to keep dealing with him, he couldn’t afford to stay in the dark.

And maybe… just maybe… Caligo didn’t mind.

Because behind the cryptic half-answers, the smirks, and the smoke, Mammon caught something else in his eyes—a flicker of curiosity, a sliver of attention that lingered longer than it should’ve.

And in this strange little arrangement they had, maybe that was enough.

The quiet stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel awkward. Just… open. Like the air was waiting for something to be said.

Mammon leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into something low and casual—measured, but edged with curiosity.

"So," Mammon began, his voice pitched low, like he was testing the waters, "what's your deal, Caligo? Ya got a whole operation goin' on here. Not that I mind, but I can’t help but wonder." He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes flicking briefly to the case before looking back up at Caligo. “What’s the story behind all this? Ya don’t exactly run a charity.”

Caligo didn’t respond right away. He took another drag from his cigarette, studying Mammon for a long moment, as though weighing the question. Then, he exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him again like a veil.

“You want to know about me?” Caligo chuckled darkly, his voice smooth as velvet. “What makes you think I’d tell you?”

Mammon’s lips twitched, a grin spreading over his face. ”Ain’t it fair I know a little more ‘bout the guy sittin’ across from me?”

“I mean, ya did say we’re partners, right? Can’t have a partnership if I don’t know who I’m dealin’ with.”

For a brief moment, Caligo’s expression flickered—almost a shadow of something darker behind his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “You’re a smart one, Mammon,” Caligo replied, almost thoughtfully, before he finally gestured to the silver case. “It’s not about the story. It’s about the deal.”

Mammon leaned forward, hands on his knees, his eyes hardening. “I’m here for the deal. Nothin’ more. Let’s keep it that way.”

Caligo chuckled again, leaning forward, tapping the cigarette ash into the tray. “As you wish. Always such a serious one, aren’t you?” He slid the case over to Mammon with a single smooth motion, his hand brushing against the edge of the table. “Here. You know the price.”

Mammon reached for the case, his fingers brushing the cool surface, his pulse racing in anticipation. For a brief moment, the world felt right, the silence comfortable, and his thoughts—his impulses—simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to be quieted again.

But as he took the case into his hands, Mammon’s gaze lingered on it. Knew something deeper was lurking. Something he couldn’t yet put into words. Not yet. He didn’t open it right away.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, his expression tightening.

“This ain’t just ‘bout the pills anymore,” he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes rose to meet Caligo’s, something sharper there now—less desperation, more demand. “Last time… ya said somethin’. ‘Bout people wantin’ control. ‘Bout the price they pay.”

Caligo didn’t flinch. He simply leaned back, resting his arm across the back of the couch again, the smoke from his cigarette curling like a lazy serpent around his fingers.

Mammon pushed on, voice low but firm. “Ya knew ‘bout me. ‘Bout what I’m dealin’ with. And yeah, maybe that’s yer job, knowin’ things. But ya said it like—like ya’d been there. Like ya’d seen it go bad before.”

He gestured vaguely toward the case in his hand.

“Ya keep warnin’ me. Tellin’ me it comes with a cost. So what’s the deal, Caligo? What’re ya really after? Ya just in it for the cash ? Or is there somethin’ else I should know?”

A silence stretched between them—not awkward, but heavy.

Caligo didn’t smile this time. He stared at Mammon for a long moment, his cigarette burning low between his fingers, the embers flaring briefly in the dim light.

Then, he spoke—slow, thoughtful, like the words were being dragged out from someplace old and buried.

“You’re not the first to ask me that, greedling,” he said. “Most of them don’t last long enough to care about the answer.”

Mammon’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t an answer.”

“No,” Caligo said softly. “It’s not.”

He crushed the cigarette into the tray, the motion precise, almost gentle. Then he exhaled, and for the first time, his gaze lost its usual ease.

“I deal in silence,” Caligo said finally, voice quieter now. “Not peace. Not freedom. Just the quiet. I give it to people who need to shut the screaming up in their heads. You think I do it because I want to see people fall apart?”

Mammon didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

Caligo’s mouth twitched into a bitter approximation of a smile.

“I do it because someone has to. And because I know what happens when the noise wins.”

Mammon’s fingers curled tighter around the case. “Ya make it sound like ya’ve taken it.”

Caligo gave a soft laugh, dry as dust. “Let’s just say I know what it's like to be owned by something you can’t name. Something that crawls inside you and whispers every time you breathe.”

Mammon frowned, not out of suspicion—but recognition.

“That why ya warned me before? Told me I’d think I could handle it until I couldn’t?”

“Consider it professional courtesy,” Caligo murmured. Then, after a pause, he added, “Or maybe I just don’t like watching people walk into fires thinkin’ they’re the only ones who won’t burn.”

Mammon studied him, something unreadable in his gaze. “So what—ya some kind of fallen saint now? Helpin’ the damned outta the kindness of yer heart?”

Caligo gave a sharp grin at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hardly. I still get paid, don’t I?”

Mammon shook his head slowly, brows furrowed. “Ya keep sayin’ people pay a price. But ya never say what that price is.”

Caligo’s smile faded. “Because it’s different for everyone. Some give up memories. Some lose time. Some stop caring. Others just… forget how to feel without it. But whatever it is—they don’t see the cost until it’s already taken.”

He leaned forward, eyes locking with Mammon’s now, and for a second, the haze between them thinned.

“You keep coming back because the hunger’s louder than your fear. But someday, you’ll come back… and you won’t even remember what silence felt like before me.”

Mammon looked down at the silver case in his hands, the weight of it suddenly more than physical.

“Why tell me any of this?” he asked, voice low.

Caligo sat back again, lighting a new cigarette with a flick of his thumb. He inhaled, held it, and said, “Because I don’t deal in surprises. You wanna keep this arrangement going, Mammon? Fine. But I don’t want you callin’ it unfair later.”

Mammon gave a humorless laugh. “Fair’s never really been in the cards for me anyway.”

They sat in silence again, smoke curling in the space between them.

But something had shifted.

The room felt heavier now, quieter—not with comfort, but with tension that hummed beneath the surface. Mammon rolled the silver case between his fingers, slower this time, like he was trying to read something etched into the metal that wasn’t really there.

It was small, elegant—deceptively light. But it might as well have weighed a thousand pounds in that moment.

Caligo watched him through the smoke, his expression unreadable.

His voice, when he spoke next, was softer. Almost too soft. “You’ve felt it already, haven’t you?”

Mammon’s eyes snapped up. “Felt what?”

Caligo tapped ash into the tray, exhaled slowly. “The stillness, right after you take it. Not the silence in your head—that’s the selling point. I’m talkin’ about the pause in everything else.”

Mammon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The flicker of tension in his jaw said enough.

“You don’t dream as much anymore,” Caligo continued, his voice low, casual. “You forget little things. Conversations, faces. Stuff that doesn’t matter—until it does. The pills take the noise, yeah. But they don’t always know where to stop.”

Mammon scoffed, though it lacked conviction. “Yeah? Ya sayin’ I’m losin’ my mind or somethin’?”

“I’m sayin’,” Caligo said evenly, “that quiet is addictive. Not just in your head. Your body adjusts to it. Your soul adjusts to it.”

Mammon’s jaw flexed, but a part of him—small, traitorous—wondered if that was why food had been tasting duller lately. If that was why laughter didn’t sting as sharply as it used to. He shoved the thought down before it could root.

Caligovleaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily upward.

“You ever walk through a room and not recognize it? Or hear someone call your name and it takes a second too long to answer?” He tilted his head. “That’s how it starts.”

Mammon’s fingers stilled on the case. But his expression didn’t change—only hardened.

“I ain’t stupid,” Mammon muttered. “I take what I need. Just enough to shut it out. Just enough to stay sharp.”

He paused, then added, more to himself than to Caligo, “Control’s the point. I’m not chasin’ some high.”

Caligo gave a slow nod, almost respectful—but his eyes remained sharp. Watching. Measuring.

“Sure. But it’s never about stupidity,” he murmured. “It’s about habit. And hunger. You’re smart enough to ration it now. But that craving? It creeps. You’ll feel it one night—when the silence doesn’t come fast enough. When just one doesn’t cut it. And you’ll think you’re still in control when you take a second.”

Mammon didn’t respond at first. But his jaw was tight, the muscles ticking. He’d felt it before—those brief, sharp impulses. Moments where one pill didn’t feel like enough. But he hadn’t acted on them. Not yet.

Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

“It’s manageable,” he said finally, clipped. “I make it manageable.”

“That’s what most of them say,” Caligo replied softly, dragging the cigarette once more. “Right up until they don’t.”

Mammon didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, fingers idly turning the case in his hands, the edges catching what little light there was. His eyes weren’t on Caligo anymore—just on the reflection in the metal. Like maybe it would tell him something he didn’t already know.

Then, almost offhand, voice low, he asked, “…Why d’ya keep callin’ me that?”

Caligo looked at him, head tilting ever so slightly. “Call you what?”

“Greedling,” Mammon muttered. “Like it’s some kinda nickname. Ain’t exactly flatterin’.”

A breath of silence passed. Then Caligo smiled—not wide, not cruel. Just enough to flicker.

“That’s the thing,” he said. “It’s not meant to flatter.”

He sat back, letting the smoke from his cigarette curl past his lips, eyes half-lidded again.

“But it is honest. ‘Greedling’ fits. Not ‘cause you’re weak. Not even ‘cause you’re hungry. But because you think you can leash it.”

He tapped ash into the tray with a single, practiced motion.

“And that’s the most dangerous kind.”

Mammon glanced up at that—something unreadable behind his eyes—but he didn’t press.

Didn’t deny it either.

Just exhaled through his nose, slow and even, like he was letting the words settle somewhere deeper than he wanted them to.

The front door shut behind Mammon with a quiet snick, locking out the heavy city air—and everything else with it.

Inside the House of Lamentation, it was calm.

Too calm.

The faint hum of activity drifted through the walls like a ghost: the rhythmic clink of utensils in the kitchen—Beel, probably on his third dinner. From deeper in the house, a low bassline thudded under Lucifer’s office door, one of those old orchestral records he listened to while working. Upstairs, the war cries and spell-blasts from Levi's game bled faintly through the ceiling, frantic and chaotic.

Mammon paused in the entryway for a moment, the echo of Caligo’s cigarette smoke still clinging to his clothes, to his throat. It made the air here feel cleaner, sharper somehow. Too sharp.

No one noticed him. No one looked up. No one asked.

He moved quietly, shrugging out of his jacket with practiced ease and folding it over his arm, thumb brushing against the inside pocket as he passed the staircase. The bottle’s shape was there. Unshifting. Solid. Cold through the fabric. It pressed against his ribs like a secret with weight.

He could feel his heartbeat in his teeth.

Mammon climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to creak the boards. He passed Asmo’s door, which was cracked open just enough for pink light and perfume to bleed out into the hallway. The scent curled around his senses—sweet, floral, expensive—and made his stomach twist, because it reminded him how easy it would be to smile. To pretend.

To throw on his usual mask and act like nothing was wrong.

But he didn’t. Not tonight.

He reached his room, pushed the door open with a low creak, and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation.

Immediately, the air felt heavier.

Dim light slashed across the room in tight lines through the blinds, casting long bars of shadow on the scuffed wooden floor. Dust hung in the beams, slow and lazy, drifting like ash. The bed was unmade, sheets half-kicked off. His desk was a cluttered mess of notes, loose coins, and half-scribbled expense reports. His phone lay face-down and dead, just where he left it that morning.

And everything was still.

Mammon stood there in the quiet, jacket still folded over his arm, the soft tick of the wall clock the only sound in the room. The quiet should’ve felt like peace.

But it didn’t.

It felt like a trap.

Caligo’s voice echoed in his head, low and smooth, smoke-lined:

“You don’t dream as much anymore.”

“Quiet is addictive.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Moving on instinct, Mammon walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down with a dull thump, dropping the jacket beside him. His fingers were already reaching, sliding into the inner pocket with shaky precision.

They closed around the metal bottle. Cold. Heavy.

He pulled it free and sat still, staring down at it in the half-light.

His thumb ran over the smooth surface once. Twice.

It didn’t rattle. He already knew there were only a few left.

He held it tighter.

Just one. That’s all he’ll take for now. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to hush the gnawing, the endless hunger clawing at the inside of his ribcage, whispering more, more, more every time he blinked.

He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t doing this to get high, to escape. He didn’t want to be numb.

He just wanted control.

But still—his hands shook.

He unscrewed the cap slowly, the faint scrape of the threads loud in the silence. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until the seal broke with a soft click and he exhaled hard through his nose.

His hand trembled as he tipped one capsule into his palm.

It was small. Smooth. A black, glassy finish that caught the light like obsidian. Sleek and cold against his skin. Too perfect. Like something that was never meant to belong in a body.

He stared at it. Watched it settle into the groove of his palm, the way a coin might before it vanished in a magic trick.

And for a moment—just a moment—he hesitated.

His fingers curled around the pill like a shield, knuckles white.

Would this be the time something slipped? Would he lose a memory tonight? Forget a face? Wake up without knowing what day it was?

His chest tightened. His breath hitched.

“Eventually, it’ll cost you something.” Caligo’s words rang like a warning bell in his mind.

But not tonight.

Tonight was fine.

Mammon’s hand moved before his thoughts could catch up—swift and practiced.

He swallowed the capsule dry.

It slid down like ice. Bitter in the back of his throat.

And then—stillness.

His heartbeat slowed. The pressure in his skull began to ease, like steam hissing from a closed valve. The greedy little voice inside, the one that always whispered for more—for power, for validation, for anything—sank into silence.

His shoulders slumped with the first real breath he’d taken in hours.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Calmer. Lighter. Like the world had finally stepped back and given him space to breathe.

He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the slow rhythm of his heart.

Everything was fine.

Everything was gonna be okay.

He was in charge now.

He was in control.

Chapter Text

The soft glow of Devildom’s artificial daylight slipped through the blinds, cutting faint stripes across Mammon’s bed. He stirred—arms reaching overhead as a deep, languid yawn escaped him, echoing in the quiet stillness of the room.

His hand fumbling for his D.D.D. on the nightstand. The screen lit up, too bright against sleep-heavy eyes. Nearly noon. Early for him.

He scrubbed both hands down his face, dragging away the heaviness of sleep, then stretched until his joints popped. His hair was a tousled mess, strands sticking out in every direction, but he didn’t bother taming it yet. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a second, savoring the moment before dragging himself up.

His feet hit the cold floor with a muted thud, sluggish footsteps carrying him to the bathroom. A quick wash of his face, the cold water doing just enough to shake off the last bits of sleep. He looked in the mirror. Yeah, still the Great Mammon. Even if his reflection was a little more tired than usual. But who cared? He wasn’t exactly looking to impress anyone right now.

Mammon moved through his morning as he always did: a quiet, practiced rhythm. Teeth brushed, face washed, hair roughly tousled into some semblance of order.

When he returned, his eyes went straight to the nightstand again, where the routine started. His movements were practiced now, thoughtless. He pulled open the drawer, fingers finding the cool edge of metal hidden beneath a few scattered receipts and loose trinkets. The silver case was familiar, like an old friend—or maybe more like an old tool he used to get by.

His fingers worked with habitual precision, opening the case, revealing the small, glossy capsule nestled inside. The metal was cold against his fingertips—weighty, reassuring.

He took one out, lifting it with a flick of his thumb, and swallowed it dry, the bitter taste slipping down his throat. The routine was so ingrained he didn’t even think about it anymore—it was just another step, like brushing his teeth or checking his phone.

Moments passed, each one stretching just long enough for the relief to settle in.

The change was subtle but instant. Shoulders loosened. That faint itch under his skin—the restless gnawing that never quite left—melted back into silence. His jaw unclenched without him realizing it had been tight. The morning haze sharpened into something steadier. The weight lifted from his chest, like a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding—he wasn’t feeling too deep today. Just… in control.

He sat back on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath him, elbows on his knees— the case resting on the nightstand again. His hand lingered there a second longer than it should have, fingertips brushing the metal case before pulling away.

Then he reached for the leather-bound journal lying beneath a stack of magazines. The leather cover was worn but familiar, a trusted vessel for his thoughts. He flipped it open to a blank page, fingers tightening on the pen… ready to let the words spill.

Journal Entry – Day 201

Been a week since I met with Caligo. Still hear his words sometimes. Won’t lie—shook me more than I’d like. Had me thinkin’ maybe I couldn’t handle it. That maybe he was right. Tch. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. The Great Mammon don’t get rattled.

But days passed an’ nothing’s happened. I’m fine. Better than fine.

Sure, I don’t dream anymore. But who cares? Nothin’ worth dreamin’ ‘bout anyway. Don’t need riches or treasure fillin’ my head — I’m past that.

If I don’t touch it, I won’t ruin it. If I don’t want it, I won’t take it. If I don’t feel anythin’, I won’t need anythin’.

Don’t need dreams ‘bout my brothers either, not when I can actually spend time with ‘em for real. An’ no nightmares? That’s a damn blessin’ if I ever had one.

It’s not like I miss wakin’ up at 3 AM sweatin’ over stuff I can’t fix, or seein’ my brothers get hurt in ways that don’t even make sense but still stick in my gut after I wake up.

Plus I sleep better now. Win-win, if ya ask me.

Yeah, my emotions are a little dulled. But that’s expected. 
I still feel things. I’m still me. Still Mammon. The pills don’t change that — they just make me… better. Made me less loud, less of a pain. Least that’s what everyone says, right?

An’ that ain’t a bad thing. That’s an improvement, right?

No lapses in my memory. Haven’t been forgettin’ things. Haven’t stopped carin’ about the important stuff, about what matters. My brothers? Still top priority. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t.

I guess that’s why it bugs me when others start namin’ ‘em. Some folks — tch, they give ‘em names. Guess that’s what happens when somethin’ gets too close — you dress it up, make it sound cooler, like it ain’t chewin’ ‘em from the inside.

The younger ones? They call ‘em stupid things like Black Glass or Chilltabs —t ryin’ to make it sound edgy, like they’re gettin’ high off somethin’ fancy. Some even call ‘em Ghosts. …That one I kinda get. Pops ya right outta yer own head, leaves ya walkin’ ‘round but hollow.

The old-timers got darker with it. Deadlights — they say yer eyes lose that spark after enough doses. Quiet Pills, can’t lie, those hit different. Stillwater — ’cause on the surface ya look calm, but underneath… who knows. Droughts too — dryin’ ya out till there’s nothin’ left. That one sticks with me. Gives me the creeps, if I’m bein’ honest.

But me? I don’t call ‘em nothin’. Don’t like dressin’ it up with fancy names. They’re just pills. Mine. That’s it.

…Y’know, thinkin’ back to when I first met Caligo, I honestly thought the guy was weird as hell. Creepy, even.

The way he talks — like he’s seein’ straight through ya but not givin’ a damn lookin’ away. And all those warnings he kept throwin’ at me? Couldn’t tell if he was sayin’ it ‘cause he actually gave a damn or if it was just some twisted sales pitch. Probably the latter.

At least, that’s what I told myself at first. But the more I ran into him… tch. I dunno. He’s not half bad, I guess. Annoyin’ly cryptic, sure, but sittin’ there with him, talkin’ for a bit — it ain’t the worst thin’ in the world.

Don’t mean I trust him, but it don’t feel like a waste of time either.

Tho between ya an’ me, he oughta consider himself damn lucky he even gets time with me. Not everybody gets to hang out with The Great Mammon for free, y’know. Bet most demons’d kill for that honor.

The pills, they don’t own me. I own ‘em. I choose when I take ‘em.
I make the rules. Never more than two a day. That’s it. That’s the line. An’ I stick to it.

So yeah. Caligo can talk all he wants ‘bout costs. Maybe that’s for other demons. But not for me. I’ve got this.

Mammon snapped the journal shut and slid it under a stack of old receipts on his desk, like covering it up would make the words sink deeper out of sight. He stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, and pulled on a clean shirt.

A knock came, quick and uneven, followed by Levi’s muffled voice.
“Oi, Mammon c’mon—breakfast’s ready!”

Mammon rolled his eyes, voice quieter than usual but still casual. “Yeah—I’m comin’! Keep yer scales on.”

Mammon tugged the hem of his shirt into place and opened the door. Levi stood there, arms crossed, eyes flicking restlessly between the floor and Mammon.

“You’re slow,” Levi said, frowning faintly. “If we don’t get down now, Beel’s gonna clear the table, idiot.”

Mammon smirked and ruffled Levi’s hair, not as sharp as usual, making him duck back with a small scowl. “Yeah, yeah, quit naggin’. I’m right behind ya.”

The hallway was filled with the faint smell of fresh bread and coffee drifting up from the dining hall. Their footsteps echoed off the high ceilings as they made their way down—Mammon with his easy, unhurried stride, Levi walking quick and twitchy like he always did when he wanted to get back to his game. The muffled sounds of chatter growing clearer the closer he got.

The dining hall doors stood open, warm light spilling through.

By the time they stepped into the dining hall, the noise of plates and voices rolled over them like a wave.

The long table stretched under the high ceiling, laid out with plates steaming with breakfast—eggs, fresh bread, toast, fruit, and steaming coffee.

The long table was set as always: Lucifer at the head, calm and unreadable, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Mammon’s usual chair sat empty at his left. Satan was already there on his right, a book open in one hand, fork idly turning over food with the other.

Across from Mammon’s spot, Levi slid into his own seat, muttering something about limited-edition loot boxes under his breath. Further down the table, Asmo was laughing mid-story, croissant in hand, while Belphie dozed with his chin propped on his palm. Beel, true to form, was already halfway through his second helping, plate stacked high.

Mammon dragged out his chair beside Lucifer and dropped into it with a muttered, “Mornin’.” His voice came rough, the kind that made it sound like he’d only just rolled out of bed, but lacking the usual bite.

“You’re late,” Lucifer said without glancing up, his tone crisp as ever.

Mammon reached for the toast basket, shoulders loose, expression easy but restrained. “Coulda been later.”

That earned him a low snort from Satan behind his paper. Levi just shook his head across the table, headphones dangling against his collar.

The clink of cutlery and hum of voices filled the room, steady and familiar. Mammon ate slow, tossing in the occasional comment—a scoff at Asmo’s dramatics, a nod at something Beel said, a —“Yeah, I saw that,” when Levi rambled about an update in his favourite game—but mostly he kept his head down, letting the rhythm of the meal wash over him.

The food was good—he figured, anyway. Couldn’t really tell anymore. Everything looked right, smelled like it should… but the flavor never really landed these days. It felt muted, like it hit from a distance, echoing through a fog. 

Toast crunched between his teeth, syrup stuck to his fingers, the smell of fried eggs and coffee hung in the air—but none of it reached him the way it used to. Didn’t matter. Didn’t bother him. He was still eating, wasn’t he? Still full after. That’s all that mattered.

Lucifer glanced his way once, a subtle, measuring look over the rim of his cup. Mammon met it with a faint smirk, almost private smirk, then dropped his gaze to his plate.

For a moment, it was just the ordinary comfort of breakfast with his brothers.

Levi had been poking halfheartedly at his eggs, eyes darting across the table at Mammon more than once before he finally blurted out:

“Hey, uh… Mammon.”

Mammon glanced over, toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”

Levi shifted in his seat, clearing his throat like he had to force the words past it. His hands fidgeted with his spoon, tracing circles against the table.

Before he could get another word out, Lucifer’s D.D.D. buzzed against the table, sharp against the steady hum of breakfast chatter. He glanced at the screen, expression tightening just a fraction. Without a word, he pushed his chair back and rose smoothly.

“Excuse me. I’ll take this outside.”

The scrape of his chair as he strode out of the hall, phone already to his ear, the tails of his coat brushing the floor behind him. The room quieted as he stepped out into the hall to take the call, his low voice carrying just enough to remind them he was still within earshot.

Levi waited until the click of Lucifer’s shoes faded, then leaned forward quickly, like he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t speak now.

“I, uh… I didn’t say it before but… thanks. For yesterday. Y’know. Standing in that line with me for The ultra-limited Ruri☆Chan’s Eternal Odyssey: Collector’s Heaven Edition.”

A faint pink crept into Levi’s cheeks as he tugged at his hoodie strings. “If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve had to stand there surrounded by… by a bunch of normies breathing my air and staring like I didn’t belong.” He shuddered at the thought, dramatic as always, then ducked his head. “So… yeah. I mean it. Thanks.”

Mammon leaned back, smirk quiet, eyes softening just slightly. “Heh. Sure thin’. Somebody’s gotta make sure ya don’t panic out there. Lucky for ya, ya had The Great Mammon watchin’ yer back.

Levi rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it, muttering under his breath. “Tch… yeah, well, it wasn’t terrible with you there, I guess.” His tone softened a little, almost grudging. “You didn’t complain once about the wait. Even when it dragged on.”

Mammon shrugged like it was nothing, stabbing a piece of toast with his fork. “Ya looked like ya were gonna melt down if I left. Wasn’t a big deal.”

But Levi was smiling despite himself, fiddling with the cord of his headphones. “Anyway… since you helped me, I figured…” He hesitated, glancing away, then blurted out quickly, “We could marathon some TSakura Galaxy tonight. And maybe… I’ll let you try the game too. Not for long, though! Just a few rounds. I mean, it’s my copy, obviously, and I’ve been waiting forever for it, but…” His voice trailed into a mumble. “…it’d be kinda fun, I guess.”

Mammon blinked, caught off guard for a second, a faint laugh slipping out. “What, the great shut-in actually invitin’ me over for an anime binge? Must be my lucky day.”

Levi huffed, cheeks reddening as he shoved a spoonful of egg and toast into his mouth. “D-Don’t make it sound weird. I’m just—just paying you back, that’s all. Don’t read into it!”

Mammon grinned wider, leaning his chin on his hand. “Relax, I ain’t. Just sayin’—sounds like a good deal.”

The exchange earned a faint chuckle from Asmo, who was eavesdropping shamelessly. “Aww, look at you two bonding. So cute.”

“Shut up!” Levi barked, nearly dropping his fork—pulling his hoodie over his head.

Mammon just grinned, chewing slowly like he hadn’t heard a thing.

That was when the dining hall doors opened again. Lucifer returned, phone tucked away, composure as crisp as when he’d left, though the faint crease in his brow betrayed something heavier. He reclaimed his seat, coffee cup in hand, and with the same calm authority said:

“Change of plans,” his voice cutting cleanly through the chatter. “Cancel whatever you’ve arranged for today. Lord Diavolo has requested our presence at the Demon Castle. It’s a formal meeting—you’re all expected.”

The table erupted instantly in a chorus of—groans and protests.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Asmo pouted, dropping his half-eaten croissant. “I had a spa appointment this afternoon.”

“We were gonna do an anime marathon today!” Levi snapped with a scowl, slumping in his chair. “This ruins everything!”

Belphie muttered something indistinct, head still on his hand, clearly displeased at the prospect of movement.

“Figures,” Satan muttered, crossing his arms.

Beel frowned, halfway through his toast. “But… I was hungry. Can’t we at least—”

Lucifer’s gaze cut through the noise, sharp and final. “It’s not up for discussion. Finish your meal and prepare yourselves. We leave soon.”

The grumbling circled the table, irritation buzzing in the air.

Mammon said nothing. He just slouched deeper in his chair, tearing another bite from his toast. Outwardly, the picture of easy indifference. But his leg bounced under the table, and his grip on the crust was a little too tight.

Something twisted uneasily in his gut, though he wasn’t sure why. A meeting at the castle wasn’t unusual, but… this felt different. He pushed the thought down before anyone noticed, jamming another bite of toast into his mouth like it would smother the unease curling under his ribs.

The Demon Castle loomed against the crimson horizon, its towers casting long shadows across the courtyard. Inside, the grand hall felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself had thickened. The brothers followed Lucifer’s steady stride, their footsteps echoing sharply off polished black stone.

The castle’s council chamber was cavernous, a sweep of vaulted ceilings and stained glass that caught the dim Devildom light, scattering it across the polished obsidian floor. The long table at the center gleamed under the golden glow of hovering lanterns, each place set with parchment, ink, and untouched cups of steaming tea.

The brothers filed in with varying degrees of reluctance—Levi tugging at his hoodie sleeves, Asmo sighing about his “ruined schedule,” Belphie stifling a yawn. Lucifer ushered them into order with that steady authority of his, and once everyone had taken their places, Lord Diavolo rose at the head of the table. His presence filled the room with an effortless weight, one that demanded attention without needing to raise his voice.

Normally, he greeted them with a smile that softened the weight of his title—but not today. Today Lord Diavolo, looked more like the ruler of Hell than ever. He wasn’t his usual charismatic self.

Just furrowed brows, fingers drumming steadily on a report thick with shadows and half-truths, the faint sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Clearly troubled by the gravity of the situation.

The atmosphere was thick with tension. The usual hum of the council members was absent, replaced by the heavy weight of unspoken concern. The issue at hand was one no one had seen coming.

Barbatos stood at his side, unmoving, silent as ever, eyes calm—but watchful. Always watchful. His eyes flickered once toward the brothers before dropping back to his folded hands.

This wasn’t just another meeting—it was something more.

“Gentlemen,” Diavolo began, his deep, resonant tone carried easily in the vast chamber. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. We have a serious matter to discuss—one that’s still shrouded in mystery, but it requires immediate attention.”

At that, a faint ripple went through the table, every pair of eyes turned to the Prince of Hell.

Lucifer straightened. Satan narrowed his gaze. Asmo tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Levi shifted uncomfortably. Beel paused, hand hovering over his teacup. Even Belphie blinked away his usual indifference.  

Mammon’s stomach churned with the unfamiliar feeling of dread rising in his chest. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it certainly didn’t feel good.

The Prince let out a long breath, sliding a report across the table for everyone to read. “There have been rumors circulating about a new substance, something completely unauthorized and unofficial. Its effects are still unclear, but from what we’ve gathered, it’s making its way through the Devildom’s underground market. We don’t know who’s behind it, nor what it does. But we know this—it’s illegal.”

The report was vague, little more than a collection of hearsay and scattered rumors. No one had concrete information. No names. No specific locations. Just whispers in the dark, spreading faster than wildfire. A new drug, unapproved, unregulated. And Diavolo wasn’t the type to be caught unaware.

“The Devildom is already a delicate balance of power,” Diavolo continued, “and this could disrupt that balance further. We cannot allow this substance to take root in the population without understanding its nature.”

Mammon shifted uneasily in his seat, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something about this whole situation felt… too familiar.

Lucifer, always the calm and collected eldest, was the first to respond. His voice was as measured as ever, but his sharp eyes flicked over the report with an unsettling focus.

“We’ve dealt with black market substances before,” Lucifer said, hands folded on the table. “But none that leaves no trail—no symptoms, no market name.That complicates containment.”

He leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed. “Do we know how widespread its use has become?”

“Not yet,” Diavolo replied. “Our information is limited, but rumors suggest its reach is growing. That alone is cause for concern.” He drummed a quiet rhythm on the paper.

Satan, sitting beside Mammon, frowned deeply. He hadn’t said much yet, but his analytical mind was already working overtime. “An unapproved drug appearing suddenly on the market…Then it’s not just dangerous—it’s elusive. A substance we can’t identify is harder to track, harder to control. Whoever’s behind this knows exactly what they’re doing.”

Asmo let out a low gasp, pressing fingers dramatically to his lips. “Ugh, drugs? Really? As if bad habits weren’t ugly enough. Do you know what that stuff does to your skin?”

He dropped his hand with a huff, crossing his arms and arching a perfectly shaped brow. "And if they’ve managed to get this far without being caught? That means they’re clever, organized. Ugh—smart criminals are the worst kind, darling. They’re harder to outshine.”

Levi hunched lower in his chair, muttering, “So we don’t know what it does, who’s taking it, or where it comes from. That’s… that’s like fighting a boss without knowing its weak points! Totally unfair. Anyone could already be using it and nobody would even realize.”

Beel frowned, setting down his cup carefully. His expression was neutral, but he could feel the weight of the situation. “We need to act fast,” he said, his voice rumbling softly but carrying an unspoken urgency. “If we don’t know the side effects, that makes it even worse. What if it changes demons? Hurts them without them noticing until it’s too late?”

Lucifer’s eyes flicked to Diavolo, voice deliberate. “Escaping detection implies infrastructure—distribution and cover.” His gaze sharpened. “This isn’t the work of some street peddler. Whoever is responsible may already have influence.”

Belphie yawned and stretched in his chair, but even he couldn’t dismiss the gravity of the situation. “And what’s the plan? We just sit around and talk about it, or are we actually gonna do something?”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his tone deliberate. “If we lack details, then the priority must be identifying its source. Allowing such a substance to spread unchecked could destabilize more than just individual users—it could ripple outward, affecting entire communities.”

A brief pause filled the room as everyone digested the gravity of the situation. Mammon, who had been quiet for the entire meeting, leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable as he stared down at the table. 

His gaze lowered toward the swirl of tea in his untouched cup. His fingers tapped once against the porcelain before stilling. On the surface, he looked almost casual—shoulders slouched, expression unreadable. But a single beat of panic pulsed in his chest, sharp and undeniable. His mind was already churning with thoughts—thoughts he had to keep hidden. It didn’t help that his stomach twisted with unease at the mention of unknown substances.

The idea of an unregulated substance causing chaos wasn’t exactly news to him. He had seen it firsthand in the alleyways and nightclubs of the Devildom—the desperation of those seeking a temporary escape from their own demons.

His thoughts immediately drifted back to his own recent actions, and he felt a tightness in his chest, breath hitching for the briefest fraction of a second. He forced it down immediately, burying the reaction before it could show. Was this the same drug he had gotten his hands on? Was he somehow involved in this?

His jaw clenched once, then loosened as he reached casually for his teacup—hands steady, controlled. The warm porcelain anchored him, though he didn’t take a sip.

To anyone else, he was calm. Still. But his knee pressed against the underside of the table, restless energy he couldn’t quite dispel.

He couldn't let anybody see it. Not now. Not here.

Barbatos, stationed quietly beside Diavolo, let his gaze drift over the group as the prince spoke. When it landed on Mammon, it lingered.

His ever-watchful eyes not missing a single shift in Mammon’s expression. His eyes flickered to the second-born, then back to Diavolo. He had been paying attention to Mammon’s behaviour lately, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that the normally loud and chaotic demon had been reserved and quieter than usual.

Barbatos paused. A cold suspicion flickered behind his eyes, though he said nothing. He had known Mammon for too long to not recognize when something was amiss. Mammon was hiding something, Barbatos could feel it. But he didn’t speak up—not yet.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Asmo asked, his voice smooth but laced with concern. “I’m not exactly a fan of getting involved with anything illegal.”

Diavolo’s golden eyes swept over the table, his tone warm but carrying the firm weight of command. “This investigation will require subtlety and reach. Each of you has unique strengths, and I’d like you to use them. If there is activity surrounding this drug—distribution, whispers, shifts in behavior—we must find it before it spreads further. This matter cannot be left to rumors. We must be proactive. Any lead, no matter how small, will be valuable.”

“I agree with Lord Diavolo,” Lucifer said, his sharp eyes returning to the table, though he couldn’t help but cast a glance toward Mammon. “We need to know where this is coming from, who’s behind it, and what it’s doing to the Devildom. The more information we gather, the better we can respond to this threat.”

Diavolo turned, his gaze landed directly on the second-born, his voice calm but purposeful, “Mammon, you have your crows. I want you to send them to the lower districts,—keep an eye on the shady businesses. They should be able to gather intelligence without drawing too much attention. Find out if this drug is circulating through the lower parts of the Devildom, and who’s responsible for it. We’ll rely on your unique position.”

He paused, then continued. “I trust you can handle this.”

Mammon’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t been expecting Diavolo to throw him into the mix like this, especially not with the weight of the task at hand.

For the briefest instant, Mammon’s mask threatened to crack. He gave a quick nod, forcing his usual grin onto his face. “Yeah, yeah. I got this, no problem! My crows are always up for some sneaky work. They’ll sniff out anythin’ shady goin’ on down there. Nothin’ gets past ‘em.”

Lucifer nodded, but his eyes lingered on Mammon for a moment longer than necessary. “And the rest of us?” he asked. “What’s the plan?”

Diavolo smiled, nodding approvingly before turning his attention to the rest. “Each of you can help by utilizing your social connections. Asmo, you know the high society and the underground parties. Levi, your connections in the online world could be useful. Satan, you have your ties to the magical community. Beel, you're strong and well-regarded in the food industry. And Belphie, your connections in the more... relaxed corners of the Devildom might reveal something useful.”

“Got it,” Asmo said, uncrossing his arms. “I’ll start looking into it. If there’s gossip in the entertainment or fashion industries, I’ll hear it. Actors, models, influencers—they all talk, especially when something ‘new and exciting’ hits the scene. And since they adore me, they’ll spill everything without even realising it. I’ll keep my ears open, and if this drug touches high society, I’ll know..”

“Same here,” Levi added, now more determined. “I can monitor the online forums. Most demons think nobody’s watching those places, but that’s where they talk the most. Demons talk about everything online—even if they don’t realise what they’re saying. If there’s even a hint of this thing getting traded or discussed, I’ll find it."

Diavolo gave a small approving nod. “Good.”

Satan leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with thought. “Information spreads in layers. I’ll search through records and rumors. The libraries hold more than just books—there are whispers in the archives, coded exchanges in old texts. And if there’s anyone experimenting with alchemy or forbidden ingredients, I’ll find their traces.”

Beel spoke next, simple but certain. “I’ll check the food markets, taverns, places where demons gather late at night. If it’s being used, someone’s appetite or behavior will give it away. People act different when they’re under the influence… it won’t escape my notice.”

Belphie, sprawled lazily in his chair, cracked one eye open. “I can move around unnoticed where others can’t. Demons ignore me when I look like I’m asleep. I’ll listen in on conversations—quiet corners, hidden rooms. They won’t even realize I heard them.”

Lucifer, ever composed, inclined his head. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in the more… official circles. Merchants, nobles, city officials. If someone is moving large quantities of something new, it will leave a trail in ledgers and trade.”

Diavolo turned finally to Barbatos, who had been silently observing, his hands still folded neatly.

“If you’d permit me, my lord,” Barbatos said with a polite bow of his head, “I can discreetly monitor activity around the castle itself and… elsewhere. The flow of time reveals many things when observed closely.” His tone was calm, layered with implication, though he gave nothing away.

Diavolo’s smile widened, the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he looked around the table. “Good. Then it’s decided. Each of you has your task. We will regroup when there is news. Until then, remain vigilant—no delays. The sooner we know what this substance is and where it’s moving, the sooner we act. Whoever’s behind it, whatever their purpose, we will find them.”

Lucifer’s tone was measured, crisp. “Rumors won’t do. I want names, locations, and confirmed exchanges. Mammon—I expect a thorough report.”

For a split second, Mammon’s hand jerked—just enough for his spoon to clink against the porcelain teacup. The quiet sound rang louder than it should have. A few eyes flicked toward him.

He coughed, covering it with a quick, too-easy grin. “Tea’s hot,” he muttered, tapping the cup like it was a joke.

Lucifer paused briefly, then continued, “You know the underworld better than anyone. Don’t return with gossip. Return with proof.”

Mammon’s fingers twitched under the table. For just a moment, his mind slipped—back to the nightclub, to the dealer, to the pills. The memory burned like a static hum behind his eyes.

He forced the thought down, grinning again—too wide, too practiced. “Leave it to me, Lucifer. I’m always on top of things.”

His voice came out smoother than it felt. Inside, something coiled tight.

What if I already messed up? What if I already—

No. Stop thinkin’ like that. Not now. Just focus.

The meeting settled into a heavy silence as the weight of responsibility sank in—chairs creaking, papers rustling, the faint clink of porcelain echoing in the room.

The scrape of chairs echoed as the meeting adjourned, the brothers filing out in a cluster of low voices and rustling coats. Mammon rose slowly, his thoughts still swirling. The weight of Diavolo’s request was more than just a simple task—it was a sign. He’d been asked to keep an eye on something.

The knot in his stomach tightening, his hands were steady, but a cold sweat was forming on his brow. Something about the way Diavolo had looked at him made his insides twist.

Was it a coincidence, or did Diavolo suspect something? Was he being watched? Mammon was too deep into his own world right now to think about it too much. He couldn’t afford to show weakness.

But before he could slip out of the room, Barbatos’ voice stopped him.

“Mammon,” Barbatos called softly, his voice calm and measured.

Mammon looked back, startled out of his thoughts. He quickly turned to face Barbatos with an easy, almost too-carefree smile. “Oh, what’s up, Barbatos? Got somethin’ ya need help with?”

The older butler’s expression was unreadable, though his green eyes lingered on Mammon a moment too long. “If you would, stay behind. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss.”

The others glanced back briefly, curiosity sparking, but Lucifer gave a subtle motion that kept them moving. Soon it was only Mammon and Barbatos in the chamber, the heavy doors closing with a resonant thud.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Barbatos studied him, hands folded neatly in front of his perfectly tailored suit, his composure so absolute it was almost unnerving.

“You were unusually quiet during the meeting,” Barbatos said finally, tone polite but edged with intent. “It is unlike you to sit through Lord Diavolo’s words without… commentary. Is everything alright?”

Mammon’s mind raced, his heartbeat quickening. Of course, Barbatos had noticed. His eyes were like a hawk, always observing. He forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just… y’know, takin’ this whole thing seriously. This drug thin’ is no joke, right? Better to keep my mouth shut than say somethin’ stupid.”

Barbatos continued to study him for a moment, his expression unreadable. There was something… off. Not just emotionally, but temporally. Like Mammon’s presence ticked out of rhythm with the world around him. A clock just a second behind.
It wasn’t enough to raise alarm—yet. But Barbatos noticed.

His gaze flickered once to Mammon’s hands—clenched just a little too tightly at his sides—before lifting back to his face. His eyes softened, but suspicion lingered beneath the calm.

For now, Barbatos said nothing more.

“I see,” Barbatos said finally, his voice soft, “Very well. But if you ever need to speak about something, Mammon, you know where to find me.”

Mammon, desperate to escape the conversation and avoid any further scrutiny, nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure! Thanks, Barbatos. But really, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just focusin’ on the task at hand. Ya don’t need to worry about me.”

With that, Mammon turned to leave, his footsteps quick and hurried. But Barbatos watched him go, his concern deepening.

He didn’t fully believe Mammon’s words. There was something off, something he couldn’t place, but he wasn’t sure how to approach it yet.

Barbatos remained still for a beat longer before returning to Diavolo’s side, where the prince lingered by the table, stacking the scattered reports.

“Barbatos, is something the matter?” Diavolo asked, his voice quiet now that the room was empty.

Barbatos turned to face his lord, his expression slightly more serious than before. “Young Master, I simply wanted to confirm something with Mammon. He’s been acting strangely lately. I suspect something’s going on, but I’m not sure what. I wonder if you’ve noticed anything… unusual?”

Diavolo leaned back in his chair, considering Barbatos’ words. “Hmm, now that you mention it, he has been quieter than usual. But Mammon's always had his quirks. Perhaps he’s just taking things seriously.”

Barbatos gave a slight, knowing nod, but his eyes didn’t leave Diavolo’s. “Perhaps. But I wonder… what if it’s more than that? Mammon is usually so full of energy, so full of life. This muted—controlled, it’s unsettling.”

Diavolo frowned, looking up. “You think he’s involved?”

Barbatos paused, his gaze lowering slightly. “I’m not certain, my lord. But I think his hiding something. There is a change in him. It’s subtle, but it doesn’t sit well with me. I’ll continue to observe, but I won’t act prematurely.”

Diavolo’s face folded into thought. He let the silence stretch, then gave a brief nod. “Understood. But we have more pressing matters at hand with this drug. Let’s keep an eye on him, Barbatos. If it becomes an issue, we’ll address it. But for now, we focus on the task.”

He paused, then continued. “Once we’ve gotten more information, we’ll see if Mammon’s behavior is connected. We can’t let this drug take root, especially if it has reached one of our own.”

Barbatos bowed, his usual composed demeanour returning. “Of course, Lord Diavolo. I shall keep an eye on him.”

Diavolo inclined his head in acknowledgment, eyes on Mammon’s empty chair. “Thank you, Barbatos. You’re always so perceptive. But I trust Mammon to do his part. We’ll know soon enough if anything is wrong.”

“But… keep him close,” Diavolo added quietly, his eyes darkening. “If this drug has already reached him, we can’t afford to lose him. Not to the substance. And not to suspicion.”

Barbatos left the room, his thoughts still on Mammon. His silence still gnawed at him. But for now, he’d play the waiting game. Just a little longer.

Chapter Text

The moment the door shut behind him with a soft click, Mammon exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the entire way back.

The walls of Mammon’s room seemed closer than usual—as if they'd crept inward while he was gone. Dim lamplight cast long, uneven shadows over the cluttered floor: clothes tossed aside, a half-eaten snack, his black hoodie draped over the back of a chair. The usual chaos, but tonight it felt different—like the room was closing in on him.

The silence in his room was deafening after the heavy echo of the council chamber. He could still feel the weight of everyone’s eyes—the sting of Barbatos’ gaze lingering like cold breath on the back of his neck.

He paced, boots thudding softly against the polished stone. Each step echoed in the empty silence, louder than the last, each footfall a reminder of the pressure bearing down on him. His stomach twisted in knots, and his thoughts spiraled—sharp and fragmented, like broken glass in a dark room.

The meeting earlier had been draining. He’d had to sit there, silently, while his brothers spoke about the dangerous drug circulating the Devildom. Everyone had been on edge, searching for answers, eager to get their hands on any useful information. But Mammon had been focused on something else.

Focused on his own secret.

He had definitely gotten too deep.

The word on the street was that this drug wasn’t just untested—it was dangerous. And no one knew what it did—except maybe Mammon did. He might be the one buying it.

That made him a liability.

He stopped pacing. Ran a hand over his face. The room felt hot, suffocating. His collar felt tight, like it was choking him. He tugged at it, trying to get some space, but it was no use. The pressure was building—inside and out.

He was right there in the middle of it. His mind was screaming at him, warning him that things were about to go terribly wrong.

His breath hitched, shallow and rapid, clawing at his chest

He began to circle the room, steps jittery and aimless

His boots clacked against the floor—sharp, frantic, rhythmic. Like a countdown ticking in his head.

Somewhere in the room, the soft ticking of a clock echoed—steady, relentless.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It should’ve been a background noise. But tonight, it felt louder than his thoughts. Like time itself was watching him.

A reminder that time was running out. His heart raced faster than his feet could move, each beat hammering in his chest, threatening to break through.

”It’s fine. It’s just a coincidence,” he muttered under his breath, trying to calm himself, but the words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me. Could be anythin’—anythin’ out there,” he said, waving a hand at the empty air.

“It’s not like I’m actually involved in somethin’ bad.… I’m just... I’m not. Right?”

But the words sounded thin in the air. Empty. Even to him.

He chewed nervously at the inside of his lower lip, not even noticing until the skin started to sting. The taste of salt and copper crept in, but he didn’t stop.

He turned sharply and paced back the other way, his shadow stretching long across the floor, thrown by the dim, flickering light. The room smelled faintly of cologne and worn leather—normally comforting, but tonight it clung too tightly to his nose, sickly-sweet and suffocating.

He stole a glance at the silver case on the desk.

The pills.

He knew they were related to this, somehow. It wasn’t just a coincidence. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it wasn’t—he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The truth was there, in that cold, polished metal.

“But… if Caligo’s the supplier,” he whispered, the name hitting the air like a slap. “And if he’s involved... then—”

His steps slowed. He stood frozen in place.

A strangled gasp caught in his throat.

He was in the middle of it.

The second-born, The Avatar of Greed… tangled up in an illegal drug operation in the Devildom. Working for the investigation, while quietly feeding his own addiction from the inside.

His stomach churned as he thought about the council meeting earlier. Diavolo had been clear: "If there is activity surrounding this drug—distribution, whispers, shifts in behavior—we must find it before it spreads further.”

The pressure pressed on, suffocating, relentless.

And Mammon’s secret dealings with Caligo were starting to feel less like a personal crutch and more like a ticking time bomb.

He ran a hand through his hair, raking his fingers through the messy strands, before dragging it down his face.

His fingers trembled as they passed over his jaw, a tremor he couldn’t control. His rings clinked together—too loud, a sharp reminder of the weight he was carrying. He winced at the sound.

“Shit… shit…”

He’d been trying to push the panic down, telling himself it didn’t matter. But it did. And with the investigation going on now, things were starting to get dangerous.

His thoughts were racing, all leading him in a single direction: Do I tell Lord Diavolo about this?

“Mammon. I trust you can handle this.” Diavolo’s voice rang out in his memory, clear and steady.

He trusts me. I can’t keep lyin’ to ‘im. Unlike my brothers he’d understand. I gotta tell him the truth….right?

He trusted Mammon. He had worked alongside him for years. Diavolo had always had believed in him, always treated him as a friend. A brother. Telling him the truth should’ve been easy—should’ve been the right thing to do.

If anyone could help him navigate this mess, it was Diavolo. They could figure it out together.

But the more Mammon thought about it, the more he felt like he’d be letting Diavolo down.

His hands shot out at his sides, clenching into fists so hard his knuckles popped. His nails bit into his palms, but it didn’t stop him from squeezing tighter. The pressure was unbearable, like his whole body was wound too tight, ready to snap.

He stood there for a moment, his fists shaking at his sides, fighting the urge to punch the wall or throw something—anything to release the tension.

He didn’t want to think about the consequences—not just for himself, but for everyone. Lord Diavolo had entrusted him—put him in charge of a critical piece of the investigation. Asked him, of all people, to be the eyes and ears in the lower districts.

And Mammon had smiled. Promised to do his best.

He stumbled back and collapsed onto the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, hands threaded through his hair. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since Barbatos looked at him.

Not just looked—studied. Like a scientist inspecting a fracture in glass. Like a butler who already knew the wine was poisoned.

Barbatos knew. Or… at least suspected.

“You were unusually quiet.”

The words echoed too clearly in his head, like a needle through his thoughts.

Mammon shook his head, as if that could dislodge the memory. It didn’t help.

And if Barbatos suspected something… Diavolo would know. There was no world in which Barbatos kept that kind of suspicion to himself. That wasn’t how he worked. He didn’t guess—he observed, catalogued, confirmed. He watched things unfold like clockwork winding down. If he had even the faintest inkling that something was wrong with Mammon, he'd already whispered it to Diavolo in that calm, surgical way of his—quiet words behind closed doors.

Which meant Mammon wasn’t just paranoid. He was probably being watched.

He could feel it now, like eyes in every shadow. Every word he said in a meeting, every pause, every tremble in his voice—all of it was probably being measured. Calculated. Filed away.

Barbatos didn’t need proof. He just needed time. And Mammon had probably already given him enough.

He was waiting. Waiting for Mammon to stumble. For the slip-up that would confirm everything he already suspected. That made this more than paranoia—it was a countdown.

And what if Lucifer was already suspicious? What if they were just waiting—watching—for for him to mess up?

He dragged a hand through his hair again, this time pulling harder, knuckles white, as if to try to snap out of his spiraling thoughts. His breath hitched. His chest felt tight. His pulse thundered in his ears.

The panic was rising—fast. Crashing over him like a wave.

“I can’t… I can’t do this alone.”

He dragged a shaky hand down his face.

His eyes darted to the far end of the room, to the low table beneath the window.

The silver case sat there, innocuous in the low light. Polished. Closed. Cold. Like it was mocking him. Its edges glinted faintly under the flicker of the lamp, almost like it was daring him to open it again.

Mammon paused.

He stared at it.

A thick knot closed his throat, locking the air inside

Its presence pressed into the air like smoke. Thick. Heavy. Smothering.

Mammon licked his lips—they were suddenly dry, cracked at the corners.

But... if I tell ‘im, everything’s over. All of this. Gone.

He stood again. Too much stillness. The air felt too thick, syrupy, clinging to his lungs with every inhale—like he couldn’t breathe right.

Sweat clung to the back of his neck, trailing down his spine. His shirt stuck damply beneath his jacket, suffocating. He yanked it off in frustration, tossing it carelessly onto a chair that had too many clothes piled on it already.

He was supposed to be the one gathering intel.

But what if he was the link?

What if this whole thin’ started with me?

A sick wave rolled through his stomach. He pressed a trembling hand to it, the other gripping the edge of his desk for support. The surface felt too smooth, too cold under his fingertips. His vision swam for a second—too many thoughts colliding at once.

The truth was, Mammon was starting to worry. What if Diavolo found out about his dealings with Caligo? How would that look? What would Diavolo think of him if he found out Mammon had been so deep into something illegal? He couldn’t afford to have Diavolo see him as weak or irresponsible, especially when it came to something as dangerous as this.

His stomach twisted, nausea flooding him as the weight of the situation hit him harder than ever. He could feel the investigation closing in—like a trap slowly tightening around him.

And—If Mammon didn’t tell him what was going on, and Diavolo found out that he’d been hiding something—

Mammon might never be able to look him in the eye again.

It could ruin him. He’d lose his brother’s trust, his reputation would be destroyed, and all the progress he’d made—what little there was—would collapse in an instant.

Mammon bit his lip, pacing again, his mind a mess of conflicting thoughts. He didn’t want to be in this situation, but the pills… the pills made him feel in control.

That itch—always there, always hungry—was quiet now. For once, he wasn’t scrambling to keep himself from spiralling into another indulgence.

The pills didn’t just quiet the greed—they gave him something he’d never had before.

Peace. Clarity.

For the first time in... well, forever, Mammon felt free. He could exist without worrying he was on the verge of ruining everything around him.

He was better.

Mammon stopped again, heart thundering, hands trembling just enough to betray the war inside him. The fear of being found out—of the investigation somehow circling back to him—was beginning to outweigh the fragile calm the pills gave him.

And yet…

Wasn’t he doing better?

He wasn’t gambling away his money. He wasn’t acting recklessly, wasn’t throwing himself into dangerous situations. His brothers were less on edge around him. They were happier. Hell, he was happier.

That hollow hunger that never let up—silenced.

It was like he’d taken control of his Greed instead of the other way around. Like he wasn’t just reacting to it anymore. Like he had power over it.

Mammon didn’t feel like a prisoner to his own desires.

“What’s so wrong ‘bout that?” Mammon said frantically—voice tight, almost desperate.

It wasn’t hurting anyone. No one even knew about it. He hadn’t been reckless or foolish. He’d been careful. Quiet. Smart, even.

He’d been taking care of himself, staying on top of things. The pills kept his emotions in check. They helped him think straight. No more guilt. No more fear.

No more hunger.

But then… there was the cost.

His jaw clenched, a sharp ache building behind his teeth. Frustration boiled just beneath his skin. He knew what was going on. He knew that this wasn’t just about him anymore. The pills, the secret dealings with Caligo, the illegal nature of the whole thing—he was walking a fine line, and it was only a matter of time before that line snapped.

If I tell Diavolo, I lose everythin’. I can’t lose everythin’. I can’t lose the control the pills give me. What if I go back to how I was before? What if I can’t keep myself together without ‘em?

The thoughts spiraled, looping faster, sharper. He had trusted the pills, trusted Caligo to provide what he needed, and it had worked. But now, with the investigation looming, the stakes were higher. Mammon’s chest tightened at the thought of Diavolo knowing the truth—of anyone knowing the truth. If he was caught up in this, it would ruin everything. The trust Diavolo had in him, everything they had built together… gone.

The uncertainty gripped him tighter.

But it wasn’t just about keeping his secret from Lord Diavolo. It was his brothers—Lucifer—he couldn’t stand the thought of them finding out.

His breath caught as he thought about his brothers—his family. The only ones who had been always there for him, since the fall—for all his faults and reckless decisions.

But this… this was different.

This wasn’t just another foolish gamble, or another slapdash plan that would blow up in his face. This was something darker, something that couldn’t be fixed with a few lucky rolls or a cheeky smile.

The panic surged up in his chest again, thick and suffocating. If they knew, if Lucifer knew… the disappointment would be unbearable.

Lucifer had always been hard on him, always expecting more, demanding that Mammon rise above his flaws, his greed, that he live up to the role of being the second born.

And for a while, Mammon had tried. Damn it, he’d tried so hard to prove that he wasn’t just the worthless second born, that he wasn’t just the brother who couldn't keep his hands off anything that glittered.

But if they found out—if they knew he’d been getting pills from some lowlife dealer to keep himself in check—what would they say? How could he face them?

He couldn't stand the thought of his brothers finding out. They’d be furious. They’d see him as weak. They’d see him as a failure. They’d see him as someone who couldn’t be trusted, someone who didn’t deserve their love—or their respect.

The panic bloomed like fire in his lungs. His chest ached.

But Lucifer… Lucifer would be different. He wouldn’t even need to yell.

He’d just look at him.

That look—disgust, disappointment—like Mammon was a stain on the family name. Like he didn’t belong. Like he wasn’t worthy of being a part of them at all.

The thought made his stomach churn. He could already hear Lucifer’s cold voice in his head, the accusation hanging in the air like a death sentence: I should’ve known. You’re nothing but a disappointment, Mammon. Nothing but a fool.

He couldn’t do that to them. He couldn’t let them down, not again. Not after everything he’d tried to prove to them. He’d worked so hard to make them see that he wasn’t just the greedy, reckless older brother anymore. But this? This would undo everything. He could never fix it. Not when the truth came out.

Mammon’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. His brothers, especially Lucifer, would never forgive him.

It would be a judgment that would stick to him like a curse. Worse than all the money he’d lost. Worse than all the messes he’d gotten into. This would be the thing that would drive them all away.

Mammon’s chest tightened—too tight.

His breath hitched sharply.

Then again.

Too shallow.

He felt like he couldn’t get any air in—like something had slammed into his ribs and was sitting there, heavy and unrelenting.

The pressure spiked.

Then the world tilted.

His knees went weak beneath him, and he stumbled back, catching himself on the dresser with trembling hands. The surface felt like ice beneath his palms. His rings bit into his fingers, but he barely registered it.

The room spun around him in a slow, nauseating circle. The corners of his vision blurred. His ears rang with a rising, high-pitched whine, like static pressing in against his skull.

His throat closed up. Air scraped down his throat in sharp, useless gasps.

“I ca…can’t—breathe.”

The thoughts wouldn’t stop. They spiraled, tightening, pulling him in like a whirlpool.

Tick.

Tick.

Ticktickticktick—

The sound of the clock was deafening now, every second a strike against his skull.

He couldn’t keep up with it. Couldn’t match its rhythm.

Like time was speeding up—and he was being left behind.

He could feel it happening again—that slow, suffocating descent into panic.

His chest heaved, but the air wouldn’t go in. Nothing was going in. It was too tight—too much.

A choked, strangled sound caught in his throat—half sob, half gasp. It tore out of him before he could stop it.

His hands flew to his chest, clawing at the fabric of his shirt like he could rip the feeling away, like he could tear the panic out before it buried him alive.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was thundering, pounding so violently it echoed in his skull. His breaths came fast, shallow, stuttering.

In.

Out.

In. 

No air.

The lamplight flickered. Everything was too bright—then too dark. He couldn’t tell which.

Sweat beaded at his temple, trailing cold down his cheek. His hands trembled violently now, fingers twitching like live wires. He curled in on himself, crumpling down onto the floor as his legs gave out beneath him.

He couldn’t think—his mind was a floodgate broken open.

Too much shame.

Too much guilt.

Too much fear.

His brothers would hate him for it.

He was going to lose them.

They’re gonna leave. I ruined it—I always ruin it—

The thought made him feel like he was drowning. His own family, the ones he’d always craved approval from, would turn their backs on him. The shame of it… It would break him.

A sob finally broke through, raw and unsteady, and he couldn’t stop the next one. Or the next. His hands clenched in his hair as he rocked forward, curled tight, chest heaving.

The walls were closing in.

The floor tilted under him like a ship caught in a storm.

He was drowning.

And there was no one here to pull him out.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, folded in on himself, heart slamming like a war drum inside his ribs. The world felt like it was folding in on him—too much, too loud, too fast.

His breath was still ragged. His body shook. His head throbbed with static.

He needed it to stop.

Just for a minute. Just enough to think.

His eyes flicked up, unfocused, blurry with the sting of unshed tears—until they landed on it.

The silver case.

Still sitting where he’d left it, beneath the window. Still gleaming faintly under the flickering lamplight. Still waiting.

His gaze locked onto it like a lifeline. His fingers moved before his thoughts could catch up—jerky, desperate.

Sweat slicked his palms, making it harder to get a grip on anything as he staggered forward.

The case seemed a mile away, the room tilting underfoot.

He stumbled to his feet, unsteady, legs trembling beneath him as if they barely remembered how to hold him up. He lurched forward, nearly tripping over the chair, until he reached the table.

His hand hovered over the case.

Breath shaky.

Sleek, cool to the touch, like it didn’t carry the weight of something illegal, like it wasn’t laced with all his secrets.

Then—with a snap—he flipped the lid open.

The soft clink of metal was sharp in the quiet.

The pills sat neatly in their place, lined in little rows. Smooth. Clean. Innocent. Deceiving.

His fingers shook as he reached for one.

Just one. Just enough to breathe.

He brought it to his lips, swallowed dry, the pill catching slightly in his throat, but he didn’t care. The taste was bitter, chalky, clinging to his tongue, but it was familiar.

He waited.

But it didn’t stop. The shaking. The pounding. The noise.

He hesitated.

Hand hovering again. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But the silence didn’t come. Not fast enough.

Then with a sharp, anxious breath—he reached again. Just one more.

Another pill slipped between his fingers, then down his throat.

Two.

That would be enough. That had to be enough.

The moment after he swallowed it, Mammon collapsed onto the chair—head tipped back, as if the panic had wrung every drop of strength out of his legs.

Eyes staring at the cracked ceiling above, the open case still glinting beside him.

His hands dropped to his knees, limp. Breath catching again—but slowly shifting. Slowing.

He closed his eyes.

Inhale.

…One… two… three…four…

Exhale.

He repeated the rhythm, quietly at first. A whispered chant under his breath. In and out. Slow and deliberate.

With each cycle, his chest loosened. The tightness ebbed. The fog of panic lifted, like curtains drawn back just enough to let light in.

His racing heart eased—first slightly, then steadily.

His teeth found his lower lip again—this time softer, almost absent-minded. A quiet habit to keep the silence company.

The spinning stopped.

His body stopped shaking.

The static in his head smoothed into silence.

In the silence, the ticking of the clock returned—soft, rhythmic. 

Normal. Unbothered.

As if nothing had happened. As if it hadn’t just watched him fall apart.

The weight in his chest didn’t vanish—but it became manageable. Contained. Like the roar of a storm behind thick, closed glass.

The pressure in his skull eased. The shadows in the corners of his vision faded. The sensation of drowning ebbed away until he was floating instead—weightless.

Detached.

The fear wasn’t gone. Not really.

But it was quieter now. Far off. Like it had been pushed to the edge of a cliff and left there, too far to pull him under just yet.

Finally, he opened his eyes. The world had quieted.

And so had he.

They were the only thing that ever made the world feel still.

He felt calm now. His thoughts no longer screeched over each other. They moved in order. In lines. Everything was slower, sharper, calculated.

He could think.

He could breathe.

This was exactly what he needed.

He could think clearly now. No more panic, no more second-guessing. No guilt clawing at his throat or pressure behind his eyes. He didn’t have to feel anything except stillness.

This is fine. Just gotta keep it quiet. No one’s gotta know. Long as I keep my head, it won’t fall apart.

With the pill's effects taking hold, Mammon stood up, feeling the weight of the decision settle over him like a shroud of certainty. The earlier panic, the spiralling worry, the self-doubt—everything was gone.

He was calm now. He could handle it.

No one needed to know.

Not about the pills.

Not about the deal with Caligo.

If things stayed quiet, they could stay peaceful.

Diavolo trusted him. But if he knew everything...

It could destroy all of it.

This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about keepin’ everythin’ I’ve worked for. The trust. The control. The calm.

He couldn’t risk losing that—not when it was the only thing keeping him sane.

I’ll just keep this quiet, for now. Just a little longer. I can do this. I’ll make it work. Just don’t get caught.

If he could just keep it under wraps—if he could just make it through a little longer—maybe, just maybe, he could fix this. He could make everything right again.

But he couldn’t do that if his brothers knew. Especially not Lucifer.

His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, as the decision locked into place. There was no going back now.

He had to protect the one thing that mattered most: control.

He wasn’t standing on the edge anymore.

He’d already jumped.

Mammon took a deep breath.

I’ve got this.

His breathing evened out as he exhaled, letting the cool calmness settle over him like armour.

He couldn’t stay here. He had to meet Caligo. Had to figure out a way to keep things under wraps.

He stood slowly, stretching his back. Rolled his shoulders once, shaking off the last of the tension, then glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

The face staring back at him looked calm.

Too calm. Like someone else had taken his place. Someone who didn’t panic. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

He pulled on a clean shirt, shrugged into his coat—the cool fabric sent a shiver across his skin—and crossed the room.

He paused at the door, fingers grazing the cold metal.

He still wasn’t sure if this was the right move.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

He opened the door and stepped through.

Behind him, the clock kept ticking.

Unbothered.

Still watching.

Waiting for the fallout.

Chapter Text

The cold of the hall met him like a second skin—cool, silent, expectant.

Mammon walked with steady steps, hands buried in his coat pockets, head dipped just enough to avoid eye contact with the oil paintings lining the corridor.

The House of Lamentation was quiet at this hour. Not silent—never silent—but still in the way of something holding its breath. The kind of stillness that clung to the air like frost on glass. Shadows stretched long across the polished floors, cast by the soft golden glow of wall sconces, flickering just enough to make every corner seem deeper than it was.

At night, the House always felt bigger—its hallways stretching longer, as if listening, watching, weighing every step.

Tonight, though, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… patient.

Like they were waiting for something. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

His thoughts moved in clean lines, no longer tripping over each other. The shame, the guilt, the panic—they were still there, still circling, but tucked away. Quiet. Managed. Like noise behind a locked door.

His body was calm, but it felt like someone else’s calm.

He’d taken the edge off. Now it was time to move.

Mammon’s boots made soft, steady sounds as he walked. Each step deliberate. Measured. Controlled.

The pills worked fast—smoothing the edges, quieting the noise. His heartbeat wasn’t jackhammering in his chest anymore. His hands didn’t tremble. The twisting anxiety that usually lived in his gut like a second heart was just... gone.

He felt composed, centred, balanced—too balanced. And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because underneath the stillness and focus, he still knew what he was doing. Still knew he was walking into something dangerous. That the investigation was tightening. And that he was making a deal with someone who might decide, at any moment, that Mammon wasn’t worth the risk.

But none of that mattered now. Not with that smooth, cold stillness in his blood—like liquid steel.

As he passed his brothers’ rooms, he didn’t slow. Didn’t look at the doors. Didn’t listen too hard to the faint sounds coming through the cracks—muffled music, pages turning, the distant flicker of a game’s victory jingle.

Each one held a life he was trying to protect. That was what this meeting was really about.

Not just control. Not just clarity. But preservation.

If this spiralled—if the investigation circled too close to the truth—it wouldn’t be just him caught in the fallout. The house would fracture. The trust would break. And everything they’d built together would crack beneath the weight of something none of them had ever asked to carry.

The clarity in his chest wasn’t fake. It was real. Manufactured, maybe—but solid. He felt it in his limbs, in the even cadence of his breath. No nerves. No guilt crawling up his spine. Just purpose.

He needed that to last. Because if it didn’t—if control slipped, if even one crack showed—

They’d notice, and the whole thing would fall apart.

So this meeting? It had to work. Not to save himself—but to make sure they never had to.

He adjusted the collar of his coat as he turned the corner, breath steady. His reflection caught briefly in the tall window—his posture straight, his eyes level. No twitching. No stammering guilt in his walk.

He looked calm.

Not cocky. Not twitchy.

Just… calm.

For once, he didn’t look like someone trying to sneak out. He looked like someone who belonged to this house.

And no one was going to stop him.

The path to the foyer was familiar—etched into his bones. His feet knew the way better than his thoughts did. He didn’t need to think—just get there. Say what he had to say. Handle it cleanly.

Keep it quiet.

The grand staircase creaked beneath his heel as he stepped down toward the entrance. Above, the chandelier fractured the low lamplight into cold slivers across the polished floor. The tick of the old wall clock echoed through the open space—steady, indifferent, like it had all the time in the world.

Almost to the door.

But—

A voice cut through the stillness. Low. Sharp. Unmistakable. “Where are you headed off to, Mammon?”

Lucifer.

Of course.

Mammon paused mid-step. His shoulders tensed, instinctively—but only for a second.

Normally, this would be the part where his gut dropped, where panic rose hot in his throat, where he scrambled for a half-lie that didn’t sound like one—stammering, twitching, sweating through his shirt.

But tonight… none of that.

His muscles didn’t tense. His pulse didn’t spike. His throat didn’t dry out. The panic stayed locked behind glass.

The calm didn’t just hold—it wrapped around him like a tailored suit. No edges, no weight. Just the shape he needed to wear.

He turned smoothly, casual, and found Lucifer standing in the archway near the dining hall. Half-shadowed, arms crossed, that ever-sharp stare trained on him.

“Out,” Mammon said, voice easy. Even. He shrugged slightly, one hand still resting in the pocket of his coat. “Got a lead I wanna follow up on. Somethin’ that might tie into the investigation.”

He didn’t rush the words. Didn’t over-explain. He let them hang there—vague, but not suspicious.

It wasn’t a lie, per se. He was going to investigate something—just not exactly what Lucifer might be expecting.

Lucifer stepped closer, his leather shoes whispering against the floor. His gaze narrowed—calculating, but not hostile. Always searching. The weight of that gaze was something Mammon had felt his entire life, like a scale tipping back and forth with every word he said. Weighing every breath, every syllable.

“You’re being unusually efficient tonight,” Lucifer’s voice softened, but there was an edge there. A subtle push. “It’s not like you to be so… thorough. What’s really going on, Mammon?”

Mammon met his gaze, cool and steady. “Tryin’ to take the job seriously, y’know. Ain’t every day Lord Diavolo puts me in charge of somethin’ important.”

Lucifer’s brow lifted, just slightly. A pause stretched between them.

Long enough for Mammon to feel the chill in the air from the front door. Long enough for the quiet tick of the nearby wall clock to sneak back into the background of his mind. Faint. Relentless.

Lucifer studied him—like he always did. Looking for a tell, a slip, a hint that something was off.

But Mammon gave him nothing. No darting eyes. No twitchy hands or shifting feet.

Just composed. Neutral. Honest enough to pass.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. The kind of silence that usually made Mammon squirm. Ramble. Break eye contact.

But not tonight. Tonight he held the stare. Casual. A touch of nonchalance. Nothing defensive. Nothing to hide.

Just Mammon, being Mammon.

Lucifer watched him a moment longer, as if trying to spot a trick in a deck that had already been shuffled. But Mammon gave him nothing but the smooth, easy air of someone who’d already run the odds in his head.

Finally, Lucifer gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Don’t stay out too late.”

Mammon smirked, the same cocky edge in his voice he always used to deflect. “Ain’t plannin’ on makin’ it a party, Luci.”

Lucifer turned with a soft, almost amused sigh, already moving toward the stairs. “That’s what worries me.”

Mammon waited until he heard the first few steps of his brother’s retreat before he turned back to the door. His hand closed around the handle, cool metal grounding him for a brief second.

Behind him, the clock ticked on—steady, indifferent, untouched.

Like it didn’t care where he was going, or what came next.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, but the moment felt fragile—like glass under pressure.

This was it. No questions. No suspicion. The mask held.

But the clock was still ticking, and Mammon could almost feel the cracks forming beneath his skin. Just one misstep, and it would all come apart.

He opened the door and stepped into the night air like a ghost through smoke—silent, composed, and unseen.

The cool breeze hit him like a splash of water—sharp and clean, brushing against the back of his neck where sweat had dried. The streets beyond the house were dimly lit, the Devildom’s ever-hanging twilight casting the city in shades of blue and grey.

His mind ticked through what he needed to say to Caligo. What needed to be kept vague, what could be hinted at, what had to be avoided at all costs.

He wasn’t sure how much Caligo already knew about the investigation. If word had reached him yet—or if Mammon would be the one to deliver it.

Didn’t matter.

He’d play it right. Keep things professional. Clean. No panic, no slip-ups.

Just business.

That was the thing about being calm. It made lying feel a lot like telling the truth.

The door of the House of Lamentation shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoed into the night.

Mammon paused on the front steps, one hand still resting on the edge of the doorframe. The night air wrapped around him, cooler than expected—cutting through the haze of old stone and warmth left by the lamplight inside.

The streets were quiet.

Not dead. The Devildom was never fully still. Somewhere in the distance, a broken down car whined down a side street. Farther off, the pulsing thrum of nightlife echoed faintly from the city’s core—low bass, laughter, glass clinking like wind chimes in a storm.

Mammon breathed it in. The scent of cold stone, ozone, and distant smoke filled his nose.

His eyes flicked up to the sky. Clouds shifted above the manor, parting just enough to reveal thin ribbons of glowing moonlight. Crystal white, haunting and soft, like it was filtered through water.

He stepped forward, his boots landing on the path with a quiet crunch of loose gravel.

No panic. No stammer. No hesitation. Just control.

He didn’t look back.

His coat moved with him, catching faint gusts of wind that whispered through the outer gardens and stirred the branches of the twisted, thorned trees lining the gates.

The tall, wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, black and familiar—guardians of the house that had seen too many late-night exits.

Mammon stopped just before them. He exhaled through his nose, breath curling like smoke, then tilted his chin upward—just slightly.

Above him, perched in the gnarled, black branches of a skeletal tree, a pair of glassy eyes stared down.

A low caw followed a beat later.

Mammon gave a sharp, subtle whistle. Not too loud. A sound that melted into the wind. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

A quiet flutter of wings answered him. From the trees, the rooftops, the darkness.

Crows emerged from the shadows in ones and twos—silent until they weren’t, scattering into the air with the flutter of wings like whispers.

They circled above, careful not to swarm. Some peeled off and perched again on balconies, rooftops, signposts. One settled casually on the broken streetlamp up ahead. Another blended into the edge of a rusted statue.

Black feathers caught the moonlight, silent except for the faint rustle of wings and the occasional low, thoughtful caw.

Mammon lifted his chin slightly, eyes sharp. There was no outward command, no dramatic gesture. He didn’t need one.

The connection thrummed through him—familiar, natural. Like muscle memory that didn’t belong to muscles.

He didn’t talk to them in words, he never had to—but they understood.

Watch. Follow. Keep your eyes open.

Keep the path clean. Don’t let anyone trail me. If ya see Barbatos’s shadow, I wanna know before he does.

The message slipped from him in something deeper than thought, shared across the hive-mind like ripples in a still pond.

Like static brushing the edge of his skull. He didn’t need to hear their words—not the way other demons or humans did. He felt them. Knew what they knew.

His crows responded with flight.

Some scattered low, gliding just above the rooftops. Others perched on lamp posts, disguised as ordinary. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

The world expanded around him. Eyes in the sky. Eyes in the dark.

Mammon watched them go, something cold and methodical turning over in his chest. They’d warn him if anything followed. They’d see trouble before it found him.

And if things went sideways with Caligo…

He wouldn’t be alone.

The gates groaned faintly as he slipped through. His boots crunched over gravel as he followed the narrow path down the hill, where the trees thinned into the flickering pulse of Devildom streets.

Here, the streets weren’t broken—they gleamed with black-brick paths slick from the recent mist, lit by glowing lampposts curved like thorned vines. Demons moved in twos and threes, dressed in tailored coats and shimmering accessories, the scent of spiced liquor and sweet smoke trailing behind them.

He kept his pace steady, hands in his pockets, coat catching the occasional swirl of wind. A pair of succubi laughed as they passed him, one flashing a glimmering set of fangs behind her scarf. A stall up ahead was selling shimmering scarves and gloves made of something that looked like spider silk—shiny, iridescent threads woven together. A demon behind the counter looked up at him with a too-wide grin. Mammon ignored the glance and kept moving, feeling the cool fabric of his own coat shift with the breeze.

A motorcycle roared through a side alley, tailpipes rattling. Steam hissed from grates in the sidewalk. Harsh lights pulsed from windows, advertising late-night dens and eateries, the smell of fried street food and burnt sugar trailing behind them. 

To his left, the façade of Majolish loomed tall and sleek—glass displays lit from below with a soft lavender glow, mannequins dressed in the latest midnight-inspired fashion. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass—coat ruffled, eyes darker than they should’ve been—and looked away before it could hold him.

Farther down, the storefronts changed: Madame Scream’s still had its doors open, the scent of candied apples and spiced cider curling into the air like a lure. A pair of younger demons sat on the front steps, passing a bottle between them, whispering in low, urgent tones.

As he crossed through the busier veins of the city, the familiar hum of the casino crept into his ears before he even saw it.

A block later, there it was—lit up like sin incarnate. The Fountain of Fortune. Loud. Neon-soaked. Its sign flashed gold and crimson above the entrance, casting dancing lights over the crowd of demons spilling in and out. Music pulsed faintly behind the walls, muffled by laughter, dice, and the metallic jingle of slot machines. Mammon’s gaze lingered on the building for just a second too long.

He used to practically live there. Nights bled into mornings. Grimm bled out of his wallet. He couldn’t go a week without blowing his earnings on dice and charm games, lying to himself that his luck was just a little off that night. He used to call it “blowin' off steam.” Chasing distraction. Chasing... whatever it was he thought he needed back then.

“What a damn joke…” he muttered under his breath.

Now?

He couldn’t even remember what the thrill felt like. There was no tug of temptation. Just the cold, distant embarrassment of remembering who he used to be. Of mistaking noise for meaning.

He hadn’t stepped foot in that place for months. Not since he got better, not since the static in his head quieted down long enough for him to hear himself think.

And when he looked at it now—all the flashing lights, the forced cheer, the desperate edge beneath it all—it didn’t look like escape.

It looked like a cage with velvet curtains.

His lip curled slightly—not in anger, more in quiet regret. The kind you don’t say out loud.

Tch. What the hell was I thinkin’ back then?

As he moved toward the outskirts of the city, the air shifted. Subtly at first. The buildings closed in tighter. The storefronts grew stranger—dim signs, more shadows, fewer uniforms and more sharp smiles.

Denser. Warmer. Buzzing with sin and sound.

He was approaching the edge. The beginning of Scary Street.

The Devildom's tone always changed here—like the city's heartbeat dipped a little lower, a little heavier. The laughter was more jagged. The shadows had longer arms.

The crowds thinned slightly, replaced by demons who didn’t look twice unless you looked like trouble. The neon signs flickered with a little less patience. Smells sharpened—oily food, smog, burnt magic residue.

The alleyways ahead twisted like veins through the lower district. The nightclub was tucked into one of them—an old building. Music thumped like a heartbeat from somewhere deeper in the city, muffled under concrete and indulgence.

He had a few blocks left. Enough time to get his head straight.

Mammon walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze steady. But inside, his mind turned like the tumblers of a vault—slow, deliberate, precise.

First thin’ when I get there… I need to look Caligo in the eye an' figure out what the hell this really is.

He didn’t trust the guy. Not fully. Caligo had always been more shadow than substance—slick words, easy smirks, always a little too eager to help. Which made him dangerous.

If Caligo was the supplier—hell, if he was tied deeper into it than Mammon realized—then he needed to know how deep this thing went before the investigation sank its teeth in.

Gotta keep control. Can’t let ‘im sense blood in the water.

Especially not with Barbatos watching.

That thought crept in cold, like fingers sliding under his collar. Mammon’s jaw tightened as he walked past a closed bookstore, its windows covered in old spell flyers. A demon huddled in an alley, exhaling smoke that shimmered green in the air. None of them paid him any mind.

Just another demon walking through the night.

But Barbatos? Barbatos noticed everything.

That look he’d given during the meeting—Mammon had clocked it. Subtle, quiet, but exact. Barbatos didn’t waste expressions. He spent them like coin. If he’d narrowed his eyes, it meant something had already clicked.

Which meant Mammon was on borrowed time.

He had to be clean now. Cleaner than he’d ever been. No panic. No trail. No mistakes.

Stay vague. Stay useful. Never give ‘em a reason to look deeper.

He took a shortcut through a side street near the market square, eyes scanning the rooftops above. One of his crows sat perched on an old metal pipe, pretending to pick at something invisible in the gutter.

Mammon gave a small nod.

He wasn’t alone. But he might as well have been.

Just a little farther now.

He could already hear the low throb of bass vibrating through the street as the nightclub came into view—half-hidden down a narrow alley, framed by metal fire escapes and graffiti-covered walls. The sigil above the door pulsed softly—red and slow, like a heartbeat buried in the dark.

He was near the end of Scary Street now—past the food stalls and broken signage, where even the watchful eyes of the city seemed to look away. Locals called this part the Ashdrop, a sliver of alley-club territory where the drinks were strong and the deals were stronger.

He stopped at the edge of the alley, just out of view.

One last breath.

This was the part that mattered. He couldn’t just look in control. He had to be in control. He could do this. He'd walk in, keep things calm, and get the answers he needed.

And if Caligo tried to play him…

Well.

That still edge—that unshaken quiet—made Mammon a lot more dangerous than anyone gave him credit for.

He rolled his shoulders once. Shook off the night air. His foot hovered at the edge of the step—just for a second. The decision hung between shadow and neon. A pause. A choice. Then he crossed the line.

Mammon entered, the heavy door of the nightclub shutting behind him with a dull thud, sealing out the night—and sealing him inside.

The music swallowed him whole.

It throbbed like a second pulse in his chest—low, relentless, bone-deep. Every beat was a hammer against the walls, and the air was thick with heat, movement, smoke, and that sharp-sweet chemical tang that always lingered too long in the throat.

He’d been here a hundred times. Maybe more. The lights, the sweat-slick bodies moving in rhythmic waves beneath neon sigils, the mix of perfume, alcohol, demonic pheromones—it should’ve been overwhelming.

But the pills dulled it. Not like cotton in the ears or a fog in his brain. No—this was cleaner. Sharper. Like he was watching the chaos through glass.

He adjusted his collar with a casual flick of his wrist and moved through the crowd with practiced ease.

His steps were smooth. Confident. Casual. Not fast. Not slow.  

He moved like he belonged, like nothing was out of place—because for Mammon, the Great Mammon, nothing ever was. Grins met him in passing. Someone clapped his back. Another called out his name, half-lost in the music.

He passed a table where two lower demons threw dice into a circle of glowing salt. One of them looked up and grinned. “Mammon! Thought you got banned again.”

Mammon grinned back, easy and crooked. “Nah, they like me too much for that. I’m good for business.”

The laughter that followed was loud and unguarded, which was exactly what he wanted. Let them think he was here to party. Let them think nothing had changed.

He gave them all the expected responses—flashing his trademark smirk, a wink here, a wave there. It was all muscle memory now.

But under the surface, something coiled.

Not panic. Not fear.

Just a flicker. A shift in the wind. That quiet alertness he’d learned after centuries of being hunted, cornered, and underestimated.

His eyes drifted across the club in passing sweeps—just enough to clock the exits, the balcony doors, the clusters of demons too quiet in the corners. His crows were still nearby—he could feel them, scattered across the district like black eyes in the dark, feeding him calm through the shared tether.

Still, his fingers twitched once. It wasn’t nerves. It was calculation.

Just act normal. Like it’s just another night.

The bar loomed ahead like an island of steady wood and metal amidst the storm of movement.

He slid into his usual stool, not missing a beat. He made sure there was a clear view of the door in the mirror behind the bar. Made sure he had room on either side. He set his coat across the back of the chair, leaned forward slightly. Each movement casual. 

The bartender—tall, pale-skinned, with fiery red hair put in a manbun, and tattoos wrapping up his neck like vines—glanced up as Mammon approached. No smile, not quite. But a quiet nod of recognition.

And something else. Something slightly… off.

“Evenin’, Mammon,” he said smoothly, voice low over the beat. “You want the usual?”

Mammon shook his head once, slow. The grin he gave this time didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah, not tonight.”

He picked up a napkin and began folding it absently between his fingers. It gave his hands something to do. Something to control.

Mammon offered the same easy grin he always did, leaned forward on one elbow like he had all the time in the world. “Rough crowd tonight, huh? Place’s buzzin’.”

The bartender gave a low chuckle, polite. But his hands didn’t stop moving as he cleaned a glass that already looked clean. “You know how it is. Flies to honey.”

Mammon clicked his tongue. “Well, I ain’t here for honey. I got a message for the chef. Real important.”

There it was. The code.

It slid out smooth, hidden in a half-joke—something no one but the two of them would clock.

Requesting a meeting. One-on-one. Face to face. No fluff. No small talk.

The bartender’s hand stilled for half a second before he set the glass down carefully, poured water—no ice this time—and leaned in just slightly closer, voice low. “Kitchen’s closed. Deep clean.”

Mammon’s smile froze for the briefest moment. His fingers tightened around the folded napkin. It wasn’t even a full breath—just a flicker of muscle tension at the corner of his jaw—but it was there. That twitch of annoyance. Of frustration.

Not now. Not when he needed answers.

The irritation rose up like a match strike—and was gone just as fast. Quelled, buried under the chemical calm dulling the corners of his mind.

His smile returned, easy and familiar.

But his voice stayed low. Measured. Serious.

“Look, I get it,” he said, resting both forearms on the bar, leaning in just enough to close the gap, “but this ain’t somethin’ that can wait. This’s urgent. Not just for me—Caligo’ll wanna hear it. Trust me.”

The bartender didn’t respond immediately.

His eyes flicked over Mammon’s face, searching for cracks.

He’d seen Mammon in plenty of moods before—loud, cocky, blustering, desperate—but this version? This calm, steady version? It wasn’t familiar. And that made him wary.

After a moment, he straightened and shook his head.

“I’m tellin’ you—he’s not available,” the bartender said, but his hand shook just slightly as he picked up the next glass.

Mammon’s fingers tapped the bar once. Twice.

Then stopped.

“Then make ‘im available.”

His tone didn’t rise. Didn’t shift. He didn’t lean in closer or flash his teeth. He wasn’t threatening. He didn’t need to be.

He was calm.

And that made it worse.

The bartender studied him for another breath before muttering, “Stay here.”

Then turned and disappeared through the staff door behind the bar.

Mammon leaned back slowly, resuming his relaxed posture like nothing had happened. He glanced down the bar, idly watching a group of demons arguing over something too slurred to follow. He sipped his water.

The beat dropped again, rattling the floor.

He was calm. But underneath, his thoughts were running sharp, cold calculations.

If Caligo’s dodgin’ me, he’s scared. Or smart. Or both.

He resisted the urge to check his surroundings again. His crows were watching. He’d know if someone was tailing him. Still, the quiet weight pressing in at the back of his skull told him he was burning time he didn’t have.

After a few minutes, the bartender returned.

He said nothing—just slid a crumpled receipt toward Mammon, the kind they used for meaningless bar tabs. Written on the back, in neat, slanted handwriting, was an address.

No name. No instructions. Just a location.

“Go there,” the bartender murmured under his breath, pretending to polish another glass. “If you wait long enough, he’ll find you.”

Mammon glanced at the note once, folding it without a sound and slipping it into his pocket.

He met the bartender’s gaze and gave him a short nod.

No smile this time.

Then, just like that, he stood up, picking up his coat and slinging it over his shoulder. He left a tip—too generous for a glass of water, just enough to keep mouths shut. The drink sat untouched. There was nothing left to say.

Another casual exit.

Just Mammon—regular, reckless, smiling Mammon—slipping back into the night like he always did.

But behind his calm exterior, the tension curled tight in his chest.

If Caligo’s meetin' him off-site, things were worse than he thought.

And he wasn’t gonna walk into this blind. Had to get ahead of it.

Before Barbatos found the cracks. Before Lucifer noticed the shift. Before the calm broke.

Chapter Text

Outside, the night had thickened—cool air clinging damp to his skin, the haze of Devildom fog rolling in off the low streets.

The further Mammon walked, the more the noise of the city behind him faded—thinned out into a muffled echo swallowed by distance and fog.

The address led him deep into the underbelly of the Devildom—beyond the safe, glittering chaos of nightlife and neon, past where the club lights died out, where the buildings began to rot into silence.

It was past midnight in one of the Devildom’s more forsaken districts, tucked beyond the reach of the main roads, where the buildings leaned like they were collapsing into each other, and nothing new had been built in decades. The scent of wet stone clung to the air, tinged faintly with rust and something older—something alchemical.

The air felt heavier here, like it had forgotten what warmth was, whispering over cracked concrete like a warning.

Mammon’s steps were steady but unhurried, posture loose and casual.

Every footfall echoed off crumbling pavement and rusted metal—too loud in the stillness. The faint fog curling between the alleys soaked into his coat and clung to his hair like soft fingers. The street lamps here were dim or shattered entirely—only the occasional flicker of dying light above him broke through the mist.

It wasn’t just abandoned.

It was forgotten.

Brick buildings stood like hollow sentries, windows boarded or busted, graffiti peeling in strips from the walls. Chain-link fences sagged. Hollowed-out cars and demon-tagged signs leaned crooked, half-swallowed by vines and decay. This was a place demons didn’t come unless they had a reason—and even then, they didn’t stay long.

A perfect hiding spot.

Mammon didn’t flinch at the desolation. His boots crunched over broken glass and ash as he turned the corner, shoulders relaxed, one hand buried in his pocket, the other adjusting the collar of his coat like he was just out for a late-night stroll—careless, half-bored. 

But his eyes?

They were sharp. Focused. His gaze subtly scanning every dark corner and windowpane without moving his head.

He wasn’t alone. 

Overhead, his crows circled lazily. Their wings beat softly against the air, feathers cutting through the stillness like whispers—black shapes against the night sky. He could feel them in the back of his mind—see through them, if he needed to. They perched on rusted signs and rooftops, blending into the mist and shadow like they belonged there. They looked like any other urban scavengers—no one gave a crow a second glance in this part of town. Watching. Listening. Ready.

A soft caw echoed from a nearby ledge.

No followers. No eyes.

Still, Mammon’s thoughts didn’t slow: This better not be a trap.

He wouldn’t put it past Caligo. The guy was smart—too smart. Slick talker, clean hands, never in the spotlight. He ran everything from the shadows, always three steps ahead of everyone.

Mammon hated that.

He'd played this game before, too. Lies wrapped in smiles. Deals dressed up like favors. But if Caligo thought the pills made Mammon stupid, he was in for a rude awakening.

Mammon wasn’t just a user.

He was the Avatar of Greed—second-born, demon of ambition, protector of what’s his. And right now, what’s his was control. Control of his body, his mind, his story. He wouldn’t lose that again.

Even if this whole meeting was a setup, even if Caligo had a dozen armed demons waiting nearby, it wouldn’t matter. They’d never get past him.

And they sure as hell wouldn’t get past his crows.

Mammon passed a row of half-boarded apartments, one of which looked like it had been scorched out from the inside. Graffiti peeled off the walls like old paint. A single wind-blown flier skipped across the street before disappearing down a crack in the pavement.

The air felt heavy here. Not with heat or pressure, but with the kind of silence that came from places long-forgotten. No footsteps. No voices. Only the crows and the wind—and the sense that something watched from behind the hollowed windows of long-dead buildings.

He turned down a narrower street—barely more than an alley—and found the spot.

The place came into view up ahead. It looked like nothing—just another husk swallowed by the decay of the district. Tucked between two taller structures, it was a squat, three-story concrete shell with busted windows, faded paint, and a flickering light above the side entrance that buzzed every few seconds before sputtering out again.

There was no handle. No markings—except for a tiny, almost imperceptible sigil etched low into the corner of the wall. A ward, maybe. Or a claim.

But Mammon knew better.

The building was a front—one of Caligo’s many hidden properties, tucked under fake names and forged identities. An apartment-style hideout. Not the main operation, but one of the spots he used when things needed to stay quiet. Off the grid. No questions asked.

He slowed as he approached the door, the mist curling around his ankles, slow, like something sentient.

The crows above shifted, rustling feathers as they moved from perch to perch—waiting. Watching.

Mammon didn’t go in.

Instead, he stopped just beside the door and leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, one boot pressed against the crumbling concrete behind him. Like he was just killing time. Like he belonged here.

His eyes scanned the street—slow, methodical, taking in every alley, every window, every flicker of movement.

Nothing.

But that didn’t mean he relaxed.

He tilted his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose as the cold mist clung to his skin. The distant sound of a train rumbled somewhere far off, a low thunder that quickly faded back into silence.

He still wasn’t sure if Caligo was playing him.

But it didn’t matter.

If this was a setup, Caligo'd regret it.

His fingers brushed against the inside of his coat, where his pact mark hummed faintly under his skin. Power didn’t need to be loud—it only needed to be ready.

And Mammon was ready.

He let his eyes drift shut for a second. Not to rest. Just to listen.

The crows shifted again, calling softly through the fog.

Still safe. Still alone.

So he waited. Calm. Still.

If Caligo wanted to play this meeting like some back-alley spy game, fine. Let him come to him. Mammon wasn’t afraid of the dark.

He owned it.

The minutes dragged.

Up above, one of his crows shifted on the rooftop ledge, feathers ruffling against the mist. Mammon’s awareness flickered—just for a second—as he dipped into its vision.

The world narrowed, then widened, tilting strangely: the high-angle view from the crow’s perch painted the alley in stark blacks and ghostly silver. A smear of movement—just wind. No heat signatures. No wards flaring in the infrared.

He blinked back into himself with a slow exhale, pupils adjusting. No threats. No changes. Just fog curling between the buildings like breath held too long.

Mammon stood still beneath the crumbling awning of the abandoned building, the concrete wall rough and cool against his back. One crow perched high above on the crooked streetlamp, feathers puffed slightly against the mist, while others scattered the rooftop and ledges, all silent now—just watching, waiting, like he was.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking toward the end of the alley, then up to the dim orange glow of a broken lamppost humming overhead. The quiet here wasn't just still—it was stagnant, the kind that made your thoughts echo too loud in your own head.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenching as he pulled out his D.D.D. and glanced at the time, a faint flicker of frustration tightening his brow. Twenty minutes late. He clicked his tongue, scrolling to the bartender’s contact—thumb hovering over the call button.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “Guy picks the creepiest place in the Devildom, then shows up late.”

One of his crows let out a low caw from its perch high above, a warning, or a reminder—to stay quiet and wait.

He tucked the device away and leaned his head back against the cold stone, staring up at the flickering lamplight. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm against his arm. He wasn’t exactly nervous—at least not in a way he could admit—but the wait gnawed at his nerves. The stillness stretched thin like a string pulled taut.

Then—

A shift. Not footsteps. Not sound. Just… a ripple.

The shadows along the far end of the alley seemed to peel apart. Mammon’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as Caligo stepped into the world from the mouth of the alley—half-formed out of the shadows like he’d been there the whole time, watching.

Dressed in layered obsidian black, coat slung over one shoulder, cigarette tucked behind his ear, eyes like oil-slicks reflecting the moonlight. His smile was slow, feline, and unreadable. His coat stirred around him with a whisper, darker than the alley itself, his silhouette sharp and too still. 

Mammon straightened but didn’t move.

Caligo stopped just short of him, head tilting slightly as he regarded the demon with those slow, calculating eyes. His expression—always unreadable—shifted just enough to register something.

“You’re unusually early tonight, greedling,” he said, voice quiet but crisp. It cut through the heavy air. 

Mammon didn’t smirk. Didn’t move. Just crossed his arms and met Caligo’s gaze with something colder than usual.

“An' ya are late.”

Caligo raised a brow, the glow of the streetlamp catching faint gold in his eyes. He tilted his head, almost amused. But then, he seemed to notice something in Mammon’s expression—a tightness, a set to his jaw, a quiet lack of his usual swagger.

He frowned, just slightly.

“You’re looking awfully serious, greedling." His gaze sharpened, piercing. “That’s never a good sign.”

Mammon gave a dry exhale, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, well. We’ve got stuff to talk about.”

Caligo studied him for a beat longer. His posture didn’t shift, but his expression did—only just. He nodded once, without pressing. Then, without a word, he turned and pressed his hand to the bare section of the wall beside the door. A whisper of energy, a sigil lighting briefly beneath his palm—and the lock clicked open.

“Come in.”

Mammon followed. A crow above took flight, its wings slicing the air, circling wide as the door creaked shut behind them.

The alley returned to silence. But the shadows lingered a little longer than they should’ve—as if listening.

The inside of the building was nothing like the outside.

From the street, it looked like a corpse—just another forgotten ruin in the Devildom’s rot-soaked underbelly. But once Mammon stepped through the reinforced door, the illusion cracked.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit by a single amber-tinted bulb that buzzed faintly above them. The tile underfoot was scuffed and uneven, but the walls were scrubbed clean—wrongly clean for a place like this, like someone had bleached out the crime but left the bones. Sound-dampening runes had been etched discreetly into the corners, and the air had the faint scent of ozone and old smoke, like the room had been recently purified.

Caligo led the way without a word.

Mammon followed, eyes sharp despite the calm on his face. He glanced around as they moved deeper into the building—past closed doors, faded signage, and a stairwell that clearly hadn’t been used in a decade. But there was power here. Hidden wards and locking spells wrapped into the bones of the place.

Functional. Quiet. Controlled.

They passed a set of reinforced doors, and Caligo stopped in front of one. He unlocked it with a flick of his fingers—runes glowing faintly under his touch—then pushed it open with his shoulder.

“Welcome to the office.”

The space inside wasn’t large—maybe the size of a modest apartment lounge—but it was carefully, deliberately curated.

The lighting was dim and warm, casting a low orange glow over the room. Smoke lingered in the air, clinging more out of habit than necessity. The windows had been blacked out with rune-sealed film. A single cracked-leather couch faced a low table littered with spent ashtrays, unopened packages, unlabelled folders, and half-empty bottles of cheap Devildom liquor. Two armchairs sat opposite, mismatched but clean.

A shelf lined one wall, filled with books that weren’t alphabetised, sorted by color or subject, but seemed used. Real. Two or three pill cases rested there, tucked among journals, burner phones, and folded maps.

And behind the couch—mounted on a slanted board—was a faded city map of the Devildom. Areas were marked in ink. Some were scratched out in angry slashes. Others circled in ink. A few had scraps of paper taped over them, like ongoing edits to a plan.

The space wasn’t cozy.

But it was lived-in. A place where real work got done. Where secrets were kept.

Caligo stepped inside, shrugging his coat off and tossing it lazily over the couch before lighting a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. The flare briefly lit his face in the half-dark.

“Go ahead, sit,” he said, not quite looking at Mammon. “You want anything? Drink? Smoke? Or… the usual kind of silence?”

Mammon stepped in slow, eyes flicking across the space, lingering on the city map, the books, the pill bottles. He stood just inside the doorway, like he was weighing the room in his hands—like the very walls might shift depending on what was said next.

“Nah,” he muttered. “Ain’t here for that.” He stayed where he was. He wasn’t ready to sink into anything yet—not until he knew where this was going.

Caligo didn’t sit just yet. He stood near the table, watching Mammon through the rising smoke. One brow arched—not mocking, not surprised. Just… curious. “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” he said quietly. “Like you’re about to ask for a favor or throw a punch.”

Mammon didn’t flinch. Just leaned back, arms crossed, the weight of the evening pressing down now that he was finally here. “Neither. Not yet.”

Caligo let out a quiet chuckle and finally sank into the couch with a sigh, flicking ash into the tray beside him. Mammon said nothing at first. The crows outside, though out of sight now, still pulsed at the back of his mind—watchful, ever-present. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was expected.

Then Mammon broke it.

“There’s an investigation startin’. Not just some routine sweep—this one’s bigger. Diavolo’s involved. Personally.” His tone was low. Clipped. The kind of voice he used when he wasn’t cracking jokes, when something underneath the surface was simmering—and just barely held in check.

The words hung heavy in the air. Even the crows, silent outside, seemed to stiffen.

Caligo didn’t move—just drew in another breath of smoke, slow and measured, like he had all the time in the world. He looked up, eyes narrowing, not in surprise, but calculation. The cigarette hung motionless between his fingers, forgotten for the moment.

“They picked up on a new drug,” Mammon continued, stepping slowly into the room now, past the outer shadow of the doorway. “It ain’t got a name yet—no official label, no public leaks—just rumours. But they know it’s unregulated, illegal, and it’s spreadin’ fast in the lower districts.”

The words landed like quiet gunshots in the smoke-heavy air.

He stopped at the table across from Caligo, hands resting lightly on the edge—not leaning, just close enough to signal this wasn’t idle gossip.

His eyes locked on Caligo now—hard, searching. “Sound familiar?”

Caligo exhaled slowly. The smoke curled upward, coiling toward the ceiling like it wanted no part in what was coming next.

Mammon’s voice dropped further, flat now—too steady to be casual. “Took me a while to put it together. Didn’t wanna believe it, not at first.  But the way he talked about it, the signs—it lines up too well.”

“The pills I’ve been takin’... it’s gotta be the same.”

Caligo stayed silent. Didn’t flinch. Just tapped one finger on the armrest—more countdown than nervous tick.

Mammon’s voice stayed low, steady. There was no room for second-guessing anymore. “Ya gonna tell me I’m wrong? That ya’re not involved in that?”

Caligo finally looked at him. No grin now. No lazy flick of amusement in his eyes. Just that same unreadable calm.

Mammon pressed on. “I’ve been dealin’ with ya for months. Gettin’ these pills, usin’ ‘em to stay in control, keep from fallin’ apart. But if this is part of some underground op you’re runnin’—if this whole time I’ve been wrapped up in some illegal black-market shit—” His voice caught, not from fear but from the heat curling in his chest. “—then I got a right to know.”

He stepped forward now, eyes sharp. “Ya think I’d have come here if it wasn’t serious? If I didn’t think it was about to blow open?”

The air between them cut sharp—no words, just the weight of what wasn’t said.

“I ain’t askin’ ya to confess,” Mammon said finally, quieter. “But I need to know what I’m riskin’ by stickin’ with this. What ya’re riskin’. And what the hell ya’re plannin’ to do if it all comes down.”

“So tell me—how really deep are ya in this?”

Caligo didn’t respond right away.

He leaned back against the couch, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The expression on his face wasn’t guilt, wasn’t fear—but there was weight there. Something quieter. Older. Like he’d been expecting this conversation to come for a long time.

Finally, he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. “You think I’m reckless, greedling?”

Mammon didn’t answer. He stood still, hands loose at his sides, eyes sharp and steady.

“You think I’d sell a product that left prints behind? That couldn’t pass through scanners? That couldn’t vanish without a trace when needed?” His voice was calm—but behind it, a strange edge had surfaced. Not defensive. Not arrogant.

Practical.

“You’re right.” He tapped ash into the tray with slow precision. “The pills you’ve been takin’—they’re mine. Or rather…” He tilted the cigarette between his fingers, a small ember glowing at the tip. “They come from me.”

The words settled in the air like ash.

Caligo went on, voice smooth—measured, like someone weighing a blade in his hand before deciding if it should be used.“This isn’t a street drug, greedling. I don’t hand it out to junkies in alleys. I don’t sell to anyone I don’t choose first.” He flicked ash into the tray. “You weren’t the first. But you were a rare yes.”

Mammon’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ya’re sayin’ this is… what, exclusive?”

Caligo gave a small shrug. “Selective.” He paused. Smoke drifted lazily between them, soft as a curtain.

“I didn’t make them to get rich. Didn’t flood the streets with ‘em. I pick my clients. Carefully. Quietly. No names. No debts. No dependency that wasn’t already waiting to happen.”

He looked up now, meeting Mammon’s gaze with something close to honesty—no theatrics, no smirk behind the smoke.

“And I never sold ‘em to someone who didn’t already have the noise clawin’ inside their skull.”

He let that hang for a moment before adding, “There’s no name for it yet because I didn’t make it for the public. This isn’t some mass-distributed poison made in bulk for the desperate. This is mine. I built it. Refined it. Controlled every part of what it does. And more importantly…”—his gaze sharpened—“…who it goes to.”

Mammon felt his stomach tighten. He stood straighter. “So ya are the supplier.”

Caligo’s reply came without hesitation, “I don’t trust middlemen. They mess with the dose.”

A beat passed.

Mammon ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering behind his teeth. “So all this time I’ve been part of a test run or somethin’? One of yer little experiments?”

Caligo’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes—fleeting, sharp—hinted at a different weight.

“No. You were never a test.” He finally looked away—first time all night—as he ashed his cigarette with a flick, the ember dimming like a closing thought. “You were a choice.”

Mammon blinked, thrown off for half a second. It hit him sideways—too deliberate to be a lie, too soft to be a deflection.

Then, quieter now, voice low and steady: “Why?”

Caligo didn’t answer at first. He reached for a slim, black case tucked into the shadows beside the ashtray, nearly invisible in the low light. Quiet click. Opened.

Inside, on a bed of black foam, sat a shard: a small, glassy crystal—onyx-dark. Sharp-edged and faintly luminous—like shadow condensed into glass. Threads of silver flickered in its core, dancing like something alive. It pulsed faintly, as if it breathed.

Like silence, crystallised.

It pulled at him the way a gambler’s coin did—something sharp and shiny promising luck if you only risked enough blood.

He held it up between two fingers, letting the faint light catch on the edges.

“Because I know what you’re fighting.” His tone lost the calm lilt for just a moment—just long enough to sound like something underneath still ached. “And because I knew you'd understand the silence.”

Mammon’s eyes tracked the shard. Then back to Caligo. “…What the hell is it, really?”

“This,” he said, voice flat and steady, “is the pure form. Stronger than the capsules. A single grain of it does what ten of those will only whisper.” His thumb brushed the edge without touching the crystal’s face—too careful to seem indifferent.

The light caught on the silver striations. Something sharp flickered in his tone—like pride, like warning.

Behind his eyes, a flicker of static—one of his crows shifted sharply on a rooftop ledge. Mammon felt it like a twitch in his chest: wings flexing, feathers ruffling in agitation.

Not danger. Not yet. But something near.

He tuned into the crow’s vantage for a breath—saw the alley stretched in dim fog from above, empty and dead still. But the feeling lingered, like something just past the edge of perception.

The shard in Caligo’s hand pulsed faintly, silver veins flickering inside the glass like a heartbeat. Mammon’s focus snapped back.

The crow quieted. Watching. Waiting. So was he.

Mammon’s eyes dropped to the shard. The room narrowed; even the smoke seemed to lean away. He didn’t move at first. “What d’ya call it?” he asked.

A pause, like he was choosing whether or not to lie. Then:

“Clinical name?” Caligo’s lips curved faintly. “I called it, N-9 Anxiolithium. That’s what I filed it under.”

A beat.

“I called it Sileo, once,” A pause. “Didn’t stick.” The name hovered quiet and heavy in the air.

Caligo turned it once in his fingers, the way someone might handle something sacred or cursed. Then, gently, he set it back in its case. “It doesn’t just quiet the noise. It cuts the need before it can scream. It buys silence—clean, immediate, and dangerous.”

“It was never meant to be public. Never meant to be a weapon.”

Mammon scoffed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Sounds like somethin’ they’d ban on name alone.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at Caligo’s mouth, but it faded before it settled.

“It was made for demons who wake up every day already losing the fight. ” He tapped his temple lightly. “For the ones whose vices don’t shut up. Greed. Wrath. Lust. Pride. Gluttony. Envy. Noise like that… it doesn’t quiet easy.”

Mammon shifted, crossing his arms—not defensive, just anchored. “Ya’re not answerin’ the real question.”

Caligo tilted his head, eyes flickering up to meet his again. “And what’s the real one, Mammon?”

Mammon’s eyes didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“…Am I just a client?” he asked, flat. “Or am I a liability now that Diavolo’s pokin’ around?”

Another silence. Heavier this time. Like both of them knew this part mattered.

When Caligo finally spoke, it wasn’t soft. It was steady. Certain. “If you were a liability…”

A breath

“…you wouldn’t be here.”

A silence stretched between them again—thicker now, charged. The smoke hung low, dense enough to taste, curling in slow ribbons between them like a third presence.

“Then tell me this,” Mammon said, voice low and honed. “What’s your endgame? Ya deal to people like me—people who don’t wanna feel the noise anymore. Ya do it quiet. Off the grid. But now the prince is pokin’ around. If he finds out ya’re the source—”

He’s tone didn’t spike; it sharpened. Each word laid like a card on a table.

“He won’t,” Caligo cut in, calm as ever.

“Yeah?” Mammon’s tone tightened. “An’ what if he does? What if he traces it back—what happens to me then? Ya think he won’t figure out I’ve been takin’ it? That I’m helpin’ ya move it?”

“You’ve never helped me move it,” Caligo replied. “You’ve paid. You’ve received. That’s it.”

“That’s not gonna matter to ‘im,” Mammon said, voice low but sharp. “If it’s illegal, if it’s dangerous, I’ll go down with it. An’ this—” He gestured sharply toward the air between them, the room, the entire web. “—this thin’ between us? It only works if I know what I’m dealin’ with.”

There it was.

Not a threat. Not even a demand.

Just the truth.

Mammon’s eyes stayed fixed on Caligo, his body still, like a predator waiting for a shift in the wind.

The room quieted again. Only the faint tick of the ashtray’s cooling embers and the low hum of the runes in the walls filled the air.

Then, slowly, Caligo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers. The ember pulsed faintly as he spoke.

His voice was quieter now. Measured.

“I never lied to you, Mammon. Not once. I’ve warned you what this stuff does. What it costs. And yeah—it’s unregistered, unregulated, untracked. Because the second it’s official, the second it’s categorized, it stops being a choice and starts being a weapon.”

He looked up at last, a thin shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth—something like recognition. “What I deal in ain’t just silence. It’s autonomy. And for people like you, that’s more dangerous than anything else.”

Mammon met his gaze, unmoving. Eyes unreadable. “An’ if the whole thin’ burns down?”

Caligo gave a tired shrug. “Then it burns.” He took one last drag from his cigarette, then crushed it into the tray. “But I’d rather burn free than live leashed.”

The silence sat like stone—heavy, solid, unmoving.

The smoke between them coiled upward, thin and pale against the dim orange glow. Neither of them spoke. The low hum of the rune-sealed bulb overhead buzzed like a trapped insect—louder than it should’ve been, clawing at the quiet.

Caligo didn’t break it. He just leaned back again, arm resting across the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, watching Mammon with the same practiced stillness he always wore—only now, it felt less lazy and more deliberate. Like a man who’d learned long ago not to move too quickly when something dangerous was pacing the room.

Mammon didn’t pace. He stood there, tense, jaw clenched, arms crossed like he was trying to keep something from spilling out of him. The silence worked on him like pressure—slow, tightening, coaxing the truth to the surface.

And then, finally, he let it go. “There’s somethin’ else…”

Mammon exhaled hard through his nose. “…I’m involved.”

Caligo didn’t react right away. He didn’t move. But something shifted—subtle, invisible. The air felt denser, the smoke hung heavier. He set the cigarette in the ashtray with slow, deliberate precision, then leaned back again, the stillness in him suddenly no longer casual.

“In what?”

“In the investigation,” Mammon said. Flat. No hesitation now.

A beat. Then another.

Caligo’s gaze didn’t narrow, didn’t waver. But something behind his eyes clicked into place. “I see.”

Mammon’s voice was quieter now—rougher. “I ain’t here to sting ya. I didn’t come with orders, and I ain’t wearin’ a wire or nothin’ dramatic like that. But I didn’t wanna lie to yer face either.”

He ran a hand through his hair, agitation crackling just under the surface. “I’m on the Devildom Council, Caligo. When Diavolo starts sniffin’ out some illegal drug circulatin’ the lower wards, I don’t get to look the other way. I’m in this now.”

“I didn’t wanna be here. Didn’t wanna have to do this. But I don’t exactly got a choice, do I?” He looked up, something sharp burning behind his eyes. 

“Which brings me back to my point—if Lord Diavolo finds out… if any of my brothers find out what I’ve been takin’—what it is—” He swallowed hard. “—I’m screwed. Everythin' I’ve clawed my way back to? Gone.”

Another pause. Whatever warmth had lingered was gone—replaced by something waiting.

“They think I’m better ‘cause I’ve been workin’ through it. Pushin’ past. Healin’ or some crap like that,” A bitter laugh slipped out. “But it ain’t that. It’s this. These damn pills. Ya. An’ if they find out the only reason I can sleep without hearin’ shit in my head is because of some black-market suppressant—”

He broke off. Didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

Caligo regarded him for a long moment. Then, he spoke, “You always had a choice, greedling.”

His voice was quieter now, but still sharp enough to cut, “You have one now.”

Mammon blinked. “What—”

“You can tell Diavolo the truth,” Caligo said evenly, “Or you can keep doing what you’re doing. Keep takin' the pills. Keep hiding. You’ve got options. They’re not pretty.”

He paused, then added with a calm finality. “You just might not like them.”

Mammon scoffed and threw up a hand. “Great. What is this now, huh? Some kinda therapy session?” His voice had the familiar edge of sarcasm, but the bitterness behind it was real. Defensive. Raw. Like he was already bracing for whatever came next.

Caligo didn’t bite, didn’t smirk, didn’t lecture. He just watched him—quiet, steady, unreadable.

“No,” he said finally. “It’s a reminder.”

His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold, “You’re not a victim of this. You walked into it with your eyes open.”

Mammon’s head turned slightly, but he still didn’t look up.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want what it gave you.”

Mammon stared at the ground for a moment longer—then slowly raised his head, eyes dark.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

His silence said enough.

Caligo leaned back again, voice quieter now. Less like a man pushing buttons, more like someone stating a fact he’d lived through, “You wanted the silence. The control. The clarity. And maybe that makes you desperate. Or maybe it just makes you honest.”

Mammon’s expression twitched—guilt pulling at the corners of his mouth, frustration settling in his shoulders. His throat worked, but no words came.

Finally, after a long pause, he muttered, “Doesn’t matter now.”

His fingers tightened unconsciously on the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening—as if even saying it left a taste in his mouth he couldn’t spit out.

The words fell like ash between them.

Mammon let out a slow breath. Rubbed the back of his neck. The fight in him hadn’t gone, but it had shifted—focused.

“There’s still things I can control,” he said, quieter now. “And this—this has to be one of ‘em.”

He straightened, not quite looking at Caligo.

“I need to keep this under the radar,” He said, “Which means we can’t meet like this anymore.” He didn’t look at Caligo—just stared past him, like saying it too directly might make it real.

“It’s too risky. Someone sees me. Someone talks—and I’m done. We’re both done.”

Caligo’s face didn’t change. But he leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, the cigarette forgotten in the tray. “So what do you propose then, greedling?”

The question landed with weight.

Not scornful.

Not sarcastic.

Just quiet. Honest.

And waiting.

Mammon shifted, then spoke—voice low, practical. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he said. “If we can’t keep meetin’ like this, we change how we do it.”

Caligo tilted his head slightly. “Go on.”

“I’ve got my crows,” Mammon said. “My familiars. They’re smart—smarter than most demons give ‘em credit for. Loyal, too. We don’t need to meet face-to-face anymore. Ya drop the pills somewhere quiet, somethin’ off the grid. Abandoned alley, rooftop, wherever’s dead. I’ll send ‘em to pick it up and leave the Grimm there. No one’s the wiser.”

Leaning back in the chair, arms crossed, he added, “No paper trail. No witnesses. No chance of either of us bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Caligo’s brows arched. A faint flicker of amusement passed behind the smoke. “Huh.”

Mammon frowned. “What.”

“Look at you. You’re gettin’ smart on me, greedling,” Caligo said, tone somewhere between impressed and suspicious. “Didn’t expect this side of you.”

Mammon shot him a dry look. “Yeah, well. Turns out desperation’s a real good teacher.”

Caligo’s smirk faded as Mammon went on.

“Diavolo can detect lies, y’know. It’s one of his little tricks—one look, and he knows if you’re feeding him bullshit. I can’t just sit there at the council table and tell him I haven’t found anythin’ when he starts askin’ questions.”

Caligo’s eyes narrowed, sharpening. “So you plan to tell him?”

“No.” Mammon shook his head. “Not the whole thing. I can’t. But I can’t outright lie either. Not without him catchin’ on.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “So… I’ll use half-truths. Give him just enough to look like I’m bein’ straight. Keep it vague. Evasive. No names. No locations. Just crumbs.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That way, he won’t suspect I’m holdin’ somethin’ back. An' maybe I can keep us both outta the fire.”

Caligo sat back, cigarette balanced between two fingers. He watched Mammon with a look that was hard to read—not anger, not concern. More like… calculation.
And under it, something heavier. Older. Quieter.

“You sure about this?” he asked finally. His voice had dropped—no longer the lazy drawl of a dealer, but the steadier weight of the man behind it.

Mammon blinked. “Sure about what?”

“About this,” Caligo said, gesturing loosely between them. “You’re talking about running interference on the Prince of the Devildom. Feeding him half-truths. Protecting me. Protecting yourself. You think you can walk that line and not fall off?”

Mammon’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

Caligo exhaled slowly, eyes still on him. “You tell Diavolo everything, you’re burned. You keep doing this, you’re burned a different way. Once you cross this line, greedling…” He met Mammon’s gaze, voice almost soft. “There’s no going back. You can’t unmake that choice.”

The silence that followed pressed down like a weight. Even the faint hum of the runes in the walls seemed to dim.

Mammon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Story of my life.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, then to the ashes cooling in the tray between them. For a second, the cocky front slipped. The room, thick with smoke and silence, pressed in around him.

He didn’t want this.

Didn’t want to lie to his brothers. Didn’t want to twist half-truths for Diavolo. Didn’t want to be here, sitting across from someone like Caligo, talking about drop-offs and evasion tactics like it was just business.

But he was already in too deep.

He’d taken the pills.

Relied on them.

Changed because of them.

And the version of himself that didn’t have them—that had to claw through the noise in his head alone—he didn’t know if that guy could survive it. Not with the Barbatos watching. Not with Lucifer watching.

He just needed time. A window. A chance to figure something out before the whole thing caved in.

Eventually, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sure.”

Caligo studied him for a long moment, unreadable.

Then, he gave a soft snort—no real humor in it. “You’re starting to sound like a real addict, greedling.”

Mammon stiffened.

“Lying to everyone around you. Justifying the decisions. Bending your morals, your loyalty. Just to keep your fix close— and your secret closer.”

“That ain’t what this is,” Mammon shot back, voice low, but firm.

Caligo raised a brow, not arguing—just letting the words hang.

Mammon held his ground. “I ain’t doin’ this just for me.”

He paused, breath steadying.

“I’ll keep buyin’. I’ll keep coverin’ for ya. But it’s only under one condition.”

Caligo sat back slowly, cigarette forgotten, his fingers loose against his knee. “This should be good.”

Mammon leaned forward, voice steady, but something colder underneath. “Ya stop sellin' to the others.”

A beat.

“Ya stop supplyin’ the pills to everyone else. No more clients. No more spreadin' it through the Devildom. If I’m gonna keep goin’ with this—if I’m gonna betray everythin' I care about—I at least gotta do one thin' right.”

He gestured toward the room—the maps, the ashtray, the scattered cases. “Only me. You sell ‘em only to me. Ya cut everyone else out.”

His voice was tighter now. Not angry. Not desperate.

Resolved.

“I gotta stop other demons from gettin’ hooked. I gotta save someone from this—if I can’t save myself.”

He swallowed, his next words quieter. “If anyone’s gonna burn for this, it’s gonna be me—not a bunch of other demons who don’t even know what they’re takin’.”

The space between them went still. The faint buzz of the rune-lit bulb overhead filled the quiet like static.

Caligo stared at him.

The weight of Mammon’s demand settled like a stone dropped into deep water—no ripples yet, just sinking, slow and heavy.

Caligo leaned back at last, jaw tight. For a flicker, something almost weary crossed his face—then it was gone. He drew in a slow breath, eyes never leaving Mammon’s.

When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual rhythm. It was lower. Grounded.

“No.”

Mammon stiffened. “What?”

“I said no,” Caligo repeated, more firmly this time. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried like a blade drawn slow. “You want me to stop selling to everyone else? Close the door on every other sorry soul clawin’ for a shred of silence?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, cigarette forgotten in the tray. ”I don’t deal to addicts, Mammon. I deal to the desperate. People who’ve got nothin’ left but the noise in their skull and the choice to turn it off for a while.”

He looked away for a moment, hand flexing over the arm of the couch like he needed the anchor to stay calm.

“You think I do this for kicks? For Grimm? I sell this shit because I know what it’s like to drown in your own damn thoughts. This—” he gestured loosely to the pills on the shelf, the maps, the whole room, “—this is mercy. It ain’t perfect. But it’s better than the alternative.”

Mammon stared at him, jaw tense. He wasn’t surprised by the answer, but it still hit something in his chest.

“Yeah? An' what happens when they can’t stop takin’ it?” he asked, voice steady but low. “What happens when one of ‘em starts needin’ more just to get through a day, or when Diavolo’s guys catch some poor demon in the middle of a breakdown with a handful of these and no answers where they came from?”

Caligo didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched, smoke curling upward like a second breath neither of them could take.

Then he said, calm but sharper now. “I give it to those already drowning in the noise. I give them silence. A choice. You tell me not to sell anymore, you’re not protecting them—you’re takin’ that choice away.”

“An' ya think they’re choosin’ this?” Mammon snapped, stepping forward now, hands cutting through the air. “Ya think any of ‘em want this? Want to wake up dependin’ on some damn pill just to function?”

Caligo didn’t flinch. His gaze was steady, almost sad.

“They already do,” he said quietly. “With or without me. I just make it easier.”

Mammon moved, the tension breaking. He stood, pacing once, running a hand through his hair hard enough to tug. His boots scuffed against the old tile, the sound stark in the still room.“Then make it harder, damn it.”

He turned back, face hard. “Look—I’m not askin’ ya to cut off everyone cold. Just… stop the newer ones. The younger demons. Cut them loose before they get in too deep.”

Caligo said nothing.

“Ya don’t have to shut the whole thin’ down,” Mammon pressed. “But scale it back. Reduce what ya give to the ones ya do keep. Ya can’t tell me this shit doesn’t wreck people if they stay on it too long.”

He stepped forward slightly, voice tightening. "Just cut the risk. Control the flow. Hell, half yer clients probably won’t even notice if ya dial it back.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “But I will. I’ll notice. ‘Cause I’m still takin’ ‘em. Still needin’ ‘em. But if I’m gonna keep doin’ this, I gotta believe it’s not just for me. That I’m not lettin others go under while I keep my head above water.”

His voice cracked, just a little, around the edges. “I can’t save everyone. But I can save someone. Even if it’s just one.”

A long, quiet beat stretched.

The silence that followed was still—but not empty. Heavy. Caligo’s eyes dropped to the tray between them, fingers drumming once against the arm of the couch.

Then, finally, he spoke. “I’ll scale it down. Trim the list. Only the ones who already can’t quit. No new clients. No more first-timers.”

Mammon’s shoulders lowered—just a little. “An' the dosage?”

A pause.

Then Caligo nodded once. “Reduced. Low dose, slower flow. Enough to keep them steady—but not enough to keep them numb.”

Mammon let out a breath that sounded too close to relief. He rubbed his hands over his face.

“That’s all I ask.”

“No,” Caligo said, quiet but firm. “It’s not.”

Mammon looked up.

“You’re askin’ for a lot,” he continued. “And I’m agreeing because I get it—because I know what this stuff costs.”

He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on Mammon. “But make no mistake, Mammon—you’re not the hero here.”

Caligo’s words hit harder than Mammon expected. For a split second, he thought of his brothers—his real family. The guilt, the weight of every lie, every decision that would pull him further from them.

Mammon swallowed, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “I never said I was.” But the words felt thin, hollow, like the mask he was holding together was cracking just a little more.

Caligo didn’t back off. “Maybe not. But you want to be.”

He stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, “Maybe you don’t have to be. Maybe it’s enough that you’re tryin’ to be.”

Mammon didn’t respond.

Because maybe it wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had right now.

Caligo sat there for a beat longer, watching him. Something in his face shifted—not a full thaw, but a small crack in the mask.

The faintest breath of something like regret. Or maybe respect.

He leaned forward again, voice low. “You know, most demons who take these pills? They don’t talk like that. They don’t care who else gets ‘em. Just wanna stay afloat themselves.”

The silence between them settled again—not heavy this time, but lingering. The kind that came when the deal was struck, but the consequences still hadn’t caught up.

Mammon shifted, half-turned toward the door, but didn’t move yet.

“—One more thin',” he said, voice low.

Caligo lifted a brow, already reaching for another cigarette. “Figured.”

Mammon’s jaw worked for a second before he spoke. “If this investigation gets deeper... they might do a drug test. A surprise one, full panel. Blood. Magic trace. Maybe even soul resonance.”

He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to.

Caligo lit the cigarette slowly, the flare of the match reflecting briefly in his eyes, letting the flame bloom before snuffing it out with a lazy flick. He took a long drag, eyes narrowing slightly through the smoke.

“You’re worried about pissin’ in a cup, huh?” he said with dry amusement.

Mammon glared. “I’m serious. I can’t refuse without raisin’ flags, and if I take it—”

“They’ll find it,” Caligo finished, not unkindly. He tapped ash into the tray, then looked at him. “Except they won’t.”

Mammon blinked. “What?”

Caligo leaned forward, cigarette between his fingers, that same calm fire behind his eyes. “You don’t gotta worry that pretty little head of yours, greedling. I’m always a few steps ahead. This ain’t my first time dancing with authority.”

Mammon turned then, just slightly, eyes narrowing. “Ya’re sayin’ it won’t show?”

“The compound metabolizes clean,” Caligo said, tone shifting into something smooth and clinical. “No blood markers. No magic residue. It binds to infernal waste channels—flushes out like background noise. Even the enhanced scans don’t know what to look for.”

Mammon squinted at him, arms folding. “So it’s invisible?”

Caligo smiled faintly. “Near enough. I built it to vanish.”

Mammon’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve really thought this all the way through, huh?”

Caligo smirked, just slightly. “Trust me—if I was careless, we wouldn’t be talkin’ right now.”

Mammon hesitated, then nodded again. “Good.”

Caligo took a slow drag, letting the silence sit a second longer. Then, with a sidelong glance and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he said, “Y’know… if it weren’t for the pills keepin’ that gluttonous little sin of yours sedated—” He exhaled smoke through his nose, voice easy. “I’d almost say you were gettin’ greedy.”

Mammon blinked, clearly caught off guard. “The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

Caligo gave a lazy shrug, feigning innocence.

“Demanding the whole supply to yourself, cuttin’ off the rest of the Devildom? Sounds like hoardin’ to me.”

Mammon shot him a look. “It ain’t like that.”

“Mm.” Caligo raised a brow, unconvinced but amused. “One condition, you said. ‘No one else gets any. Only me.’”

He mimicked Mammon’s gravelly voice with a touch of drama, “‘I gotta save somebody… even if I can’t save myself.’”

He chuckled under his breath, then gave Mammon a sideways look, eyes glinting. “Real selfless of you, Greed.”

Mammon scoffed. “Tch. Ya done?”

His nails scraped faintly against the table’s edge; he hadn’t even noticed he’d flexed them.

Caligo smirked wider. “Not even close. But I’ll give you credit.”

He tapped the cigarette against the tray. “You’ve got your reasons. Control the spread, control the damage—makes sense.”

A pause. Then, with that same crooked grin, “Still funny though. Mammon, champion of the greater good… as long as he still gets his stash.”

Mammon didn’t answer, but the flicker in his expression betrayed the hit. Not a deep one—but it landed.

Caligo leaned back again, smoke curling from his mouth like laughter he didn’t bother voicing.

“Don’t worry,” he added, a little lighter now.  “You might be tryin’ to do the right thing.”

His voice dipped, quieter—but not unkind. “But you’ll always be Greed where it counts.”

Another beat passed. Then, softer still, “Even now, Greed’s still got its claws in you.”

The quiet settled between them again—not sharp, not bitter. Just… real.

Then Caligo leaned back further, folding an arm over the top of the couch, exhaling smoke in a lazy stream.

“Anything else, officer?” he teased lightly.

Mammon rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “This whole thin',” he muttered. “It better be worth it.”

Caligo watched him through half-lidded eyes, not smiling. “For both our sakes,” he said quietly, “I hope so.”

Mammon was already halfway to the door, tension coiled in his spine like a spring waiting to snap. His face gave nothing away now—not anger, not doubt. Just that old, well-worn mask of indifference.

Caligo didn’t stop him. Not until the last second.

“Be careful, Mammon.”

Mammon stilled. Caligo’s voice stayed calm, but lower now, quieter, “He’s the Prince of the Devildom. You might be close with him. Trusted. Even liked. But he won’t take it lightly if you cross a line. You know that, right?”

Mammon didn’t answer. Just stood there, his hand on the doorknob, jaw tight.

Caligo exhaled, the smoke drifting between them.

“I’m not saying it to stop you,” he added. “Just—don’t forget who he is. What he is. Remember even Diavolo has his limits.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just something softer, heavier. Something that almost sounded like regret.

Mammon didn’t look back. But his fingers tightened once on the handle—before he pulled the door open and slipped into the night.

The wrought-iron gates of the House of Lamentation loomed ahead, black and jagged against the twilight. Crows trailed him from the city, perched along the bars like sentries—silent silhouettes, glassy-eyed in the moonlight.

They didn’t caw. Just watched, heads tilting as Mammon approached.

He paused at the path’s edge, brushing the iron before pushing through. The gates opened with a low groan, almost a sigh. Behind him, a few crows lifted, circling once before melting into the twisted trees. The last lingered a heartbeat longer, wings fluttering as if reluctant to leave, before vanishing into the dark.

By the time he crossed the courtyard, he was alone again.

He reached for the door handle and froze. The lanternlight spilling from the windows should have felt warm. It didn’t. He drew in a slow breath, then pushed the door open anyway

The front doors of the House of Lamentation creaked open with a sound like breath catching in a throat.

The moment he stepped past the threshold of the House of Lamentation, the air felt heavier. Not with magic, or any lurking danger—just guilt. Thick and clinging, like the smoke he’d just walked through.

The front door shut behind him with a soft click, but it sounded like a damn verdict.

The soft hum of enchantments layered into the stone walls, the faint flicker of warm lantern-light from the hallway sconces, the subtle scent of polished wood and cooling candles. All of it was home.

And all of it made his stomach twist.

His footsteps were slow as he moved across the foyer, the faint click of his shoes against polished marble echoing like quiet accusations. The kind he couldn’t look in the eye right now.

None of his brothers were around—not here, at least. Maybe they were in the common room, maybe out for the night. Maybe asleep. Maybe waiting.

Usually, someone would be yelling from the kitchen. Lucifer reading in the study. Levi shouting at his screen. Even Beel’s footsteps, gentle but steady, somewhere in the halls. But right now, the House of Lamentation felt hollow. All Mammon could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the faint click of his boots against marble followed him down the corridor.

The silence didn’t comfort him.

He didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Didn’t even check if anyone had seen him come in. Eyes down, movements sharp—his whole body wound tight.

His shoulders sagged, coat hanging too heavy around him, like it carried the weight of what he couldn’t say. He didn’t bother turning on more lights. The dimness suited him—matching  the static behind his eyes.

What the hell am I doin’?

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing along the old banister. His fingers tightened around the wood.

He had made the deal.

Agreed to keep helping a wanted supplier. Agreed to lie—by omission or worse—to Diavolo. To Lucifer. To his brothers. He’d walked into that room with Caligo and said the words like he meant them.

Like he had no choice.

But was that really true?

He exhaled through his nose—rough, quiet. The silence around him wasn’t empty. It pressed in close, like it knew. Like it was waiting.

His chest felt too tight.

The image of Lucifer’s face flashed behind his eyes—not angry, not scolding, just disappointed. Then Beel’s, looking at him with quiet concern. Levi, Asmo, Satan and Belphie—one by one, their expressions surfaced and sank.

They weren’t here. But somehow it felt like they were watching anyway.

He sank down onto the bottom stair.

His elbows on his knees, hands clasped together tight, like if he let go they’d shake.

He was doing this to protect himself. To protect his brothers. To keep everything from falling apart.

At least—that’s what he told himself.

But sitting here, in the place where the people he loved lived and laughed and trusted him...

He felt like a damn traitor.

The suppressant pills were supposed to help him be better. Stronger. A version of himself that didn’t fall apart, didn’t let Greed run wild, that didn’t let Greed tear through everything good in his life. But now—

Now, the same thing that made him feel like a better brother was making him lie to them.

What kind of trade-off was that?

He dropped his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Maybe he just needed time. Just a little. Buy some distance until he could figure out a way out of this without dragging everyone down with him.

But something in his chest—low and cold—said otherwise.

He couldn’t unmake the deal now.

Couldn’t go back and unsay the things he’d said.

Couldn’t un-know how good it felt to be in control.

A beat passed.

Then another.

The house remained still.

The laughter, the bickering, the warmth that normally echoed through these halls felt miles away tonight. Or maybe it was just him—sitting at the bottom of the stairs like a stranger in his own damn home.

He wasn’t crying. But the weight behind his eyes felt close enough.

And in the quiet hum of the House of Lamentation, Mammon finally whispered—voice barely audible, bitter and small, “…what the hell have I done?”

By the time he reached his room, his fists were already in clenched.

The door shut behind him with a dull thud, and something inside him snapped.

With a low, frustrated growl, Mammon stormed across the room, eyes locking onto the metal pill case sitting on his desk. It had been there when he left—clean, polished, undisturbed. Waiting. He snatched it up with one hand, stared down at it—like it owed him something. Like it might suddenly make this worth it.

That he was still good.

But it didn’t.

His grip tightened—and with a snarl, he hurled the case across the room. It hit the wall hard, bounced off the bookshelf, and clattered to the floor with a sharp metallic clang, the pills inside rattling like teeth in a skull.

One of them rolled across the floor, slow and steady, ticking gently as it tapped against the baseboard.

Like it was mocking him.

Mammon stood there, chest rising and falling, the sound of his own breathing too loud in the silence.

One second. Two.

Then, faint but clear, the ticking of his bedside clock crept into the air. Steady, relentless, surgical. Each second carved a little deeper, like it knew exactly where to cut.

Then he ran a hand down his face, dragging it down to his jaw as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

The clock kept ticking.

His room, usually a place of comfort, felt like a cell tonight. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was punishment.

Beel had once said the house always felt warmer when Mammon was home.

Now it felt like the walls wanted him gone.

Every memory, every deal, every lie he was about to tell—it pressed in on him like invisible weights.

And for what?

So he could feel quiet inside. So he could pretend he had control. So he could keep being the brother they all thought was getting better.

But he wasn’t.

He was just getting better at hiding it.

Mammon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning—not from tears, just from the weight behind them.

“This was s’posed to make me better…” But he didn’t feel better. He felt hollow.

His gaze slid to the floor. The case had split open. A few black pills gleamed under the faint light—small, perfect, harmless. The promise of stillness wrapped in a lie.

And he hated how badly he still wanted one.

His jaw clenched. He stood again, paced a little, then stopped.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror across the room. For a long, aching moment, Mammon didn’t recognise the demon looking back at him.

This wasn’t the brother who’d sworn to protect them. This was just Greed, dressed up like a saviour.

He turned away from the mirror.

But his reflection didn’t.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry – Day 213

Yeah, yeah — I know it’s been a while. Been meanin’ to write for days now, but... y’know. Stuff happened. And maybe I didn’t wanna write it all down ‘cause that’d make it real. Too real. Like once the words are on paper, I can’t pretend I’m makin’ it up anymore.

Been puttin’ it off for… what, a week now? Maybe more?

I guess it’s just easier to ignore it all. But… I’ve gotta face it, don’t I? Might as well get it outta the way now before it eats at me.

So… where do I even begin?

It started ‘bout a week ago or so, when Diavolo summoned all of us to the castle. Big meetin’ ‘bout some new drug circlin’ the Devildom. He said no one knew where it came from or what it really did — just that it’s poppin’ up in different districts and nobody knows who’s supplyin’ it or why.

So now there’s a whole investigation. And he wants us involved.

Each of us got a task. Lucifer’s workin’ the political side, Satan’s divin’ into the academic records, Levi’s monitorin’ the net for chatter, Beel and Belphie are coverin’ the street-level stuff.

Me? I got stuck with surveillance. Diavolo asked if I could use the crows to watch. Wants me to send my crows to the lower districts, poke around the shady businesses, and see what’s floatin’ ‘round.

And the whole time he’s talkin’ about this “mystery drug,” I’m thinkin’—

Shit.

Could it be the same stuff Caligo gave me?

Was I already part of it? Without even knowin’?

...Anyway.

That’s when I met Caligo. Sure, it was risky. Stupid even. But I mean, c’mon, what choice did I have? I needed answers.

Needed to know who the hell I was dealin’ with, what the hell his game was. Couldn’t just sit back and let ‘im run things from the shadows — not when it could brin’ down everythin’ I’ve worked for. My brothers, too.

This whole thin’ with the drug has been buggin’ me ever since Diavolo brought it up, and that’s when I figured — why not go straight to the source?

Even though it’s been a few days since the meetin’ at the castle — the pressure's still been there, hangin’ over me. Every damn moment feels like I’m holdin’ my breath, waitin’ for someone to figure it out. Like someone’s gonna turn around an’ say, “Mammon, ya’re not foolin’ anyone.”

Barbatos... I swear, sometimes I think he’s still watchin’ me, even when I’m alone. The way he looks at me, like he can see through every mask I put on. I can’t shake the feelin’ that he knows something’s wrong. Maybe that’s just me bein’ paranoid, but I know better than to underestimate ‘im.

That guy messes with time like it’s nothin’. For all I know, he’s already seen me screw up and is just waitin’ for the moment to catch me red-handed.

But Diavolo... Diavolo doesn’t know. An’ I gotta keep it that way. I have to. I can’t tell ‘im. I can’t tell anyone. Not when things are already so messed up.

That day in the council chamber, Diavolo looked at me like he trusted me. Like he believed me. An’ the truth is… I don’t know if I believe in me anymore.

I’ve been lyin’ to ‘im, lyin’ to everyone, but I’m so damn scared that if I tell ‘im the truth, it’ll all come crumblin’ down.

The deal with Caligo... I still don’t know how I let myself fall into that. But here I am. I’m in too deep, an’ now there’s no way out. An’ the pills... They taste like chalk and metal. I hate ‘em. But I keep takin’ ‘em.

‘Cause they make it easier to ignore all of this. It’s like I’m livin’ in this little bubble where everythin’s calm, and I can pretend nothin’s wrong.

But it is. It’s wrong.

Lately... I’ve had to take more than before to feel the same calm. They don’t taste like medicine anymore — they taste like need.

So far, it’s been smooth. My crows do the pickups, drop off the pay. No face-to-face, no mess. He gets what he wants. I get what I need. No one's askin’ questions. Not yet.

But today’s gonna be the hard part.

We’re all reportin’ to Diavolo at the RAD student council chamber. He’s expectin’ updates. I gotta tell ‘im somethin’, right? Can’t say nothin’ or I’ll look suspicious. But I can’t tell ‘im the truth, either. Not all of it.

So I’m gonna try to be vague. Just enough to pass. Play it cool. Keep my tone steady, say the right things, nod at the right times. I can do that. I have been doin’ that.

...Barbatos, though. That’s the one I’m worried about.

Ya never know with that guy. He could already know everythin’ and just be waitin’ for me to slip. Or maybe he’s watchin’ this moment right now from five minutes in the future. That time-travelin’ crap freaks me out.

But it’s fine. I got the pills. They help. Keep me even. Keep the shakes down, the thoughts quiet. As long as I don’t miss a dose. As long a I don’t take too many.

I’m startin’ to hate myself for what I’ve done. I’ve always prided myself on bein’ smarter than this. I’ve pulled off worse scams, I’ve made deals with worse people, but this? This feels like somethin’ I can’t come back from. An’ deep down, I know it’s gonna bite me in the ass.

But not yet. Not yet. I’m still in control. I can handle this. I have to handle this.

The pills.

Always the damn pills.

I don’t know how to feel ‘bout ‘em anymore. They’re... different now. They don’t hit the same. They don’t make me feel as good as they did at first. But I keep takin’ 'em. I’ve gotta, right? I’ve got no choice. It’s the only thin’ that keeps the damn panic — the anxiety away. Keeps the noise in my head from tearin’ me apart.

I told myself I wouldn’t go this deep. Hell, I told myself I was in control. But now I’m not so sure anymore. The worst part is, I know what I’m doin’. I’m walkin’ the line, an’ I keep tellin’ myself I can stop whenever I want, but the truth is... I’m scared to stop.

I’m scared of what’ll happen if I do.

Every time I pop one of those pills, I feel like I can breathe again. Think straight. I can focus. I don’t feel like I’m drownin’ in my own damn skin anymore. It’s like a lifeline, an’ I’m not gonna let go of it — not when I’m this close to losin’ everythin’. Not when it’s the only thin’ keepin’ me sane.

But then I think ‘bout it, and I wonder if I’m just foolin’ myself. The moment I let my guard down, the moment I stop takin’ ‘em... the hunger’ll come back. It’ll tear me apart again. The greed, the guilt, the panic — all of it. An’ I don’t know if I can survive that.

I wanna tell Diavolo. I really do. Part of me wants to believe he’d listen. That he’d see I’m tryin’ — maybe even help. But... then I picture ‘im lookin’ at me like Lucifer would. Cold. Quiet. Disappointed. Disgusted.

Funny thin’ is, I still remember what Lucifer said to me once — that Diavolo’s the only demon in the entire universe who actually cares about me. The only one.

Guess that’s why this hurts so much. ‘Cause if he’s the only one who cares... what happens when he finds out what I’ve done? What’s left for me then?

I’ve worked so damn hard to prove myself, to show ‘im I’m more than just a greedy idiot who can’t keep his hands to himself. But if he finds out ‘bout Caligo... if he finds out what I’ve been doin’, I’m finished.

I’d lose everythin’.

I can’t risk that. I can’t lose Diavolo’s trust. I can’t lose the one person who actually believes in me. An’ I sure as hell can’t lose my brothers. Not after all the shit I’ve put ‘em through.

Still doesn’t feel like I’m protectin’ ‘em. Feels like I’m diggin’ a grave and just prayin’ they don’t fall in.

I don’t know what to do anymore. Maybe I’m just too far gone. Maybe I’ve made my bed and now I’ve to lie in it. But if I stop takin’ the pills... if I stop, I don’t know what’ll happen. An’ that scares me more than anythin’.

Maybe I’ll just keep goin’. One pill at a time. Just keep my head down, keep pretendin’ everything’s fine, and hope that, somehow, I can find a way out before it all falls apart.

The funny thin’ is I didn’t even wanna take ‘em. Not when I first got ‘em. I was gonna beat this on my own. Prove ‘em wrong. Prove I’m not just a damn thief. But what’s the point of tryin’ when they never believed I could change?

At least with the pills… I don’t feel like breakin’ down all the time. At least with ‘em, I can breathe. Think. Be someone they don’t hate.

But deep down, I know this isn’t gonna end well. I can feel it, like a storm on the horizon, waitin’ for me to slip up.

I just hope I’m ready when it hits.

—

Actually — now that I’m thinkin’ about it, I really need to hide this journal better. Can’t have anyone findin’ it. Not Lucifer, not Satan, not any of ‘em. This thing’s basically a confession — evidence, cover to cover. If they read even one page... they’d know everythin’. Not just what I’ve done — but how I let it happen.

Shit.

Gotta move it. Can’t risk it stayin’ out here.

Maybe I could stash it somewhere no one’d think to look… like behind that shelf, Or stash it in my old vault.

An’ the pills  — can’t leave those out either. I’ll need to figure out a good spot for those too. Somewhere outta sight, where no one could sniff ‘em out.

Not takin’ any chances.

Mammon shut the journal with a soft snap, the sound swallowed quickly by the stillness of his room. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It had weight to it—thick and unmoving, like the air before a storm. The clock on the wall ticked faintly, but even that felt distant, like it didn’t belong in this moment.

He sat still for a moment, thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover. He let it sit there on the desk, untouched, the cover still warm from his hands.

Slowly, he stood. His joints popped in quiet protest, stiff from sitting too long. He rolled his shoulders in a stretch, ran a hand through his hair, and grabbed his RAD uniform blazer from the back of the chair.

The fabric felt heavier than usual as he slid it on—same uniform, same look, just a little more pulled-together than his usual half-buttoned, loose-tie mess. Not because he wanted to impress anyone, but because today was one of those days. Another meeting. Another round of tense stares and carefully chosen words. Another performance.

He adjusted the cuffs, tugged the collar into place. Fingers moving on autopilot.

Then his eyes drifted to the silver case on the desk. It sat exactly where he’d left it, untouched since last night, its surface catching the morning light in a cold, clean glint. Polished. Quiet. Like it had been waiting for him.

Mammon’s jaw flexed as he stared at it.

He stepped closer, grabbing the case.

The surface was cool, smooth, and familiar—like the weight of something he didn’t want, but couldn’t let go of. He hesitated, just for a second, then flipped the latch open.

Inside, the black capsules sat in their neat little rows. Sleek. Almost elegant. Not at all like what they really were.

He stared at them. One hand braced against the edge of the desk. His stomach twisted.

The air felt heavy again.

The thought of the meeting today clawed at him. Diavolo would be there, Lucifer , and Barbatos too. All of them watching. Listening. Judging.

He couldn't afford to be off his game. Not today.

Mammon glanced down at the pills. His fingers hovered over the smooth metal edge.

He should take them now.

But part of him didn’t want to. Not really. Not yet. But that part was quiet—too quiet—buried under the noise, under the pressure.

Lucifer’s voice echoed back from a few days ago, sharp in memory but casual when he’d said it.

It wasn’t even something big. Just one of those moments—he’d walked into the study to drop off reports, and Lucifer barely looked up before saying:

“You’ve been surprisingly efficient lately, Mammon. Keep it that way.”

Just that. No praise, no warmth—just a passing comment before he’d turned away, focused on his reports again. It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it stuck anyway.

Surprisingly efficient. Like he’d finally done something right for once. Like the pills were actually making him worth listening to.

And damn if that didn’t make it harder to stop

He stared down at them, the light catching on the black surface. His stomach gave a small twist.

Two or three?

His gaze stayed fixed on the pills. It almost felt like they were waiting for him to decide. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, heart pounding just a little harder.

Taking two had always been his rule—one when he woke up to keep the jittery feeling at bay, and another later in the day if things started to get bad. He’d stuck to that. Mostly.

He'd been careful with the dosages. He'd promised himself he wouldn’t slip. Not again. But ever since Caligo scaled it down, the effects didn’t hit quite as hard unless he doubled up.

And today? Today, he couldn’t risk his hands shaking. Couldn’t let the anxiety or let his voice waver. He needed to sit at that table, look Diavolo dead in the eye, and not flinch.

He wet his lips, heart ticking louder in his chest.

He plucked the capsules out of the case with a practiced hand, rolled one capsule between his fingers, then another. Dropped them into his palm They clicked softly, a hollow little sound that echoed too loud in the silence.

For a second, he just stood there, staring at them.

Maybe three.

His hand shook slightly as he reached for a third capsule, his chest tightening at the thought of crossing that line. But then, a quick mental calculation made him relax a little—the doses had been scaled down, after all.

His fingers hovered over the case. He hesitated, teeth digging into his lip as he tried to reason it out.

Yeah, a third should be fine.

Just a little more to stay level. Stay calm. Stay in control.

It wasn’t breaking the rule. Not really.

Three. Just this once.

He added the third capsule. Lined them up in his palm. Black and gleaming like tiny promises.

“Three’ll be fine,” he muttered under his breath, almost convincing himself. “Ain’t goin’ over the limit.“

Then he popped them back one by one, with a swallow of water from the glass by his bed. The last pill caught for a second in his throat, then slid down.

The taste was always the same—nothing at first, then a faint bitterness, like guilt coating his tongue.

The world steadied. Just like it always did.

He closed the case slowly. Let his fingers linger on the metal a second longer than they needed to. Then his eyes flicked to the journal sitting nearby—open earlier, but now closed. Evidence. All of it.

Mammon glanced toward the door, then the walls, half-expecting someone to barge in. "Gotta hide these better," he muttered.

He reached for both the journal and the silver case, crouched near the bed, and lifted the mattress with one hand. The springs creaked as he slid both items into the shadows underneath.

Not the best hiding spot, but it’d do for now—until he found somewhere safer. Somewhere no one’d think to look.

Out of sight, out of mind. That’s what he kept telling himself. But hiding something didn’t mean it stopped existing.

The case was still there. The journal was still there.

And so was he. Just a little quieter now.

He let the mattress fall back into place, straightened the sheets, and stood up, wiping his palms on his pants. "Just for now," he said quietly.

He took a breath. Then another. Stood still, waiting.

The silence stretched. Then, slowly, the tension began to ease. His heartbeat began to slow. The knot in his chest loosened, just a little. The edges of his thoughts smoothed out. The rhythm of his breathing evened.

He rolled his shoulders again, checked the mirror. Hair still messy, collar slightly askew, tie loose but passable. Good. Enough.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. Adjusted his collar, smoothed his blazer. Smirked faintly—half-hearted, more habit than anything.

He still looked like Mammon. But it didn’t feel like him. The version in the mirror was quieter, sharper, too put-together. The version his brothers seemed to like more these days.

He didn’t know which version was worse—the one who craved everything, or the one who felt nothing at all.

“Still look like the Great Mammon,” he muttered.

Now he just had to get through the day.

Keep it together. Act normal.

He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, turned for the door, slipping his hands into his blazer pockets like he always did, and walked out without looking back.

The mask was on. Time to play the part.

The scent of breakfast hit him the second he stepped out into the hall—savoury, spiced, faintly metallic—comforting in a way that almost made him forget everything else. Almost. The warmth of it curled in his chest for half a second—then the cold bite of reality reminded him why his jaw was so tight. One foot in comfort, the other braced for war.

Mammon padded down the grand staircase, boots sinking soundless into the carpet runner. The muffled sound of voices carried up from the dining room—the low rumble of Beel’s chewing, the telltale snap of Satan turning a page, and the exasperated sigh that could only belong to Lucifer.

He took a deep breath, tugged his blazer into place again, and rounded the corner.

“Oi, mornin’!” Mammon called out, his voice just a touch too bright as he strolled into the dining room like he hadn’t just crawled out of a pit of anxiety a half hour ago.

Most of his brothers were already gathered around the table—Levi hunched over a bowl of Shadow Miso Ramen, in his RAD uniform with his headphones hanging loosely around his neck. Satan sat beside him, calmly spreading Gloom Jam across a thick slice of Jet‑Black Lettuce Toast with surgical precision. Asmo was mid-sip of his Fairy Ring Tea, pinky raised as always, surrounded by a curated array of bloodberry-topped pastries and Mystic White Peach Jelly in delicate little dishes.

Beel was on his second plate of Shark Pancake Mega‑Stack, syrup oozing down the sides like a crime scene. Beside him, Belphie slouched, half-asleep with a mug of Black Coffee of Melancholy held like a lifeline in both hands.

For a moment, it all looked so normal it hurt. The noise, the smell, the bickering—exactly as it should be. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t changed.

But he had.

Mammon moved through the room with casual familiarity, snagging Shadow Hog on a Stick from a tray in the center of the table without slowing. He didn’t sit—just grabbed a fried scorpion sandwich, adjusted his collar, and headed toward the exit, chewing as he went, moving like a shadow on autopilot. The spice of it hit his tongue in slow waves, grounding him in the present.

He swallowed hard. The food sat heavy in his stomach, not quite queasy—but close. His body was wired too tight for hunger to land right.

“Y’all better not eat everythin’ before I get back,” he said, words muffled through the sandwich. “‘Specially ya, Beel. I see ya eyein’ those dried blackbelly newt legs!”

Beel gave him a sheepish look, cheeks full. Asmo rolled his eyes, brushing crumbs off his sleeve with a sigh.

“You could sit down and eat like a normal person, you know,” Asmo said, more pout than scold.

Satan tilted his head, a small frown on his face, voice calm but dry, “If you’re going to sprint through the day like this, at least eat properly first. You’ll need the energy.”

“Some of us got things to do,” Mammon shot back with a flash of a grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Lucifer, seated at the head of the table with his usual Hell Coffee in hand, finally looked up from whatever document he was reviewing on his D.D.D., eyes sharp and expression unreadable.

“I trust you all remember we’re regrouping with Lord Diavolo at noon,” he said, voice crisp, clipped—the kind of tone that meant business. “I expect everyone to be there. On time.”

His gaze swept the table, pausing on Mammon. Not accusing. Just... measuring. Like he knew something was off, but hadn’t decided how to name it yet.

“I mean it.”

Mammon’s fingers flexed slightly around the sandwich. He kept chewing.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered, waving him off with one hand like it was no big deal. “Ain’t like I’m plannin’ on skippin’. I got responsibilities too, y’know.”

Lucifer raised a brow but didn’t bother replying, simply returning to his coffee.

Somewhere outside, a crow cawed—sharp and distant. Mammon didn’t flinch, but the sound stuck to him like static.

The air in the dining room was thick with the scent of coffee, hell-spiced syrups, and the faint, bitter tang of dark tea. Asmo’s overdone floral cologne hovered in the air like a cloud, clashing with the earthy scent of Shadow Pepper and Midnight Lettuce from the food.

Mammon turned toward the front door, still chewing, pretending he didn’t feel the heat of eyes on his back.

Calm. Collected. Controlled.

That was the plan.

He gave a short nod toward the table—half farewell, half reminder to himself to keep it together—and stepped out the front door into the Devildom morning.

Mammon slipped his earbuds in as he stepped out into the overcast Devildom morning. The air was cool and heavy, hanging low like it knew too much. A pair of crows flitted off a rooftop nearby, their wings cutting through the stillness. His boots followed, echoing faintly against the cobblestones as he headed down toward the main street.

He didn’t put on music.

Just needed something in his ears—something to fill the space.

Like the pills, it was part of the routine. Part of the armor. Silence was dangerous—left too much room for the wrong thoughts to echo.

The pills were starting to settle in, or maybe it was the placebo effect from his routine. Either way, his hands had stopped twitching, and that gnawing pressure in his chest had dulled just enough to let him breathe.

He kept walking. No turning back. No slowing down.

RAD loomed in the distance, massive and familiar. The banners fluttered lazily against the spires, a reminder of the tasks ahead. He stared at it like it was a challenge, the building a hulking thing in his way. The meeting today? It was going to be rough—too many eyes, too many questions. Tension thick enough to cut.

Mammon had to play it smart, keep it cool, keep it neutral.

Act like it’s just another day, he told himself.

Just Mammon—nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Not the liability. Not the tickin’ time bomb. Not the addict.

He chewed absently on the edge of his thumbnail, but stopped himself before it got too far. Bad habit. He needed focus. He needed calm.

"Three pills ain’t cheatin’," he muttered under his breath, a quiet reassurance. "Just makin’ sure I don’t screw this up."

The wind shifted slightly, carrying with it the scent of distant smoke and sulfur—an all-too-familiar smell that only ever lingered around the deeper districts. His stomach twisted.

He shoved his hands deeper into his blazer pockets and quickened his pace, ignoring the sense of unease creeping up on him. Focus, he reminded himself.

Just get through today. Ya’ve done it before, ya’ll do it again. No one can know...

A pair of devils hurried past him, laughing too loudly. Mammon’s jaw tightened. Too much noise. Keep it neutral. Keep it quiet.

The closer he got to the gates of RAD, the harder it was to keep his mask in place. But he kept walking, determined to stay ahead of whatever was lurking under the surface, just out of sight.

It wasn’t the meeting he feared—it was the weight of everything else. Everything he was hiding, everything that could come crashing down if someone noticed. But he had his pills, and as long as he kept it together, he should be fine.

He stopped at the gates for a brief moment, checking his watch. He wasn’t late, but he didn’t want to be the last one to arrive. Lucifer would make sure of that.

Just keep it cool, Mammon. One foot in front of the other.

With one final deep breath, he adjusted his collar and walked through the gates. It was time to face whatever was coming.

The crows were quiet now.

That never meant good things.

The final bell of the day echoed faintly through the stone halls of RAD, reverberating off arched ceilings and gothic pillars like the chime of a slow countdown. The usual bustle of students began to flood the corridors—a tide of demon folk in dark uniforms and cloven footsteps, laughter and chatter bleeding together in a haze of voices and shifting fabric.

Mammon stepped out of his classroom into the dim corridor, where the glow of enchanted chandeliers cast long, shifting shadows across the polished stone floor. The air, thick with the scent of old books, ink, and a faint trace of sulfur clinging to the stone walls, felt heavy with memory.

Outside, the sky had faded to a bruised violet, its light filtering through the towering stained-glass windows of RAD in fractured gold. The ever-burning chandeliers overhead flickered—not from instability, but as if the academy itself were holding its breath with him.

His hands folded behind his head, elbows sticking out as he walked with a practiced slouch. His RAD uniform hung just the way it always did—shirt untucked in the back, tie loose, blazer unbuttoned. The swagger was textbook Mammon the picture of casual confidence. Except he wasn’t casual. Not even close.

Inside, his pulse ticked in time with the heels of his boots against the floor.

This was it.

This was the moment that mattered.

Mammon’s thoughts swirled, his breath shallow. He had to act normal. No darting eyes, no twitchy hands, no stammering. Just Mammon, the Great Mammon. The one they all knew—the charming, carefree, reliable one.

They’ll buy it. They have to.

His steps echoed in the quiet corridor, only a few students still trickling out of classrooms or slipping into after-school clubs. The stone walls, veined with dark onyx and etched runes, felt taller today—colder. Like they were watching.

The scent of parchment and ink hung in the air, faintly mixed with the spiced musk of old magic—a constant in RAD’s halls.

He could still taste the faint bitterness of the pills on his tongue. A reminder to keep the mask steady.

He turned a corner and spotted a familiar figure ahead—Levi, hunched slightly forward with his D.D.D. in hand, headphones dangling around his neck—probably messaging someone in his gaming server.

Mammon let out a low whistle as he approached, making sure it carried.

His pulse eased a little at the sight of Levi—familiar, predictable. Someone he could be normal with.

“Yo, Levi! Don’t tell me ya walked all the way here without a single detour to the vendin’ machine. Who are ya and what’ve ya done with my brother?”

Levi jumped a little, clutching his D.D.D. to his chest before realizing who it was. “M-Mammon! Ugh, don’t sneak up on me like that! I was in the middle of responding to a guild raid invite!”

Mammon just grinned, elbows still flared out, hands cradling the back of his head like he didn’t have a care in the world—ignoring the faint tremor that threatened to creep into his hands. “C’mon, loosen up. We’re just goin’ to the council room, not war.”

Levi gave him a skeptical glance, but fell in step beside him anyway.

A few paces later, they passed Beel and Belphie coming from the opposite wing. Beel had a protein bar half-finished in one hand, the wrapper rustling with each bite. Belphie trailed beside him, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like he’d just woken up from one of his better hallway naps.

“Mammon, Levi,” Beel said with a nod, his voice a soft rumble—giving him a gummy smile, crumbs flecking his uniform. “You guys headed to the meeting?”

“Yeah, duh,” Mammon drawled with a grin, shrugging as if the weight of the world wasn’t pressing on him. His other hand slid casually into his blazer pocket. “Can’t start nothin’ without the Great Mammon showin’ up. Ya guys takin’ the scenic route or what?”

Belphie raised an eyebrow, catching just the edge of tension in Mammon’s voice—but said nothing, only gave a lazy smirk. “You’re oddly chipper.”

Mammon flashed a grin, all teeth. “What, I can’t be in a good mood? Maybe I just ain’t stressin’ it like the rest of ya.”

Belphie didn’t respond, he studied Mammon for a second, clearly aware of something more beneath the surface. Mammon hated that look. The one where Belphie seemed to know what was going on inside his head even when Mammon didn’t want him to.

For a split second, he wondered if Belphie could actually hear it—the static under his skin. Then he blinked, smirked, and kept walking.

Inside, his chest tightened.

Belphie yawned without shame. “Don’t overdo it, Mammon,” he muttered, voice thick with fatigue. “Or you’ll crash before Lucifer even starts talking.”

Mammon chuckled, voice low and easy. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, sleepyhead. I got this. Ya just try not to drool on the council room carpet.”

Walk normal. Smile. They’re yer brothers, not interrogators. Not Diavolo. Not Barbatos.

The corridors narrowed slightly as they moved deeper into RAD’s administrative wing. The soft hum of distant conversation and footsteps faded, replaced by that ceremonial quiet reserved for the student council chamber.

The double doors loomed ahead—dark wood lined in silver, the RAD crest glinting faintly in the torchlight. A quiet gathered in that part of the corridor, the kind that felt more ceremonial than silent.

They were almost there.

His brothers, his family, just a few steps behind. And still, he felt like he was walking toward judgment.

Mammon’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t let the smile drop.

Not yet.

Mammon flexed his fingers once, grounding himself in the motion. This was the last doorway before the act began. 

The heavy double doors creaked open on smooth, soundless hinges, revealing the cavernous room beyond—dimly lit, but stately as ever.

The RAD council chamber was vast, circular, with dark, vaulted ceilings carved in swirling, ancient patterns that caught what little light the crystal chandeliers threw down. Tall, arching windows framed a view of the Devildom skyline, the city sprawling beyond the glass, its chaotic beauty softened by the low, gray skies of the afternoon.

At the center stood a long obsidian table, carved from a single slab of stone, its surface so polished it mirrored the flickering flames of the wall sconces.

The air in the room was thick with the faint smell of polished wood and the aftertaste of something heavier—probably the remnants of Beel's food. It was a strange, sterile feeling that always hit Mammon when he entered this room. He didn’t quite like it. He preferred the bustle of the hallways, the noise of the students, the comfort of chaos. In here, everything was too quiet, too deliberate.

He flopped down into his usual seat on the left side of the table—one leg immediately slung over the other, his arm draped over the backrest like he didn’t have a single damn to give. The chair groaned slightly under the force, but he didn’t even blink.

Levi hovered awkwardly for a moment, then took the seat beside him, already pulling his D.D.D. out like it was a safety blanket. Beel followed quietly, choosing his place with a slow, steady calm. Belphie, yawning wide, sank into his chair like gravity had doubled just for him—arms folded, eyes drifting half-shut again.

The room was quiet save for the gentle crackle of torchlight and the distant, rhythmic tick of the enchanted clock high above the chamber doors. Time always seemed slower here—like the walls themselves were watching and weighing every breath.

Mammon leaned his chair back slightly, balancing on the rear legs just enough to feel like he was getting away with something. He drummed his fingers lightly on the table, then cracked his knuckles with a loud pop.

“Ya think they’re runnin’ late on purpose?” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Tryna build the suspense or somethin’…”

“Maybe they’re discussing classified intel,” Levi murmured, still not looking up from his screen. “Stuff even we don’t get to know…”

Beel quietly unwrapped another protein bar. “They could be busy with some paperwork,” he said simply.

Belphie didn’t even open his eyes. “Or maybe Lucifer’s just lecturing Diavolo again about punctuality.”

Mammon smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Levi snorted softly, finally looking up. “It’s kinda scary how you sound proud of that.”

Mammon’s grin widened, easy and practiced. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep things interestin’. This place’d be boring without me.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Belphie muttered.

The jab earned him a lazy flick of Mammon’s wrist and a mock glare. “Careful, nap boy. I’ll start chargin’ ya for all those naps ya owe me rent for.”

That got a laugh out of Levi—quick, genuine, and short-lived. Even Belphie cracked the faintest of smiles. For a moment, the tension in the room lightened, replaced by something almost normal.

Mammon could feel the tight band in his chest starting to ease—a little. He clung to that feeling like a breath held too long. Just enough air to pretend he wasn’t drowning.

The pills were holding steady. No sweat on his palms. No twitch in his fingers. He could breathe. He could talk.

See? Ya’re fine. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.

The doors behind them creaked again, and Asmo stepped in, all flounce and sparkle, the sharp click of his heeled boots echoing dramatically across the chamber. He gave a wave, winked at Mammon, then slid into his seat with practiced grace.

“Oh, thank the stars,” Asmo sighed, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “You guys got here first? I was hoping I wouldn’t be alone with Satan again if he decided to start lecturing everyone about ‘discipline in council attendance.’”

Almost on cue, Satan entered behind him—spine straight, expression calm, a folder of papers tucked neatly under one arm. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to,” he said evenly, “if certain people didn’t spend twenty minutes getting ready for a meeting.”

Asmo gasped in mock offense, hand flying to his chest. “Excuse you! Presentation is everything. Some of us care about making an impression.”

Mammon snickered. “Ya mean distractin’ Diavolo.”

Asmo’s grin turned sly. “I prefer to think of it as capturing attention. Subtle difference.”

Belphie cracked an eye open. “Sure it is.”

Satan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey, lighten up, man.” Mammon leaned back again, chair creaking. “We’re all here, aren’t we? That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Then came the silence again—that weighted kind that said something’s about to happen. The chandeliers flickered once, light shifting across the polished table in rippling bands.

And it did.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the hall, sharp and deliberate. The air shifted, and Mammon didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

The doors opened a final time, slower now with an effortless sweep of magic, and the room seemed to hold its breath as Lucifer, Barbatos, and Lord Diavolo entered together—their presence immediately filling the room.

Diavolo led the way, a towering presence in his crimson RAD uniform, the golden accents of his robes catching the chandelier light, his expression unreadable for once—eyes calm, but sharp beneath. The atmosphere lightened slightly, as if the whole building was acknowledging his entrance. He gave a short, regal nod to the brothers.

Barbatos moved just behind him, gloves pristine, posture exact, like every motion had been timed to a clock’s tick.

Lucifer followed with equal poise, his long stride measured, eyes immediately sweeping the room with quiet authority. His gaze swept the table, lingering briefly on each of them in turn, giving a slight acknowledging nod.

The shift in energy was immediate—the casual posture some of the brothers had taken stiffened just slightly, instinctively straightening. Levi snapped his D.D.D. off, Belphie opened one eye, Satan setting his papers and notes square. Even Asmo sat up straighter, smoothing a wrinkle in his uniform.

Mammon? 

He stayed exactly as he was—lazy grin, chair tilted, arm hanging loose.

“‘Bout time,” he drawled, as if Diavolo himself hadn’t just walked into the room. “I was startin’ to think ya three got lost in the hallway.”

Diavolo chuckled lightly, amused as always. “Mammon—ever the patient one.”

Barbatos gave him a glance. Not disapproving. Not impressed. Just… noting.

Lucifer, of course, narrowed his eyes. “Mammon. Sit properly.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Mammon righted his chair with a creak and a sigh, still grinning, still calm. But his eyes flicked briefly toward Diavolo as the prince took his seat at the head of the table.

Something in his stomach turned—not sharp, but steady, like a reminder that this wasn’t just another casual gathering. Whatever came next mattered. The pills kept him calm, but not numb. He could feel the edges of everything, muted but real.

This was it.

Showtime.

Diavolo took his seat at the head of the obsidian table, folding his hands over the carved surface, posture effortlessly regal. Barbatos moved in with quiet precision and stood just behind him, gloved hands folded neatly—still, silent, and somehow blending into the dark of the room without disappearing.

Lucifer, ever the perfectionist, adjusted the cuffs of his uniform as he sat down, expression unreadable.

“About time,” Asmo chimed, flipping his hair with a dramatic sigh. “If I’d known we were having a fashionably late entrance, I would’ve powdered my nose or something.”

“You did,” Satan muttered.

“I would’ve done it again.”

“Could’ve used another two coats,” Mammon said with a lazy grin, folding his arms behind his head again. “I think ya missed a spot on yer ego.”

Asmo gasped. “You take that back, Mammon! I’m flawless in every lighting.”

“That’s what the mirror keeps tellin’ ya, huh?” Mammon snickered.

Their voices bounced softly off the chamber walls, filling the heavy quiet with something—warm, familiar. The kind of noise that made this place feel less like a council room and more like a home for a moment.

A few quiet laughs rippled around the table. Even Beel cracked a faint smile around the remnants of his fifth protein bar.

Diavolo chuckled softly, clearly amused. “It’s good to see morale is high.”

Lucifer sighed—the long-suffering kind—but didn’t immediately shut it down. That, more than anything, showed he was giving them a moment to breathe.

Levi finally looked up from his D.D.D., eyes flicking nervously between the others. “Wait, so, are we starting now? Or…?”

“No,” Belphie said without even lifting his head from the table. “Lucifer hasn’t threatened anyone yet.”

Lucifer side-eyed him. “Do you want me to?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Belphie mumbled, eyes half-lidded, “just noting the schedule.”

Mammon leaned back again, tipping his chair up on two legs once more with just the right amount of casual defiance. “We all know the meeting ain’t startin’ until Lucifer glares at everybody and Diavolo gives a speech.”

“You forgot Barbatos smiling ominously in the background,” Levi added.

“And Satan sighing dramatically because we’re all off-topic,” Asmo said with a grin.

Satan did sigh—pinching the bridge of his nose, expression unreadable, a muscle in his jaw twitching as the teasing kept spiralling.

“There it is!” Mammon barked a laugh.

Diavolo gave a soft, fond smile—the kind that made you forget, even for a second, that he ruled over one of the most powerful realms in existence. “You’re all surprisingly accurate.”

Barbatos didn’t move an inch, but his eyes shifted ever so slightly toward Mammon—and then to Asmo. He said nothing. Just stood there, hands neatly folded behind his back, watching.

“Creepy,” Mammon muttered under his breath. “He don’t even blink.”

“He does,” Beel said around a new snack. “It’s just rare.”

Belphie lifted his head slightly. “It’s like he’s in a sleep mode until it’s time to murder someone.” His foot started its lazy rhythm against the table leg, a soft tap-tap-tap in sync with Mammon’s fingers.

Asmo shivered theatrically. “Ugh, don’t say that. I just exfoliated.”

“Relax, he ain’t gonna kill nobody,” Mammon said, waving a hand, “unless ya forget to use a coaster in Diavolo’s castle.”

“That happened once,” Levi hissed.

“And he still remembers,” Mammon shot back, pointing at Barbatos. “Look at that face. He knows.”

Barbatos blinked.

The table paused.

Then they all kind of laughed at once.

Even Lucifer’s stern mouth twitched, though he coughed to hide it. “If you’re all quite finished…”

Mammon stretched in his chair and grinned wider. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got places to be and—”

“Debts to avoid?” Satan deadpanned.

“Responsibilities to ignore?” Levi added.

Mammon’s grin twitched—just slightly. “Hah. Hilarious.”

But he rolled with it, brushing it off with a cocky tilt of his head and a shrug. The smile never left his face.

“C’mon,” he said, still playing the fool, “can’t rush greatness.”

And behind his swagger, his brothers’ teasing, and the warm thrum of shared chaos, no one noticed the slight stiffness in his shoulders. Or the way his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table’s edge—not anxious, but controlled. Paced.

He kept the rhythm steady.

Diavolo cleared his throat, his cheerful tone cutting through. “Shall we begin then? I trust everyone is prepared?”

The heavy silence of the chamber shifted as Diavolo leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers atop the table. The soft glow of enchanted lights overhead cast long shadows along the smooth stone walls, and the polished gleaming surface reflected each demon seated around it.

The meeting had begun.

A tension—not suffocating, but taut—settled into the air. It wasn’t hostile. Just the weight of responsibility thick in the room, like rain clouds that hadn’t yet broken.

“We’ll go one by one,” Diavolo said. “Report anything you’ve found. Rumors, changes in behavior, anything out of the ordinary—no matter how small.”

Lucifer gave a nod of agreement, arms folded neatly, eyes sharp.

Diavolo glanced down the table. “We’ll go in order. Satan, start with what you’ve gathered.”

Satan leaned forward, fingertips pressed lightly together, eyes glimmering with analytical focus—a thoughtful crease between his brows.

He flipped open his notebook, scanning over the pages before he spoke. “I’ve been through the archives, digging into records,” he said, voice measured but firm. “Not just the obvious channels—backroom ledgers, hidden tomes, coded exchanges passed off as alchemical recipes.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes meeting the group as he continued, “Certain base ingredients—stabilisers, powdered wards, mana filters—have been purchased in small, distributed batches. Enough to avoid suspicion, but collectively? It’s significant.”

He tapped his notebook on the table, marked with colourful page markers and sticky notes, pulling the attention of the others. “Most of what I’ve found points to inconsistencies in alchemical supply records. Certain materials—rare ones, usually reserved for magical experimentation—are being purchased in strange quantities. Scattered. Under different names.”

Satan’s gaze shifted to Barbatos, then back to Diavolo. “Could be nothing... or it’s an intentional misdirection. But I’m almost certain some of those compounds are used in psychological enchantments. Mood stabilizers. Mind clarity spells. Alone, harmless. But together… well, it could mimic the effects of Focus Elixir in some ways. Yet there’s something different here….”

He paused, “something subtle that doesn’t match anything recorded in standard alchemy. It’s more refined than anything sold openly.”

He slid a sheet forward, lines of coded writing scrawled across it. “No single name shows up twice. Whoever’s buying is splitting transactions across multiple fronts.”

Lucifer leaned in slightly, his gaze sharp. “Which implies coordination.”

“Precisely,” Satan said, his tone tight. “Someone is laundering materials through legitimate labs.”

Mammon shifted in his chair, arms crossed. “Figures. Whoever’s makin’ this knows exactly how to stay outta sight.”

Satan glanced around at the others, a faint frown tugging at the edges of his lips. "I’ll continue digging into the records. There’s something more to this. I can feel it."

A flicker of concern crossed Diavolo’s face, though he quickly hid it behind a small smile. Satan was right to be cautious.

He gave a solemn nod. “Continue your investigation, Satan. Quietly. We’ll need those purchase records cross-referenced with transport manifests.”

Satan nodded, closing his book with a muted snap.

Diavolo turned. “Asmodeus.”

The fifth-born sat up straighter in his seat, flipping a lock of shimmering hair over his shoulder. He crossed one leg elegantly over the other, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

“Well,” he began, lips curling in a slight smile, “I didn’t find anything concrete, but there’s definitely a shift in some of the high society crowd. Certain demons are suddenly… less indulgent. Like they’re trying to ‘clean up’ their reputations. More control, fewer outbursts. But not in a fun way. In a... cultish way.”

“Some of the most notorious party-goers have gone practically celibate. Sober. Like they’ve sworn off sin entirely.” His smile faded slightly.

He twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. “One model I know—used to be the life of the party—showed up at a gala completely sober, not even drinking demonus. When I asked why, she just smiled and said, ‘Desire is noise.’” He shuddered. “Creepy, right? Sounds like something out of a bad cult.”

Beel raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“I know right!” Asmo said, snapping his fingers. “If it’s affecting the body and the mind, then it’s more than just a party enhancer. And it’s subtle—not flashy like the usual junk.”

Satan, intrigued, tilted his head. “You’re suggesting it’s a form of mind control?”

“Not sure,” Asmo said, tapping a finger to his lip. “But it’s definitely more than a simple high. People are behaving differently. Almost... too controlled. It's like they're hiding something or trying to erase something.”

“But she didn’t mention any drug?” Diavolo asked.

“Nope,” Asmo said. “No names. Just weird behavior. Almost like they want to be boring.”

Diavolo’s expression darkened slightly. “It’s useful information, Asmo. Keep your ears open—especially for anyone referencing purity or clarity.”

“Always do,” Asmo said, but his usual sparkle didn’t quite return.

Diavolo tapped a thoughtful finger against the table. “Behavioural restraint spreading among the upper circles… and you said it feels almost cult-like.”

He glanced toward Levi. “We’ve seen patterns like that before—rumours start online long before they surface in public. Levi, what have you found?”

Lucifer gestured for Levi to continue. The third-born hunched forward—fidgeting, wringing his fingers as if trying to gather his thoughts from a whirlwind. His fingers hovered anxiously over his D.D.D., as though the small device was his lifeline. He was hyper-focused on his findings, but the pressure of being involved in such a serious matter weighed heavily on him.

“Right. So, uh… I’ve been scraping some of the darker forums,” he said, voice a little shaky but still earnest. “Mostly conspiracy stuff, old user threads, coded slang… lots of talk about a ‘new wave’ or some ‘mental clarity potion,’ but no one agrees on what it actually is.”

Levi glanced up at the table, his eyes darting between his brothers as he scrolled. “One thread said it gives you ‘perfect composure.’ Another said it ‘burns out your wrath’ permanently. One guy thought it was an experimental diet pill.” He snorted, then shook his head. “None of it lines up. The only common thread is that people claim it makes you stop caring. But like… in a good way?”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward. “Stop caring?”

Levi scrolled further, his voice steady but uneasy, “Yeah. One user said it ‘quieted their head’—whatever that means. No details. It’s like trying to catch fog.”

Asmo frowned slightly, twirling a strand of hair. “That sounds a lot like what I’ve seen—people acting like emotions are distractions. ‘Desire is noise,’ remember?”

Levi nodded quickly. “Yeah, exactly. Like they’re all quoting the same mantra without realising it.”

Satan, ever the skeptic, narrowed his eyes. “Could be some kind of self-reported symptom from a drug. Do you think it’s connected to the substance we’re tracking?”

Levi rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over at Satan. “I don’t know. I’ve tried tracing the posts, but most of them vanish a few hours after they appear. Whole threads just—gone. Like someone’s scrubbing them clean.”

“That’s odd,” Barbatos observed, his gaze sharpening. “Could it be a cover-up?”

“Could be bot activity,” Levi added quickly, “but... it feels too specific. Like someone’s watching the keywords and taking them down as soon as they pop up.”

Lucifer steepled his fingers. “Any images? Samples?”

Levi shook his head. “Nothing verifiable. But there’s one thing. Some of the users mentioned dream loss as a side effect. Said they hadn’t dreamt in weeks. One even joked about it like it was a blessing. Said it’s the best sleep they’ve ever had.”

Belphie’s head lifted slightly at that, one eye opening. “No dreams?”

Levi nodded. “Yeah. Like their minds just go blank.”

Belphie’s eyes flickered toward Mammon unconsciously, like the thought of “dream loss” was too strange not to glance at him. Mammon didn’t move.

He only smiled faintly, like he hadn’t noticed.

“Dreams are an anchor,” Barbatos murmured. “For that to stop... it’s not just chemical. It’s metaphysical.”

Levi blinked, finally meeting Diavolo’s gaze. “This is not normal Devildom net traffic. Whoever’s behind this knows how to cover their tracks.”

Diavolo gave a grave nod. “Then this substance isn’t just emotional—it’s eating away at the core drives of demonkind.”

Lucifer nodded once. “Beel?”

Beel leaned forward, elbows on the table, a serious expression shadowing his usually gentle face. He set his snack down, wiping his hands as he focused on the conversation.

“I’ve been checking the night markets,” he said. “And some taverns in the outer rings. Food vendors mostly, places where demons unwind. Some of the food vendors and regulars have been acting strange.”

He clenched one fist slightly against the table. “A few of the workers told me some regulars were missing. Others seem... off. Eating less. Or saying food doesn’t taste the same anymore. Not because they’re sick—but because they ‘don’t feel hungry’. Which is weird. Really weird.”

Lucifer frowned. “Appetite suppression?”

“Maybe,” Beel said. “But some of them even described it like they forgot how hunger feels. Like their body still needed food, but their mind didn’t care anymore.”

He looked genuinely disturbed. “That’s not how it works. You can’t just turn hunger off. It’s instinct.”

Levi shifted slightly at that, glancing down at his notes. “That sounds a lot like what those forum posts were describing—people saying they’d stopped caring, even about basic things.”

Beel gave a small nod, unease flickering in his expression.

He hesitated before continuing, “One of the Arena fighters I watch—Wrath-class, huge guy strong as a goliath—walked out of a match halfway through. He said he just didn’t feel the fire anymore. Said it wasn’t worth it. Like he forgot why he was angry.”

There was a pause as everyone processed the information.

“That’s not right,” Beel finished simply.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping the table lightly. “Loss of appetite and drive in Wrath demons? That’s not just odd—it’s unnatural.”

A ripple of unease moved around the table. Mammon’s hand drummed lightly against the wood, his eyes lowered. “Damn… it’s hittin’ deeper than I thought.”

Diavolo’s voice cut through the tension like a clean line. “Good work, Beel. Document any similar accounts. If a substance can dull primal drives, its potential for control is… concerning.”

When it was Belphie’s turn, he lazily stretched, half-reclined as usual but more alert than he looked, his voice a casual drawl. “I’ve been around, checking out the quieter, darker corners of the Devildom.”

He yawned before continuing, ”You know—the places demons go when they don’t want to be seen. There’s been some talk of a few shady spots. Places that should be loud with guilt or indulgence... are just quiet now.”

Belphie’s half-lidded gaze flicked to the others. “They’re calling it something in whispers. ‘Stillwater’. Or ‘The Silence’. Not sure if that’s the name of the drug or what it does.”

He raised a finger lazily. “A few whispered it’s like Calm Potion, but that only keeps you still. This… this seems to steal a part of you. Desire, dreams… even hunger. It’s pretending to be something known, but it isn’t.”

He yawned again, nonchalantly. “But everyone who mentions it does so like it’s sacred. Like it saved them from something.”

His eyes half-lidded, tapped the side of his chair. “One of them was shaking. Said he couldn’t sleep unless he took another.”

Barbatos’s expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered behind his eyes.

Belphie finally opened one eye fully. “That’s not recreational use. That’s addiction.”

His words fell heavy.

Mammon leaned back, arms folded. “Sounds like the same junk, just wearin’ a different mask.”

Belphie gave a slow nod. “Maybe. But it’s spreading in the shadows, not the clubs. You don’t find it. It finds you.”

The silence that followed was thick, uneasy—broken only by the quiet tick of the chamber clock.

Then Diavolo exhaled slowly, voice low. “From shadows to streets... it spreads faster than I thought.

Belphie yawned, then continued, “I tried following them afterward. Lost them when they took a hidden gate near a sewer drain.”

He leaned back, his tone turning lazy again. “I’ll try again.”

Finally, Diavolo leaned back, eyes sweeping over them all. “Thank you. Each of you. The pieces are coming together.” His gaze landed on Mammon. “Let’s continue.”

All eyes shifted to Mammon as the last of Belphegor’s words settled into the thick air. He hadn’t moved much during the others’ reports—just leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head in that casual, devil-may-care posture that was all too familiar. But his gaze had been sharp the whole time, flicking between speakers, weighing words, measuring tone.

By now, the room had settled into a rhythm of quiet focus—papers rustling, the occasional scrape of a chair, the steady tick of the enchanted clock above the chamber doors. The brothers, though weary from the weight of their findings, leaned in slightly as they awaited Mammon’s turn.

When Diavolo’s gaze shifted to him, Mammon straightened in his chair. His usual grin softened—still there, but faint, controlled. He rested an elbow on the table, fingers idly brushing the edge of a note he’d scribbled earlier, before finally speaking.

His eyes met Diavolo’s first, steady and unflinching.

“My crows’ve been runnin’ their rounds across the lower districts,” he began, voice steady, the slight trace of a drawl still there but more subdued. “They’ve been trackin’ shipments, backdoor trades, and movement through the freight routes between the Lust and Greed rings. Nothin’ explosive, but… a few things caught my attention.”

He paused, flicking a glance around the table, gauging his brothers’ reactions before continuing. The room, which had been quietly tense, seemed to lean in just a little more.

“First thin’,” he said, pulling a note from his pile of reports, “They picked up chatter ‘bout somethin’ called Mindspike.” He let the name hang in the air for a moment. “Supposedly helps demons ‘clear the noise in their heads.’ Some think it’s just a high-end focus booster, while others swear it’s a detox drug—helps demons ‘focus better,’ clears their head of distractions. Kinda sounds like a glorified concentration enhancer, if ya ask me.”

Satan glanced toward him. “And you’ve confirmed its existence?”

Mammon nodded once. “Yeah. Real stuff. It’s been poppin’ up near the Wrath ring arenas—s’posed to help fighters ‘focus’ or dull their emotions before a match. Samples have been traded in small quantities, but it doesn’t match anythin’ we’ve seen before. The chemical balance—what little info my crows overheard—sounds off. Almost like it’s missin’ somethin’, or deliberately diluted. I don’t think Mindspike is the main player, though. Feels like a decoy.”

Satan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Mindspike… that might explain the ingredient inconsistencies I found. Those compounds could stabilise neural focus.”

Lucifer was already prepared when the attention shifted his way. He sat poised and composed, as always, one leg crossed over the other, gloved hands resting on the table with exact precision. His gaze was steady, sharp beneath the arch of his brow.

He was the last to speak before the meeting began to wrap up, and his words carried the weight of the entire room’s attention. The brothers, already weary from the meeting, leaned in as he spoke—some waiting for answers, others curious about his findings.

“I’ve reached out to several contacts in official circles—traders, nobles, certain council aides,” Lucifer began, his voice smooth but edged with a quiet intensity.

“The usual political networks I’ve tapped into haven’t offered much. Most of them deny any unusual trade activity, which is expected,” He said, his tone formal, cool, but not cold.

He adjusted his gloves slightly—a habit when details failed to align. “From what I’ve gathered, it’s not an easy thing to trace—there’s no concrete evidence, no obvious product name or identification. Most of the information surrounding this… substance is heavily clouded, purposefully so. However, there are whispers—indirect connections to parties, public figures who are either distancing themselves from certain social circles or withdrawing entirely.”

He glanced at Satan. “But a few confessed to delays in shipments involving specific alchemical ingredients—ingredients that, as Satan noted, are useful in advanced or experimental magical compounds.”

He paused briefly.

“One merchant claimed a large order of binding agents had been made under a false name. When questioned, he could only say that payment was timely and in full. The courier wore a silver half-mask—polished enough to reflect, but dull enough to blur the face beneath and never spoke.”

A muscle twitched in Lucifer’s jaw.

“That same courier has apparently shown up at least three times in different parts of the city—always for different purchases, always silent, always with an enchanted ledger that signs itself.”

He continued, his tone even colder now, “I also reached out to a few of my contacts in the merchant guilds. Strangely enough, I came across a few mentions of something being moved under the radar. Various shipments—carefully coded, almost as if someone were deliberately keeping this from gaining too much attention. There’s no tangible evidence of what’s inside those shipments yet, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that these are not regular deliveries. They’re being handled too delicately. Someone is behind this who understands the weight of what they’re doing.”

Diavolo frowned at that, while Barbatos gave a thoughtful tilt of his head.

“I’ve already assigned someone to track the ledger's magic signature,” Lucifer continued, folding his hands together. “With luck, we’ll have a path to follow—assuming the source allows themselves to be followed.”

Diavolo exhaled slowly and gave a small nod. “Impressive work. If we can trace even one of those trails, it could unravel something.”

Lucifer’s gaze flicked briefly toward Mammon—a faint, approving nod—before returning to Diavolo. “We’ll be ready.”

The chamber fell silent again, the faint crackle of torches filling the space. No one moved. Every piece they’d laid out now formed something vast—and dangerous.

Diavolo let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the situation hanging heavy in the air. He slowly stood, his gaze sweeping over the group.

“It seems we’re all chasing shadows,” he said, his tone measured but still carrying authority. “None of us has yet seen the full picture. The substance itself is like a ghost—slipping through the cracks, impossible to identify with certainty. We have pieces of a puzzle, but they do not fit together just yet.”

He took a slow breath, his expression thoughtful. “Still, what we have learned is not insignificant. From what each of you has brought forward, we know this so-called drug—whether it’s Stillwater, Mindspike, or something else entirely—seems to erode what makes demons who they are. Desire fades, hunger weakens, wrath cools, dreams vanish. The supply lines are scattered and disguised, the names inconsistent, the ingredients diverted through false fronts.”

His gaze passed briefly over each of them in turn. “It’s clever—truth mixed with deception, real shipments hidden among fakes, a narrative built from confusion. Whoever orchestrated this knows how to stay invisible.”

He glanced at each brother, the weight of the situation growing heavier with every word. “We are up against something that is not just elusive but insidious. Whoever is behind this knows exactly what they’re doing. They’re sowing confusion, creating doubt, ensuring no clear trail is left behind.”

He leaned, hands placed flat on the table. “We’re dealing with an operation that’s clever, calculated, and well-resourced. That much is clear. But we’re making progress. Even scattered pieces can form a whole if we’re persistent.”

Barbatos’s ever-watchful gaze shifted slightly, taking in the conversation, but it was clear that he was already thinking several steps ahead, waiting for the next shift to reveal itself. His usual calm had sharpened into quiet focus.

“I’d suggest increasing vigilance,” Diavolo continued, his voice carrying an almost unspoken finality. “The more we know, the faster we can act. But we cannot rush this. Our enemy is methodical. We need to be just as careful. For now, keep your eyes and ears open. Let us not be distracted by false leads.”

Lucifer gave a slow nod, his eyes narrowing as he took in Diavolo’s words. “I agree. This is not a matter we can solve quickly. But we will find it.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the brothers digested everything that had been shared. The pieces were scattered, just beyond their grasp, and the weight of that uncertainty loomed heavily in the air.

Satan leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop. “So, it’s a waiting game now?” he muttered, almost to himself.

Asmo hummed thoughtfully, his expression less concerned than the others, but no less interested. “I hate waiting,” he said, his voice light, but still carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. “But I do love a good mystery.”

Beel remained quiet, his thoughts more centered on the bigger picture. “I think we’ll see more signs soon. The less they care, the more it’ll show. People act differently when they’re under the influence of something like that.”

Mammon didn’t add much. He just gave his usual, confident grin and a small shrug, but the glint in his eyes was sharper than usual. “I’ll keep at it. Don’t worry, I’m always a step ahead.”

The brothers exchanged looks, a quiet understanding settling over them. They each had a piece of the puzzle—but none of them knew where the missing pieces were. What they did know was that the situation was dangerous, and time was running out.

His gaze swept across each of them—lingering again, briefly, on Mammon—before softening just slightly.

“Each of you has contributed to something greater tonight,” Diavolo said finally, voice resonant but low. “We may not yet grasp the heart of this mystery, but the connections are forming. This isn’t just a matter of trade or crime—it’s a shift in the very essence of the Devildom’s balance. Desire, wrath, hunger, sloth—all being dulled, one by one. If that continues, it will not just change behavior… it will change who we are.”

With that, Diavolo gestured toward the exit, his voice final. “We’ll reconvene when there is more to report. I’ll arrange for additional resources where needed. Until then, stay vigilant. We are not just investigating a new substance—we are investigating a shift in the Devildom itself. The consequences could be dire.”

As the brothers filtered out of the room, the weight of the investigation was clear. Each of them had a task, a lead, something to follow. But what they were chasing, and what it might ultimately cost them, remained a dark unknown.

Mammon lingered, a little longer than the rest, staring at the door as the sounds of footsteps faded. For the first time that evening, the casual, confident grin on his face slipped—just for a moment, barely enough to notice.

Then, with a final glance at the others, he followed them out.

The chamber was empty now, the echo of departing footsteps fading into the marble corridors of RAD. The faint scent of parchment and candle smoke lingered in the still air—reminders of the meeting that had just ended.

A draft slipped through the narrow gap beneath the great doors, stirring the flames of the candles so that their light danced against the stone walls, gilding the silence with restless shadows.

Barbatos moved quietly, collecting the remaining reports from the table with his usual precision. The faint rustle of parchment was the only sound, sharp against the hush. His gloved fingers smoothed a crease from one page—an unconscious gesture of order against the lingering chaos of the discussion.

Yet his gaze strayed, just once, toward the great doors that had closed behind Mammon moments earlier. His composure, perfect as ever, cracked only at the brow—a line of thought, or worry.

Diavolo remained standing near the head of the table, one hand rested against the table’s edge, the other steepled beneath his chin, watching the flicker of candlelight ripple across the marble floor. His golden eyes, bright and heavy all at once, were distant—thoughtful, troubled.

For a moment, stillness ruled the chamber.

Then Barbatos spoke softly. “Your thoughts, my lord?”

Diavolo didn’t answer right away. He exhaled through his nose, eyes briefly closing as he gathered his thoughts—like a player sorting cards at the end of a game.

“It was a productive meeting,” he began, turning toward his steward. Though there was little conviction behind the words. “Each had brought pieces of something real. But even together, those pieces don’t fit.”

He paused, then added quietly, “It feels… orchestrated. As though someone is feeding them fragments that almost align, but never truly connect.”

Barbatos nodded slowly. “Yes. The consistency of the inconsistencies is… suspicious.” His voice was calm, but carried depth. “Every lead loops back into another—just enough to feel genuine. Whoever is behind this is ensuring we remain one step behind.” 

Diavolo’s gaze drifted toward the door again. “And yet,” he murmured, “it’s Mammon I keep thinking about.”

Barbatos set the reports aside and straightened. “You sensed deceit?”

“None,” Diavolo said at once. “Not even hesitation in his words. He spoke the truth—every word of it. And yet…” He frowned, eyes narrowing in thought. “He’s holding something back. Not a lie, but a silence. A truth unspoken.”

Barbatos inclined his head slightly. “He’s being careful, then.”

Diavolo hesitated, the faintest edge of concern sharpening his voice. “And that… troubles me.”

A pause.

“Mammon has never been careful in that way.”

Barbatos’s eyes flickered with understanding. "It’s subtle, but I’ve noticed it too. It’s like there’s a distance between him and everyone else. But I don’t think it’s deliberate. More like he’s trying to manage something he can’t control."

“Yes.” Diavolo’s tone deepened. “When he hides something, it shows—panic, guilt, a tremor in his tone. Tonight, there was none of that. He was composed. Measured. Almost deliberate.”

Barbatos folded his hands behind his back, his expression growing pensive. “Indeed. It’s unlike him to stay calm under scrutiny, especially yours.”

Diavolo rubbed his chin, his frown deepening. “If he’s hiding something, it isn’t in his words. I’d feel it if he were lying. Usually he doesn’t even attempt to mask his lies very well... When Mammon lies, it’s as though the entire world can see through him.” He chuckled lightly at the thought, but the amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes.

They shared a quiet glance, an unspoken agreement that whatever Mammon was concealing, it was serious enough to change him.

After a moment, Diavolo turned and began to walk toward the door. Barbatos fell into step beside him, the echo of their footsteps filling the corridor in steady rhythm.

"Could it be the drug?" Barbatos asked, voice a shade more serious. "Perhaps it’s affecting him in ways we don’t yet understand."

Diavolo’s eyes flickered ahead, thoughtful. “Possibly. But that’s what confuses me. Mammon has never sought control. He thrives on chaos—on emotion. Driven by his impulses and desires. This restraint, this precision... it isn’t him.”

Barbatos’s gaze lingered on the shifting candlelight, his thoughts clearly mirroring Diavolo’s unease before he replied, "I agree. But the drug’s effects aren’t well understood, are they?" He countered, his tone thoughtful. "It could be changing him in ways we can’t even begin to predict."

They reached the end of the corridor, where the tall windows cast pale moonlight through the glass—cold and silver. It seemed to offer some kind of quiet reprieve, though the weight of the uncertainty still hung heavily between them.

Diavolo stopped there, his reflection faintly mirrored in the glass. For a moment, he looked less like a prince and more like a man facing something he couldn’t define.

The stillness that followed felt heavier than silence.

“You think he’s already affected,” he said quietly, not turning.

"I don’t know, my lord," Barbatos replied quietly. "But I do believe he’s trying to manage something, and whatever it is, he’s doing it with more caution than I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the drug. Maybe something else. If it truly dulls emotion or alters instinct, it could be reshaping him in ways he doesn’t even realize.”

Silence stretched for a beat. The prince’s shoulders squared as he thought, the faint glow of candlelight tracing the edge of his jaw. His eyes narrowed slightly, his mind working through the possibilities.

After a long silence, Diavolo continued, his voice quieter now, almost reflective.
“I keep wondering… is he merely entangled in this by accident, or is he already caught in it? Whether he’s using the substance or connected to it somehow, I can’t say. But forcing the truth from him would do more harm than good.”

Barbatos nodded, his tone low. “Agreed. If we corner him, he’ll retreat further. Mammon’s loyalty is bound by emotion, not reason. Press him too hard, and fear might turn into defiance.”

“Exactly,” Diavolo said softly. “If he’s hiding something, it will surface in time. He’s too impulsive to maintain a secret forever. We just have to wait… and watch.”

They resumed walking. The rhythmic sound of their steps mingled with the faint ticking of a distant clock, echoing like a heartbeat through the corridor.

“I’ll continue observing him discreetly,” Barbatos said after a pause. “But my concern isn’t just for Mammon, but for what this substance might represent. If it truly numbs emotion, dulls instinct—it threatens the Devildom’s balance itself. A world without desire, without wrath or passion…”

“Would be hollow,” Diavolo finished for him, voice somber. “Our realm survives because of balance—chaos and restraint in equal measure. If this drug disrupts that, even slightly, the consequences could spread faster than any rebellion.”

Barbatos bowed his head. “Then we must tread carefully.”

Diavolo nodded, the weight of leadership pressing across his shoulders. “Yes. Carefully. Mammon’s involved somehow—but whether as victim, witness, or something in between, I can’t yet tell. Still…”

His voice softened. “He’s one of my own. I won’t condemn him based on shadows.”

Barbatos’s gaze softened as well. “A wise decision, my lord. We’ll play the long game—and remain patient."

Diavolo’s gaze darkened slightly, his voice low but resolute. "Patience, yes. But if Mammon is involved, or worse—if this drug is already affecting him—I will not hesitate to act."

Barbatos’s expression softened at that, though his voice remained composed. “Then we’ll intervene when the time is right. Quietly—before the damage is irreversible.”

For a moment, the two stood in companionable silence—ruler and butler, both aware of the invisible lines that were tightening around them.

“We can’t let Mammon’s behavior go unnoticed by the others,” Diavolo said at last, his tone steady. “Keep watch—quietly. If this runs deeper than we think, we’ll move before it spirals. The truth will come—it always does.”

Barbatos gave one last, thoughtful glance toward the prince, his thoughts already turning toward the delicate balance they’d need to strike. "Indeed, my lord. The others may not notice as quickly, but we will."

The two continued down the corridor, their thoughts aligned, but the uncertainty of the investigation looming over them. The faint echo of their footsteps fading—just as the candlelight in the corridor behind them flickered and went still.

The puzzle pieces were scattered in the dark, and Mammon was the first they’d need to find—before the silence between them turned irreversible.

Neither realised that the silence they feared was the very peace Mammon had already begun to seek.

And somewhere far beyond the RAD walls, beneath the pale moon, the second-born demon walked, carrying the weight of guilt, secrets, and something far darker stirring beneath his skin.

The late afternoon Devildom moon hung low in the sky, casting pale light across the cobbled path outside of RAD. Shadows stretched long across the courtyard, and the air had taken on that hushed, in-between quality—not quite evening, not quite night.

Mammon walked with his hands folded behind his head, blazer sleeves rolled up, tie just a little too loose, as usual. The others were walking ahead or beside him, their post-meeting chatter drifting in and out like muffled noise behind glass.

He barely registered what Asmo was whining about—something to do with canceling a salon appointment—or the way Levi was already muttering about backlog in his gaming schedule. Mammon’s mind was still replaying the meeting they’d just left, every question, every glance from Lucifer pressing against his memory.

He’d kept his composure. The pills had done their job: the tremor in his hands stilled, his eyes hadn’t betrayed the chaos underneath, and not a single stammer had slipped out.

But his jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.

Every answer had been technically true—vague when it needed to be, but never dishonest. Not in a way Diavolo could detect.

And he’d done it. He’d walked that fine line and stayed steady. For once, he could actually feel a small flicker of pride.

So why did it still feel like he was walking a tightrope with a blindfold on?

His steps slowed for half a beat, boots scuffing against the edge of the stone path before he caught himself and kept pace. He couldn’t let himself drift. Not even for a second.

Not with Lucifer walking just a few steps behind.

“—Mammon,” came that familiar voice, low and sharp, carrying the crisp snap of authority like the crack of a whip.

Mammon groaned before even turning his head. “What now?”

Lucifer didn’t immediately answer. He came to a stop beside the group, arms folded, his gaze sweeping over each of them.

“All of you,” he said evenly, “are to submit handwritten reports on your findings. Within twenty-four hours. No excuses.”

“Handwritten?” Asmo gasped, tossing his head back dramatically. “But Lucifer, my hands are still healing from my last skincare treatment! Do you have any idea what calluses do to a beauty routine?”

“You’ll survive,” Lucifer said flatly.

Levi flailed a little. “Ughhh—do you know how long that’s gonna take?! I had plans to clear a limited-event raid tonight! It’s only open for two more hours!”

Lucifer's eyes narrowed. “And what do you suggest we prioritize? Your raid, or dismantling an illegal operation threatening the Devildom’s balance?”

Levi shrank instantly. “...I'll do the report.”

Beel looked vaguely disappointed too, glancing down at the snack bag in his hand. “I thought we were going to stop for dinner.”

“We will,” Belphie yawned, hands stuffed in his pockets, “right after we all become part-time bureaucrats apparently.”

Lucifer ignored the chorus of complaints and continued, tone still even but firm. “Include everything. Don’t leave out details because you think they’re unimportant. If you overheard something suspicious, document it. If you noticed behavioral changes in a contact, mention it. Attach any evidence, written or otherwise.”

The grumbling quieted, the seriousness of his voice setting in.

Lucifer’s gaze shifted to Mammon—not with hostility, but with gravity.

“And Mammon,” he added, “your role is especially delicate. Your crows are operating in sensitive areas, and their information could be our only thread of connection. I expect your report to be the most thorough. Take that responsibility seriously.”

Mammon’s hands dropped from behind his head to his pockets. “Why am I gettin’ singled out?”

Lucifer didn’t miss a beat. “Because Lord Diavolo entrusted you with one of the most crucial pieces of this operation. And I vouched for your capability.”

That hit harder than Mammon expected. He felt the twist of it low in his gut, subtle but sharp. He’d always wanted Lucifer to trust him. Just… not like this. Not when he didn’t deserve it.

He forced a grin anyway, like armor.

“Tch. Fine, alright!” he huffed, glancing away. “The Great Mammon don’t slack on important stuff. Ya’ll get yer precious report. Just don’t expect it to be pretty.”

He tried to sound annoyed, but he could feel the pressure creeping back in. Writing it all down meant crafting more half-truths. Keeping everything straight. No slip-ups. No missed details.

Act normal. Stay steady.

Just like always.

Lucifer didn’t respond. But the silence he left behind felt like acknowledgment.

Satan, who’d been quietly observing the exchange, let out a faint snort. “Handwritten reports, huh? That’s very… you, Lucifer. Still clinging to tradition in the name of control.”

“You really do enjoy reminding everyone you’re in charge.”

Lucifer arched a brow. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Not really,” Satan said with a glint in his eye. “Still, I agree with you—for once. Having everyone record their observations individually might reveal discrepancies or patterns we missed in discussion. Though I wonder if it’s for efficiency… or control.”

Lucifer’s response was cool. “You can interpret it however you like, as long as the reports are on my desk by tomorrow.”

Satan’s smirk was thin. “Oh, don’t worry. Mine will be flawless.”

Lucifer’s gaze slid toward him, unreadable. “I’ll assume that was meant as agreement.”

Satan’s smile was sharp. “Don’t get used to it.”

Mammon caught the brief spark between them, familiar and sharp, but his chest felt heavier than that fleeting tension.

They continued walking, gravel crunching beneath their shoes. The sounds of RAD behind them faded, replaced by the quiet rustle of trees and distant caws from Mammon’s flock circling overhead.

Beel, still carrying his bag of devil cream buns, slowed his steps until he was beside Mammon. He looked over at him with a small frown. “You okay, Mammon?”

Mammon blinked, momentarily startled, before flashing a grin—quick, a little too bright. “Me? ‘Course I’m fine! What, ya worried ‘bout me or somethin’?”

Beel didn’t answer, just handed him one of the buns from the bag. Mammon took it with a raised brow but didn’t argue.

“…Thanks,” Mammon muttered, softer than usual.

They turned the corner, the House of Lamentation now in view—darkened against the soft lavender glow of Devildom twilight. The chill in the air nipped at their collars, and the weight of the day followed them like a second shadow.

And though Mammon walked with the others, laughed with the others, and kept his usual mask fixed firmly in place—the pressure in his chest hadn’t budged.

He wondered, just for a second, if the pills were really working—or if they were just dulling something he’d need later.

Overhead, his crows broke formation, scattering into the dark.

They didn’t call out this time. Just vanished into the sky—silent, like they’d forgotten how to sing.

He didn’t look up.

Night crept in slow and heavy, draping the ancient halls in deep violet shadow. The house was alive with familiar noise—Levi shouting through the wall about respawn timers, the clatter of Satan’s books being rearranged yet again, the faint hum of Asmo’s music drifting down the corridor like perfumed fog. A door creaked somewhere upstairs. Beel’s footsteps padded lazily past.

A single lamp cast a soft golden light across the pages in front of him, and his RAD blazer was slung across the back of the chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on the wood, a pen spinning restlessly between his fingers.

The report was only half-written.

His handwriting was passable—slanted, messy, but legible. He listed everything his crows had brought back these past two weeks. Every coded word, every careful omission sat there staring back at him.

Still, his stomach was tight.

He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face and staring up at the ceiling like it had answers he hadn’t thought of yet.

“Trust you can handle this…”

He scoffed under his breath. “Trust,” he muttered, voice low and bitter.

The worst part was… it wasn’t fake. Diavolo had meant it. So had Lucifer. They trusted him. Mammon. The one always messin’ things up. The one always caught in something he shouldn’t be. And now? Now he was lying to both of them with a smile on his face and a pen in his hand.

He hated it.

But he’d do it again.

Because right now, nobody could afford to know the truth.

Not yet.

A knock at his door snapped him back to the moment.

“Yo,” came Levi’s voice from the hallway, “Lucifer wants the reports before breakfast, not after. He said—and I quote—‘If anyone dares to hand me crumpled parchment with jam stains, I’ll deduct from their allowance.’”

Mammon let out a tired chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I heard ‘im.”

“Just making sure you didn’t fall asleep on your desk again,” Levi added. “That was kinda pathetic last time.”

“Oi, shut it!”

Levi’s laugh echoed faintly as his footsteps retreated, leaving Mammon alone again.

He glanced down at the half-finished report. For a moment, he just stared—then slowly, he picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the blank space before words began to flow. Each scratch of ink filled the silence. His movements were deliberate this time, careful, as if every word carried weight he couldn’t let spill.

But something wasn’t right.

His fingers weren’t steady. They trembled just slightly as the pen scraped across the paper, the motion uneven. A dull ache pulsed at his temples—faint at first, then sharper the longer he tried to focus. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to stay on the page.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath, “just focus.”

He had work to do. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. Not when so much was riding on it—Diavolo’s trust, Lucifer’s patience, the thin balance he’d been holding onto these past few weeks. But the harder he tried, the worse it got. The letters on the page blurred a little. The ache in his head pressed deeper, and the guilt humming in his chest made it impossible to breathe right.

He flexed his hand, trying to steady it, but it didn’t help. The tremor stayed.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. The lamp flickered, throwing a ripple of gold across his knuckles. He needed to push through. Just finish the report. Get it done. Pretend everything was fine.

His gaze drifted absently across the room. A small sound caught his attention—the faintest creak from the direction of his bed.

He wasn’t thinking about it. Not yet. But there was that tug again, that familiar pull low in his chest, like something calling to him. The thought slipped in before he could stop it: the pill case. The one tucked under his mattress.

He’d hidden it away this morning, promised himself he wouldn’t touch it again so soon. But the memory of it—cool metal, smooth and heavy in his palm—lingered too easily. Like the weight of it had never really left his hands.

Mammon’s breath hitched as the silence stretched. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker. The weight of the case pressed on his mind, like it was waiting for him.

He couldn’t focus. Not with the pounding in his head, not with his hands trembling like this.

It wasn’t that he needed them. Not really. Not yet.

But maybe he did. Just one would steady him. Just one to make the noise fade—to stop the shaking, to push through this night, to finish the damn report before his head split open.

He stared at the blurred words on the page until they swam out of focus completely. The pen clattered from his grip.

He rose slowly, every movement careful—like the air might shatter around him if he wasn’t. His heartbeat thudded behind his ribs as he crossed the room and crouched by the bed.

His fingers slipped under the mattress, brushing against the cool, familiar metal. The pill case greeted him like an old, unwanted friend. His hand shook as he pulled it free, thumb tracing the clean silver edge. The latch clicked open with a quiet, sharp snap.

The pills gleamed faintly in the lamplight.

His thoughts tangled into static. Lucifer. Diavolo. The brothers. The pressure. The constant demand to be better, to be enough. The shaking wouldn’t stop.

He plucked one capsule from the row before he could talk himself out of it and popped it into his mouth. Swallowed dry.

His hand lingered on the case. For a moment, he almost reached for another. But the faint whisper of reason—quiet, weak, but still there—pulled him back.

He snapped the case shut and shoved it beneath the mattress again, out of sight.

Mammon sat back down at his desk with a long breath, rubbing at his temple. The relief wasn’t instant, but it came. The headache dulled slowly, edges smoothing. His fingers steadied. The pressure in his chest loosened just enough to breathe. The silence didn’t feel so loud anymore.

He stared at the report again, watching the words settle into clarity. Then, like nothing had happened, he picked up the pen.

A soft rustle drew his attention. Across the desk, one of his crows perched near the window sill, preening idly. Its dark feathers shimmered faintly, reflecting the lamplight in oil-slick hues. It cawed softly, tilting its head toward him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mammon muttered, voice low. “I’m takin’ too long, huh?”

The bird cawed again, sharper this time, and his smirk faltered.

He turned back to the page. Every word he wrote had to be clean—believable. He couldn’t afford to let his thoughts wander too close to the truth.

He paused again, reading over his words. Not false. Not the whole truth either. Just… enough. Enough to pass. Enough to keep Diavolo’s faith steady. Enough to keep Lucifer’s eyes from narrowing.

The clock on his wall ticked softly, a steady rhythm against the hush. Somewhere in the house, a door creaked and shut—probably Lucifer doing his nightly rounds. Mammon’s shoulders tensed automatically before he forced them to relax.

At last, he signed the bottom of the page with a flourish. The pen lifted from the paper with a soft click. He let out a slow breath that wasn’t quite relief.

Then, leaning back, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes half-lidded. The lamplight haloed him in gold and shadow.

From the window, a faint wind slipped in—carrying the scent of brimstone and rain. His crow shifted, restless.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mammon muttered. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. Just… keepin’ things steady.”

The crow tilted its head, unblinking. Mammon looked away first.

The lamp flickered once more, shadows stretching over the desk like reaching hands. The words on the page caught the light just long enough to gleam before fading back into the dim.

He stared at them for a long time before whispering, almost to himself—

“…Just gotta keep it together a little longer.”

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere distant—low, soft, and waiting.

RAD INVESTIGATION DOSSIER

Classification: Confidential – Restricted to Diavolo, Lucifer
Filed By: Mammon (Second-born, Avatar of Greed)
Subject: Substance Movement and Associated Activity
Date: [REDACTED]

---

Summary:

Over the past two weeks, my crows have maintained surveillance on the lower districts, focusing on freight routes, shipment activity, and distribution—across key transport and trade zones within the Greed, Lust, and Wrath rings. Focus has been on unregistered shipments, coded exchanges, and rumoured substances showing behavioural effects matching the parameters of our current investigation.

Findings indicate a weird pattern of low-quantity, high-frequency cargo: primarily alchemical components, mood stabilisers, and diluted mana agents. While individual transactions appear minor, collective volume and coordination suggest deliberate distribution through layered intermediaries.

---

Observed Substance References:

    1. Mindspike

• Location: Wrath ring arenas, traded in small batches.

• Purpose: Reported as a ‘focus enhancer’ or ‘emotional dampener’; potential detox effect claimed. 
• Common user profile: combatants seeking composure over strength. 

• Findings: Chemical composition differs from standard stock; appears deliberately diluted or inconsistent. Not identified as the primary target substance. Functions possibly as a decoy.   

    2. Stillwater / Silence (Suspected Primary Substance) 

• Observed indirectly via secondary distribution points.

• Characteristics: Highly controlled distribution; selective circulation.

• Hypothesis: Substance not widely marketed; likely tests compatibility and limits exposure. Potential high-level manipulation of desire, focus, and sensory perception.

    3. Eclipse Dust, & Nightshade

• Recently reintroduced under altered names and packaging.

• Usage: Party enhancers; hallucinogenic and sedative properties.

• Distribution: Increasing hybrid blends sold under multiple brand names; mixes intended to obscure true composition.

• Suspected use: camouflage for larger-scale operations.

---

Trade & Shipment Irregularities:

• Recent cargo movements: Crates labeled as ‘stabilisers’ and ‘energy tonics’—two observed exchanges at Ronove Docks (Greed–Wrath border).

• Anomalies: Manifests do not align with crate weight; indicates potential substitution or addition of unregistered materials. Manifests show average +17% weight discrepancy.

• Security: Shipments bypassed registry and were moved by private carts to unlisted storage sites; armed guards present at delivery points. 

• Notable Signatures: A triple-circle sigil seal identified on multiple shipments; previously unregistered among known merchants.

• One confirmed delivery to a licensed Greed-ring apothecary.

• Establishment maintained armed protection, unusual for small alchemy vendors.

• Suggests front operation or controlled distribution node.

  ---

Market Behaviour & Inference:

Dealers report various names (Vitrex, Mindspike, The Calm) for similar base substances; lack of central knowledge indicates deliberate obfuscation.

The current trafficking pattern shows signs of deliberate misdirection. Multiple low-tier products are being introduced simultaneously, likely to divert enforcement attention from a central network.

Given the timing and scope, it looks coordinated by at least one faction operating between the Lust, Greed, and Wrath trade lines. “Mindspike” may represent a prototype, imitation, or incomplete variant of the true substance under investigation. Its use within competitive environments suggests possible field testing or behavioral suppression.

---

Conclusion:

Current findings indicate a complex network of distribution with deliberate obfuscation, decoy substances, and selective targeting. While Mindspike and other minor compounds are present in the market, they appear secondary to a more controlled and potentially dangerous substance (Stillwater/Silence). Immediate focus should remain on monitoring delivery points and cross-verifying shipment anomalies to isolate primary actors and substances.

---

Recommendations:

• Continue surveillance of freight routes and private apothecary deliveries, with emphasis on crates marked with three-circle seal. 

• Analyse small-batch distributions to identify deviations or concealed primary substances.

• Cross-reference Mindspike and other decoy substances to establish potential misdirection patterns.

• Prioritize observation of selective distribution networks to assess the reach and intent of Stillwater/Silence operations.

• Maintain discretion; agents must remain undetected and avoid exposure that could compromise ongoing intelligence efforts.

---

Personal Note (Addendum):

Patterns don’t lie, but people do.
Someone’s setting the stage.

Field Agent: Mammon
Crow Network – Lower Districts
Signature: [Mammon’s distinctive mark]

Chapter Text

Journal Entry – Day 227

Man… what a long damn week. Feels like I been breathin’ this case since forever.

Every time we (and by “we,” I mean everyone else) think we’re gettin’ close, the whole case slips right outta our hands again. But hey, guess that’s how it goes when ya’re diggin’ through the Devildom’s trash heap, huh?

Anyway, Diavolo decided we’re splittin’ things up. Turns out, some of those other drug ops we found — yeah, they’re real, but they ain’t connected to the ones we’re after. Just a bunch of low‑tier junk floatin’ ‘round.

He handed those over to other investigation units so we can stay focused on the big one — the suppressant pills. So now, the smaller rings, they’re someone else’s problem. Party drugs, fightin' drugs, things demons use to get high or forget how miserable they are. Y’know, the usual.

Shady, sure, but nothin’ that’ll turn the Devildom inside out. The big focus now’s the suppressant pills.

The others’ve been workin’ like crazy tryna figure out what the stuff does, and they finally came to some kinda conclusion. Says it’s a suppressant that “mutes sin,” “numbs emotion”. Basically, takes what makes a demon ‘a demon’ and locks it in a box.

Diavolo didn’t take it well. He’s real upset ‘bout it. Says it’s rippin’ demons apart from the inside — strippin’ demons of their “essence,” how it’s wrong and unnatural. He’s got this look in his eyes, like he’s tryin’ not to imagine a whole kingdom full of hollow demons.

They’re concerned ‘bout the long-term damage to our essence, our core. And yeah, I get it. Strippin’ a demon of their sin — of who they are — it’s dangerous. Can’t blame ‘im for freakin’ out. He’s just tryin’ to protect everyone.

But… none of this is news to me.

Kinda funny, ain’t it? Everyone’s actin’ like they just discovered somethin’ big, but I’ve been livin’ with it for months. They don’t know the half of it.

And sure, when Diavolo explains it like that, it sounds bad. Real bad.

But… I dunno. I get why it’s messin’ with ‘im, Barbatos, and everyone else. They wanna protect the Devildom, keep things balanced. But what they don’t get — what nobody gets — is why some demons are takin’ the damn pills in the first place.

Why choose this? Why risk somethin’ so dangerous?

All they see is what it takes away, not what it gives back. They don’t understand that some of us would give anythin’ for a little quiet. When we let our sins run wild, we’re a problem. We’re called out for it. “Too greedy.” “Too wrathful.” “Too lustful.” “Too prideful.” Whatever. There’s always someone watchin’, judgin’, and complainin’.

But if we try to fix it — try to stay in control — that’s suddenly a problem too? So tell me, what’s a guy s’posed to do, huh?

Maybe it ain’t right. But I get why demons take it — they ain’t lookin’ to destroy themselves. They’re just tired. They’re choosin’ to give up a piece of themselves to feel normal, or at least peaceful. Can’t blame ‘em for that.

And if it takes away the hunger — the cravin’s, the guilt, the pain… if it gives ‘em even a bit of control… is that really such a bad thing? Maybe it’s not the answer we want, but it’s the answer they want.

Look, I’m not stupid. I know the stuff changes demons, makes ‘em different, less… themselves. But is that really so awful? ‘Cause lemme tell ya, not every demon’s out there lovin’ their sin. Sometimes it’s a prison more than a power.

Take a Wrath demon, for example — imagine one of 'em bein' able to hold back from takin’ someone’s head off every time they get pissed. That’s a huge win, right?

Or a Gluttonous demon finally feelin’ like they don’t gotta eat every damn second of the day. Can ya imagine the relief they’d feel? For once, they’d be free from their hunger.

Hell, sloths can finally get their ass outta bed, and actually do stuff without feelin’ chained to their damn mattress 24/7.

Lust demons get a break from feelin’ like their whole body (and everyone around ‘em) is a temptation. Pride demons get room to breathe without their ego draggin’ ‘em around. Envy demons get a moment where they don’t feel like they’re dyin’ every time someone else has somethin’ they don’t.

Ya get the point, right? A demon takin’ these pills could finally be free from the stuff that’s always weighin’ ‘em down. Those things are curses, not blessings.

Or even me. I’ve been stuck in my own damn sin for centuries. Never enough. Never satisfied. The whispers never stop, y’know? They never let ya forget what ya want, what ya’re always cravin’. That’s the curse of Greed — wantin’ everythin’, all the damn time. But what if I could stop? What if I didn’t need to be like this? I know what ya’re thinkin’— that it ain’t me. That it ain’t how I’m s’posed to be.

But, man… what if it could be? What if I didn’t have to want all the time? What if I could be free from all the noisy temptation?

Yeah, I know I’m s’posed to care ‘bout protectin’ the Devildom and all that, and I don’t wanna see demons hurt — but that’s the thin’. Why is it so wrong if some demons want this? Want to be free from the chains of their own damn sin? Doesn’t feel like anyone’s really askin’ that.

Everybody’s so focused on the side effects — the numbness, the fog, the withdrawals.

And what drives me nuts is how they’re talkin’ like they’ve already got the pills figured out. Like it’s definitely some essence-eatin’, core-hollowin’ poison. But half of what they’re sayin’? It’s guesses. Speculation. They don’t actually know what the suppressant does long-term — they’re just scared, so they’re fillin’ in the blanks with worst-case scenarios.

Sure, it changes demons a bit. Quietens stuff. Dulls the edges. But all this talk ‘bout “core damage” and “identity loss”? C’mon. That’s jumpin’ the gun. They’re overreactin’. And if the stuff was really that catastrophic, wouldn’t I be the perfect example of it? Yet here I am — still standin’, still me, still writin’ in this journal.

At least the pills gives us a chance to choose what version of ourselves we wanna be. Yeah, it’s risky. Yeah, it might be dangerous. But maybe it’s worth it.

I dunno… it ain’t as bad as they think. They’re scared, exaggeratin’, seein’ ghosts where there ain’t any.

Maybe I’m the only one who sees it like this, but I’m the one livin’ it. I know what it does. And it ain’t the horror story they’re makin’ it out to be.

Not that I can say much, huh? Not when I’m walkin’ ‘round with a handful of the stuff myself..

Anyway, things’ve been goin’ good otherwise. No one’s suspectin’ a thing. Lucifer’s too busy buryin’ himself in reports, Diavolo’s up to his horns in royal paperwork, Barbatos is everywhere at once like usual, and the others? They’re just tired. Nobody’s got the time to go sniffin’ ‘round my business. Which means — thank hell — I’m safe.

Point is, nobody’s lookin’ at me. Which is good. Real good.

Heh. I’m actually startin’ to relax a bit.

Oh — and I should probably write this down before I forget. It’s been, what, a few weeks? Maybe months? (Honestly, I’m losin’ track of time, which is kinda weird.) But I ain’t heard a peep from my greed. Not a whisper, not an itch, nothin’. It’s like it just up and vanished.

Sometimes I still feel that old pull — like a small spark in my chest when I skip a dose—but it fades fast. No voices. No urges screamin’ in my head.

Kinda weird.

I don’t know if I should be happy ‘bout it or worried. I mean, is this some kinda trick? Is Greed just bidin’ its time? Some kinda quiet before the storm? Or is this just… what I’ve been lookin’ for all along?

Or maybe... maybe I’m actually gettin’ better at keepin’ it in check? Maybe I don’t need the pills as much anymore?

Nah. I’m not gettin’ my hopes up.

Maybe it’s somethin’ I should worry ‘bout, but — eh. I’ll take the peace while I can. Ain’t no sense in overthinkin’ it. Let it be.

Aight, enough of the self-reflection crap. I gotta talk about the real win today. Finally found the perfect hidin’ spots for my stuff. Drum roll, please.

So, my journal’s locked in a safe, tucked in a little secret compartment under my pool table. Genius, right? It’s right there in plain sight, but no one’s ever gonna think to look there. It’s easy to get to, but damn near impossible to find. Who’d think of checkin’ under a pool table, huh? Even if they did, good luck if ya don’t know the trick. Heh.

And as for my pills? Pffft. Ya’d never guess where I’ve got ‘em.  My crows’ve got ‘em. They keep the pill case tucked away in their nest. Ain’t a single demon dumb enough to go messin’ with my birds.

Not even Lucifer’d risk losin’ a hand goin’ near those birds. They’d peck his fancy coat to shreds before he got close.

And hey, I think they like havin’ the extra weight to carry around. Keeps ‘em busy.

Magic woulda been too risky anyway — they’d trace the spell in seconds. Gotta keep it simple if ya don’t wanna get caught.

Hell yeah, I’m a GENIUS!

So yeah. For now, everything’s runnin’ smooth. The investigation’s movin’, Diavolo’s happy with progress, and no one’s givin’ me the stink eye. Guess that means I’m doin’ somethin’ right.

I just gotta keep it that way. Keep things steady.

And if I don’t hear from greed again? I’ll call that a win.

Mammon shut the journal with a soft thud, thumb brushing over the worn leather cover. For a second, he just sat there—listening to the low hum of the Devildom night filtering through the open window.

He blew out a breath. “Yeah… that’s enough thinkin’ for one night.”

He pushed back from the desk and stood, rolling his shoulders until they popped. Then grabbed the journal, tucked it under his arm and crossed the room, stepping around the scattered piles of clothes, Grimm receipts, random half-finished projects—the usual Mammon chaos that he insisted he had “a system” for.

His eyes flicked toward the door once, listening. No footsteps. No brothers yelling his name. No Lucifer breathing down his neck.

Good.

He crouched beside the pool table.

From the outside it looked completely normal—polished legs, scuffed felt, clean pockets. Nobody would think to look under it unless they were desperate or dumb. And in Mammon’s disaster of a room, no one got near the floor unless they tripped on something, which… well, okay, that happened, but the odds were low.

He ducked his head and slid under the edge of the table, shoulders brushing the underside. It was dark under there, shadows swallowing the space, but Mammon knew the layout by heart.

He reached up and felt for the latch.

Not a fancy latch—just a tiny metal lever he’d screwed in himself, wedged behind one of the crossbeams. His fingers grazed wood, dust, then the cool bump of the lever. He nudged it sideways until it clicked.

A wooden panel dropped open a few millimetres. Mammon pulled the panel down just enough to reach inside.

The safe sat nestled inside the shallow compartment, a small black lockbox bolted into the beams. The metal was smooth and cool under his fingertips. He twisted the dial with practiced ease—right, left, left, right—hearing the soft internal ticks line up.

Click.

The lock popped open.

“Perfect,” he murmured, quieter this time, almost to himself.

He slid the journal into the safe. It fit snugly, like it belonged there. For a moment his hand hesitated on the cover before he pulled back and shut the lid.

Another click. Sealed 

He pushed the panel back up until it pressed flush with the underside of the table. A soft, satisfying sound echoed when the latch snapped into place, invisible again unless someone knew exactly where to push.

Mammon backed out from under the table, dusted off his knees, and stood.

There. Secure. Hidden. Safe.

Nobody would find it. Not unless they were really trying.

He stood there for a moment, staring down at the table like it might stare back. The dim lamp light painted everything gold and shadow, and in the quiet hum of the room, the echoes of that meeting came creeping back—unwanted, but impossible to shut out.

“…so the suppressant isn’t just chemical,” Diavolo said, his voice steady but low, heavy with concern. “It’s spiritual. It interacts directly with demonic core, their sin—our very essence.”

Silence settled across the room. Reports lay scattered across the long table like fragments of a mirror reflecting something too dangerous to look at directly.

Lucifer leaned back slightly, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Then it’s no longer just an ordinary narcotic. It’s a tool of manipulation,” he said. “If it can dull a demon’s sin, it can change who they are. What they are.”

Asmo froze mid-gesture, the soft tap of his nails against the table dying instantly.

Levi fidgeted in his seat, his usual nervous energy sharper than usual. “So… like, it’s rewriting them? Like reprogramming NPCs or something?”

“Something like that,” Satan replied, voice clipped. “The more they take it, the less they want to feel. Their sin weakens, emotions flatten. The essence fades. They stop wanting, stop caring. It’s not healing—it’s hollowing.”

Satan eyes darkened, anger creeping into his tone. “The substance strip away a demon’s connection to their core—to their sin. Wrath, Lust, Envy—those aren’t just emotions. They’re the foundation of our power, our magic, our being. Without them, we don’t stabilize. We collapse. We’re left… empty.”

Beel’s brows furrowed, his tone quiet but serious. “Then they’re losing more than just control. They’re losing themselves.”

Diavolo nodded grimly. “Exactly. These drugs don’t cleanse—they rewrite. And that kind of manipulation requires precision few could ever hope to achieve.”

The brothers exchanged uneasy looks, the air thickening like the room itself was holding its breath.

Barbatos, who’d been standing silently behind Diavolo, finally stepped forward. His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something Mammon didn’t often hear from him—unease. “I have been attempting to trace its origins through the timelines,” he said. “Normally such threads are clear—cause and effect, ripples I can follow. But this…” He exhaled softly, hands folding behind his back. “My vision is obscured.”

Lucifer’s gaze sharpened. “You mean even you can’t see the source?”

“It’s not that I can’t,” Barbatos replied. “It’s that time refuses to show me. Like a fog deliberately laid over every path I try to follow. The the timeline fractures—splitting into paradoxes and dead ends. Someone is veiling it with surgical precision, rewriting the timeline itself to hide the truth.”

Diavolo frowned deeply, his voice quiet. “Then whoever is behind this isn’t merely clever and cautious. They’re powerful enough to interfere with time itself.”

Barbatos’s eyes darkened with thought. “Indeed. To cloud my sight so cleanly requires more than secrecy. It suggests intent—and an ability I’ve rarely seen, if ever.”

Belphie let out a low, tired whistle. “Great. So the mystery lunatic making this stuff can turn demons into puppets without them realising and stay invisible while doing it.”

A ripple of unease passed through the room.

Lucifer spoke again, voice quieter, but more dangerous. “This isn’t indulgence or corruption. It’s obliteration. Erasure of identity.”

“And the worst part,” he continued, “is we might not recognise the early signs; the change won’t be obvious at first. They may seem normal—even functional—while the core is already collapsing.”

Diavolo straightened, the weight of his authority settling heavily over the room. “Imagine the Devildom full of hollow demons—obedient, detached, docile. Stripped of the sin that defines them.” His voice echoed through the chamber. “This drug isn’t control by influence—it’s control by identity.”

The word identity seemed to sink into the room like a weight dropped into deep water.

Nobody dared speak for several breaths.

Finally, Lucifer broke the silence. “Then our next step is clear. We contain the spread, track every point of distribution, and isolate the source.”

Diavolo nodded firmly. “I’ll assign additional units to handle the lesser drug operations. The seven of you—along with Barbatos—will focus solely on the suppressant. It is the real threat.”

Barbatos inclined his head slightly. “Understood, my lord. I will continue my temporal analysis in parallel. If the veil shifts, even slightly, I will see it.”

Satan leaned forward, eyes glinting with interest. “And if it doesn’t?”

Barbatos’s reply was calm, but the weight of it pressed against the room. “Then we’re dealing with something beyond mere demoncraft. Perhaps even something not born of the Devildom at all.”

The words settled like frost.

Diavolo’s expression hardened. “Then we find it. Before it finds us.”

Mammon swallowed hard, unsure whether the pressure in his chest was Greed reacting or the absence of it. Either way, it made his pulse stutter.

The meeting broke apart soon after—quiet movements, stiff shoulders, no one speaking as they filed out. But Mammon remembered the way Diavolo’s eyes lingered on each of them before they left… and how, just for a second, he thought they’d stayed a little too long on him.

The faint hum of the lamp pulled Mammon back. He blinked, realising he’d been staring at the pool table for who knows how long. The room felt heavier now, shadows pressing at the edges like they knew something he didn’t want to admit.

He let out a slow breath. “Control, huh…?” he muttered. “That’s what everyone’s afraid of…”

The words hung there, weighty in the dim. He tapped the table once more before turning away.

A soft rustle of feathers broke the quiet.

Mammon glanced toward the corner just as a pair of golden eyes blinked back at him from the shadows, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Then came the low, familiar caw—sharp, expectant. A sound that Mammon could always rely on.

“Heh. Ya’re early, Luci,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. He reached for the small pouch sitting on his desk, jingling with Grimm—heavy with the weight of another deal he couldn’t back out of. “Guess ya know what time it is.”

Luci—a crow larger than most, sleek with faint streaks of silver near his wings, marks of both age and status—hopped closer, his feathers glinting in the soft light as he tilted his head to watch Mammon with an intelligent, almost human gaze.

He cawed again, softer this time, almost a greeting.

Mammon crouched down, holding the pouch of Grimm out by its drawstring. “Same deal as always. Straight to Caligo’s spot. Ya drop this off, take the case, and get back. No shortcuts, no talkin, no detours.”

Luci responded with a sharp, affirmative caw, and the way he fluffed his feathers seemed almost casual, like he was already bored of the routine. Mammon snorted softly.

“I know. I don’t like it either,” he murmured, voice dropping. “But I can’t meet Caligo anymore. Not with the investigation sniffin’ ‘round.”

Luci clicked his beak, a quiet sound of understanding.

“That’s my guy. I knew I could count on ya.” Mammon’s tone softened in a way he rarely let slip with anyone else. He trusted Luci more than anyone, more than most demons, honestly. Luci wasn’t just a familiar—he was family. A constant. He’d been there since the Fall, since the sky shattered and everything the brothers were crumbled underneath them. Through every mess, every gamble, every screw-up… Luci stayed.

Luci fluttered up to his shoulder for a moment, brushing his beak gently against Mammon’s cheek, a gesture that almost felt like comfort. Mammon froze for a second, blinking at the crow's unspoken concern, then he huffed out a tiny laugh, trying to shake it off.

"Heh, always the worrywart, aren’t ya?" he muttered, his voice light, but the words held less weight than they should. "I’m fine, alright? Just… keepin' things runnin' smooth."

Luci croaked low in his throat, almost disapproving, and Mammon couldn’t help but chuckle again, albeit a little strained. He reached up, fingers brushing against the crow’s feathers as Luci gripped the pouch in his talons and hopped to the windowsill, preparing to take off.

The air that drifted in from outside carried the cool chill of the Devildom night, metallic and alive with the distant hum of the city. Mammon walked to the window, his heart heavy in his chest despite the easy banter. He braced one hand on the frame and stared out into the dark. He didn’t know why, but he always felt more at ease when Luci was out there, doing the jobs Mammon couldn’t. It was a strange sense of trust that he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Don’t get caught.”

His fingers twitched—almost reaching for Luci, almost trying to hold onto something he wasn’t sure he deserved to keep.

Luci paused, giving him one last, reassuring caw before spreading his wings wide and taking off into the night, the pouch of Grimm tucked safely in his talon. Mammon watched him disappear into the sky, the faint gleam of gold from Luci’s leg—the tiny crest that marked him as Mammon’s familiar—flickering for just a moment before vanishing into the blackness.

The second-born lingered by the open window long after the sound of beating wings faded. His reflection in the glass looked strange—tired, maybe, or just… hollow.

His voice dropped lower as if the room itself might understand. “Just keepin' things smooth…”

It felt like a lie, even to himself. But Luci didn’t need to know that. The crow wasn’t dumb, though. Mammon knew that Luci understood more than he let on. Still, he never judged. Never asked questions. Never turned away.

In a world built on betrayal, that meant more than Mammon could admit.

The faintest hint of a smile crossed Mammon’s face as he stared out into the night, his hand still resting against the window. "Take care of yourself, Luci," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Luci would hear it—wherever he was.

For a moment, he stayed there in the quiet, letting the night settle around him. Then he dragged in a breath, pulling himself back to the present.

Mammon grabbed his bag from the couch, slinging it over his shoulder and gave one last look at the dark window where Luci had vanished. Then he shook his head, muttering, “Alright, guess it’s time to study. Not like I’ve got anythin’ better to do...” Though the truth was, he didn’t mind the distraction.

With a huff, he strode down the hallway to the common room. The heavy footsteps of his brothers already echoed ahead, pulling him back into the rhythm of the House of Lamentation—the noise, the chaos, the familiarity. Whatever weight lingered from Luci’s departure settled quietly at the back of his mind as he rounded the corner.

By the time he reached the common room, the lights were already on, and the familiar mix of coffee, candle wax, and old paper hung in the air. Inside, Satan was already there—sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a thick textbook and jotting notes with his usual unnerving focus. Books were stacked like towers around him, notes spread out across the table in organised chaos.

“Yer already at it?” Mammon grinned, tossing his bag onto the couch. “Ya tryin’ to beat the exam before it starts, or what?”

Satan flipped a page with calm precision. “Some of us prefer to be prepared. You’d know what that feels like if you ever tried it.”

Mammon rolled his eyes and dropped into a chair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bet half that junk’s just for show anyway.”

“That ‘junk’,” Satan replied smoothly, “is what’s going to keep you from failing RAD’s history of interrealm economics again.”

Mammon smirked, propping his feet on the table just to annoy him. “Joke’s on ya, I passed that one last term.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

Before Satan could retort, the door swung open. Leviathan stepped inside, a little out of breath, clutching his D.D.D. and a half-crumpled notebook.

“Sorry, sorry! Had to finish the new Tear of Cerberus event first,” he said, plopping down across from Mammon. “Can’t let my ranking drop below top 50 again—do you even know how brutal those dungeons get?”

Mammon snorted. “Ya coulda been here ten minutes earlier if ya stopped grindin’ in yer virtual dungeon and started grindin’ in yer textbooks.”

Levi scowled, tugging up his hood. “Like you’re one to talk, normie. I still remember you copying my answers last exam.”

“That’s called teamwork.”

Satan let out a long, pained sigh. “If you two would focus for five seconds, we might actually get through tonight without me losing my patience.”

“Doubt it,” Levi muttered.

“Not with this guy here,” Mammon said at the same time, jerking his thumb toward Satan with a teasing grin.

Satan gave them a look that promised suffering, but before he could unleash it, the door swung open again with theatrical flair.

“Hellooo, my darling brothers~!” Asmodeus sang, striding in like he was walking into a spotlight. “Sorry I’m late—again—but you can’t rush perfection. Especially when perfection’s wearing limited-edition celestial silk.”

Mammon groaned. “We’re studyin’, Asmo, not throwin’ a fashion show.”

“Oh, darling, everything I do is a fashion show.” Asmo winked, settling into the seat beside Levi and pulling out a pink notebook covered in glittering stickers. “Besides, it’s not my fault you don’t understand the importance of presentation. Maybe if you dressed better, Lucifer wouldn’t yell at you so much.”

Mammon threw up his hands. “Hey! I look great, thank ya very much. The Great Mammon don’t need fancy silks to be a knockout.”

Levi snorted. “Yeah, sure. You’re a knockout all right—of our grades.”

That actually got a laugh out of Satan, which only made Mammon glare harder. “Ya think ya’re all so funny, huh? Just wait ‘til I ace this thing. Then we’ll see who’s laughin’?”

Asmo leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Oh, please, the only way you’re acing anything is if Satan gives you the answers. Which he totally will, because he’s too nice to watch you fail again.”

“I’m not giving anyone answers,” Satan said, rolling his eyes. “But I’ll explain what you can’t figure out yourselves. Fair warning, I expect you all to keep up.”

Mammon groaned. “So basically, ya’re sayin’ this ain’t a study session—it’s a lecture.”

“If it helps you pass,” Satan replied evenly, “call it whatever you like.”

Asmo sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I get ink on my hands again, someone is paying for my manicure.”

Satan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve charged Lucifer for this babysitting session.”

Mammon chuckled. “Ya love us really, don’t lie.”

Satan gave him a sidelong glance that almost looked like a smile. “Let’s start before I change my mind.”

They settled in—Satan at the head of the table, Levi spreading his notes out like battle plans, Asmo lounging elegantly with his glittering notebook, and Mammon leaning back with his pen spinning between his fingers.

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like old times. The brothers bickering, teasing, half-laughing between explanations. Every few minutes, Satan would pause to explain a concept, his tone patient but precise. Levi grumbled but paid attention, Asmo asked questions just to hear himself talk, and Mammon, surprisingly, listened.

And Every so often, Satan’s gaze flicked toward him. Mammon’s answers were quick, neat, almost too focused—no jokes, no distracted fidgeting, just quiet concentration. Not his usual self.

But Satan said nothing, only scribbled another note.

Asmo leaned back with a sigh. “You know, I think I deserve extra credit just for showing up tonight. I could’ve been out at the new Devil’s Bar launch party, but noooo, here I am being a responsible student.”

“Wow,” Mammon muttered, not looking up from his page, “never thought I’d hear ya say that.”

“Oh, hush,” Asmo said, swatting his arm lightly. “Even I can be serious sometimes.”

Levi snorted. “Yeah, for like five seconds.”

Satan chuckled under his breath. “Focus, you three. If you fail this exam, Lucifer will have me supervising remedial lessons again.”

That was enough to make them all straighten up—mostly.

For a while, the only sounds were the scratch of pens and the quiet flipping of pages. The air warmed into something almost peaceful.

Levi was already mumbling about missing his raid group. Mammon slouched deeper in his chair, pretending to complain but secretly glad for something to keep his mind busy.

It was loud, messy, and familiar—exactly what he needed to keep his head from spiralling back to the thoughts he didn’t wanna face.

He picked up a pen, tapping it against his notebook as Satan started talking through the first topic.

For a few minutes, the noise of his brothers—Satan’s calm explanations, Asmo’s whining, Levi’s muttering—was all there was. And for once, it almost drowned out everything else.

Almost.

Hours passed in the usual blur of scribbling pens, half-finished notes, and Satan patiently re-explaining things that none of them had properly listened to the first time. By the time the clock on the wall ticked close to midnight, the table looked like a small battlefield—crumbled notes, open textbooks, half-empty mugs, and a spreading coffee stain on one of Levi’s worksheets.

Satan stretched his arms overhead, the motion smooth but unhurried. “Alright,” he said, closing his book with a soft thump. “I think that’s enough for now. Any more and your brains will start leaking out of your ears.”

Levi let out a loud groan, immediately collapsing back onto the carpet. “Ughhh, finally. My brain’s already mush. You didn’t warn us this was gonna be actual work, Satan!”

“That’s kind of what studying is,” Satan replied dryly.

Asmo slumped against the couch’s armrest, dramatically fanning himself with a notebook. “I can feel my stress levels rising. This can’t be good for my skin! My hands are cramping. My cuticles are crying.”

Mammon, who’d been doodling on the corner of his notes for the last ten minutes, grinned. “Maybe next time ya should study with yer phone’s selfie cam on, Asmo. Might help ya stay motivated if ya see yer own face.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Asmo purred, “I don’t need motivation to look at myself.”

Satan sighed. “Snack break. Before I actually commit a crime.”

That earned a round of agreement.

Mammon leaned back with a grin. “Good thing I came prepared.” He grabbed a small box from his bag and slid it onto the table with a grin. “Snack break, courtesy of the Great Mammon.”

Levi bolted upright. “Wait—are those Choco Hex Bars?! The premium ones?!”

“Damn right,” Mammon said proudly. “Limited edition, too.”

“Oi, those cost a fortune,” Satan said with mild suspicion. “Don’t tell me you—”

“I didn’t steal ‘em!” Mammon snapped, offended. “I bought ‘em, okay? Geez, can’t a guy be generous once in a while without gettin’ accused?”

Satan raised unimpressed brow. “Considering your track record…”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Mammon muttered, tossing a bar at him anyway.

Within minutes, the tension eased as the brothers munched away. Levi sat cross-legged, unwrapping his snack with exaggerated reverence. Asmo nibbled daintily, careful not to smudge his lip gloss. Even Satan looked content as he examined the wrapper before taking a bite.

Soon enough, they were scattered across the couches with snacks piled between them—chips, chocolate, crackers, a half-eaten bag of nuts, even a couple of energy drinks Levi had brought in.

For a while, no one talked about work, or exams, or responsibility. Just the sound of wrappers crinkling and quiet chewing filled the space.

It didn’t last long.

“Can’t believe exams are already next week,” Levi mumbled through a mouthful of chips. “Between all this investigation stuff and RAD’s regular workload, it’s like we’re being punished for existing.

“You basically are,” Asmo sighed, delicately licking a smear of chocolate from his finger. “My poor skin is crying from all this stress. Lucifer won’t even let me go to the spa until the exams are over! It’s criminal.”

“You’ll survive,” Satan said, smirking.

Asmo narrowed his eyes. “You say that now, but if I get wrinkles from this, I’m haunting you.”

Mammon chuckled, sinking further into the couch. “Man, we ain’t even had time to breathe lately. All this investigatin’, runnin’ errands, writin’ reports—now exams? Feels like we don’t get any time for, y’know… us anymore.”

Levi nodded miserably. “Right?! I haven’t even logged into Tear of Cerberus Online properly in days. My guild probably thinks I quit. I’m losing ranking, losing honor—it’s an actual tragedy.”

Asmo out an exaggerated gasp. “And I haven’t been able to update my Devilgram in three whole days. Three, Mammon. My followers are going to think I’ve been kidnapped. Or worse—dead. Do you know how much it kills engagement when you go inactive?”

Levi snorted. “Lol, they’d probably throw a parade if you vanished for a week.”

“Rude,” Asmo shot back, flicking a crumb at him. “At least I have fans, unlike a certain shut-in otaku.”

“Yeah, but they’re, like, normies,” Levi grumbled.

Mammon snorted. “Maybe that’s for the best. Give ‘em a lil’ mystery—‘Where’d Asmo go?’—keep ‘em guessin’.”

“Oh, please,” Asmo said, flipping his hair. “If I disappear, the entire Devildom would go into mourning. I’m practically a public figure.”

“Public nuisance, more like,” Satan corrected under his breath.

Levi choked on a laugh, spraying crumbs. Mammon burst out laughing too, until Asmo smacked him lightly with a pillow.

Levi scooted closer, finishing his snack and wiping his fingers on his hoodie. “But seriously… Mammon’s kinda right,” he said quietly. “Feels like we don’t do anything but work and study.”

He slumped, groaning. “I ordered a bunch of materials from Akuzon for my Lord of Shadows cosplay—authentic fabrics, enchanted thread, custom accessories—and they’re finally coming in tomorrow. But with exams and the investigation, I won’t even have time to touch it!”

Asmo’s expression softened. “Aw, poor thing. You’ve been dying to make that cosplay for months, haven’t you?”

“It’s gonna be my best TSL cosplay yet. Once I get time off, I’ll sew the whole thing myself,” Levi said, a wistful smile on his face. “I had it all planned—the armor, the cape, everything. I was even gonna do a full photoset with Henry 2.0! Now it’s just gonna sit there taunting me.”

“That’s cute, Levi,” Asmo cooed. “Maybe you can model it for me. I’ll post it on my Devilgram—‘My adorable brother, the Shadow Lord!’ You’ll go viral.”

Levi blushed furiously. “D-don’t make it sound weird! It’s for artistic purposes!”

Mammon grinned. “Heh, sure it is.”

“C’mon, you’ll get to it soon enough,” he added. “Maybe once this mess is over.”

Satan leaned forward. “Assuming it ends soon,” he said. “The suppressant operation isn’t slowing down. If anything, it’s spreading.”

That quieted them all for a moment.

Asmo twirled his straw, frowning. “I still don’t get it,” he said softly. “Why would demons even want to suppress their sin? It’s part of who we are. Sure, it causes trouble sometimes, but without it… what’s left?”

Levi glanced up. “You mean, like, why take the drug?”

Asmo nodded. “Yeah. Why would anyone want to turn themselves into—” he hesitated, searching for the word “—boring, empty husks? I mean, isn’t that basically… giving up on being a demon?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Satan’s gaze was thoughtful. “Maybe they think it’s freedom,” he said after a pause. “A form of fear or desperation… the idea that without sin, there’s no guilt or temptation. Just silence.”

Levi shuddered. “But… that’s messed up.  It’s like erasing yourself.”

“Exactly,” Asmo huffed. “Even when I’m stressed, I’d never give up who I am. That’s, like, the worst kind of ugly. Demons are their sin. Why would anyone want to be less of themselves?”

Mammon’s hands tightened around his cup, his pulse suddenly racing. The question hit harder than he’d expected.

He kept his expression neutral, eyes fixed on the table, willing his heartbeat to slow as the others talked. His chest felt tight, his throat dry.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t.

“Maybe…” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual, “maybe some demons just get tired of fightin’ it, y’know? Bein’ ruled by yer sin all the time—it wears ya down. Makes ya wanna stop hearin’ the noise for a bit.”

Asmo blinked at him. “So they’d rather feel nothing?”

Mammon shrugged, trying to keep his voice casual. “Nothin’s still better than feelin’ too much sometimes.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Satan’s eyes flicked toward him briefly—curious, sharp, observant—but he didn’t comment. Just sipped his drink in silence.

Mammon leaned back, pretending not to notice.

Levi tilted his head. “Guess I can see that,” he said slowly. “But still… it’s creepy. Like, what if that’s the point? What if someone’s using the drugs to make demons easier to control?”

That caught Asmo’s attention. “Ooh, you mean, like, brainwashing?” His eyes widened. “Wait—what if it’s the Celestial Realm behind it? Think about it! ‘Purifying’ demons, making them obedient, emotionless little puppets? It sounds exactly like something they’d do!”

Levi gasped softly, eyes going wide. “You mean like in Heaven’s Descent 4! The Archangels create a serum to strip demons of their corruption! Oh my Devildom, it’s happening in real life!”

“Or,” he added eagerly, “maybe it’s like some experimental purification drug they ‘accidentally’ let loose here. Or the Celestial Realm made a deal with the human world to weaken us!”

Satan dragged a hand down his face. “You two need to stop binging conspiracy dramas.”

“Don’t dismiss it!” Asmo huffed. “It wouldn’t be the first time angels tried something sneaky. You think they’d pass up the chance to make us more ‘pure’?”

“I mean who else would want to change what demons are?” he insisted. 

“The logic doesn’t hold,” Satan said flatly. “If the Celestial Realm were behind it, Barbatos would’ve detected the interference instantly. Besides, their magic signatures are different—holy energy leaves traces. These don’t.”

Levi frowned. “Then what about humans? Maybe it’s some shady human scientist experimenting with cross-realm alchemy.”

“Unlikely,” Satan replied. “Even high-level human sorcery can’t tamper with sin energy directly. Whoever’s behind this is using Devildom magic—ancient, precise. Powerful.”

Asmo pouted. “So you’re saying we’ve got some kind of evil genius demon out there making all this happen?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Satan said, eyes flicking briefly toward Mammon again. “Someone who understands sin well enough to unmake it.”

Mammon shifted in his seat, pretending to rummage through his bag to hide the tremor in his hands. His heart hammering in his chest.

“Whoever it is,” he said, forcing a laugh, “sure’s got everyone jumpin’. Maybe they’re just tryin’ to make a quick buck, huh? Ain’t always gotta be world domination.”

Satan smiled faintly—but there was no humor in it. “Maybe.”

Then Asmo sighed, slumping dramatically against the armrest. “Ugh, all this talk just reminds me how long it’s been since I went shopping. I’m dying to hit Majolish again. You wouldn’t believe how many new spring collections came out this week.”

“Right, ‘cause the Devildom’s greatest tragedy is Asmo not goin’ shoppin’,” Mammon teased.

Asmo threw a chip at him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Mammon.”

Satan chuckled quietly. “Still, he’s not wrong. You’ve all been working hard lately. I’m… impressed, honestly.”

Levi blinked. “Wait—was that a compliment?”

“Oh, I’ll take it!” Asmo beamed. “And thank you again, Satan, for helping us study. Really, I’d be a nervous wreck without you.”

“Same here,” Levi mumbled. “You make the boring stuff sound kinda cool.”

Mammon grinned, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “Yeah, ya ain’t too bad, Satan. Guess all that bookworm energy comes in handy sometimes.”

Satan shook his head, smiling faintly. “Glad to help.”

The conversation drifted after that—to lighter things. Levi started ranting about Akuzon delivery delays and “lazy courier imps who don’t respect premium shipping, Asmo gushing about Majolish’s latest collection and vowing an all-day shopping spree once exams were over.

Mammon laughed at the right moments, joked when they expected him to, even teased Levi about cosplaying.

But the laughter didn’t reach his eyes.

Every joke, every word, felt heavier. Thinner.

Because when Asmo had asked why anyone would want to feel nothing, Mammon already knew the answer.

He just couldn’t say it. Not when he was one of them.

Mammon leaned back on the couch, stretching his arms behind his head, trying to let the noise of his brothers fade into the background. His chest felt tight—not from laughter this time, but from something else. A low, restless tug under his ribs. His fingers twitched slightly, the familiar spark creeping in like static beneath his skin. It wasn’t bad yet—just that subtle, buzzing reminder of what he was.

He pretended to yawn, stretching again, but his fingers trembled faintly as he ran a hand through his hair. Not enough for anyone to notice—not unless they were really looking—but he could feel it.

He flexed his hand, forcing a grin when Asmo’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“So, what’s next, Mr. Tutor?” Asmo asked, glancing at Satan. “You gonna make us write essays next? Because I swear, if you do, I’ll cry. And crying ruins my mascara.”

Satan smirked, stacking the last book. “Relax, you’ve all done enough damage to my patience for one night. I think we can call it here.”

“Finally!” Levi groaned, throwing his arms in the air. “Freedom!”

“Don’t celebrate too hard,” Satan warned. “We’re meeting again tomorrow. Same time.”

Levi made a noise somewhere between a groan and a dying seal. “You’re literally worse than Lucifer.”

“Oi! Don’t you dare compare me to that old peacock.” Satan snapped, eyes narrowing. 

Mammon chuckled, grabbing his bag from beside the couch. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, laughing to mask the faint unease still curling in his chest.

“Alright, I’m callin’ it a night,” he said. “Been a long day, and I gotta check on my crows before Lucifer yells at me again for lettin’ ‘em ‘run wild,’ or whatever he says.”

Levi looked up from where he was scrolling through his D.D.D., eyebrows raised. “You’re actually going out there now? It’s past midnight! What are they even doing at this hour?”

“They’ve been helpin’ out with the investigation and stuff,” Mammon said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Workin’ real hard. Gotta make sure they get somethin’ to eat.”

Asmo smiled softly. “Aww, look at you—the devoted crow dad.”

Mammon scoffed, already gathering up the leftover snacks from the table—half a bag of peanuts, and some leftover crackers. “Yeah well, someone’s gotta feed ‘em. They like peanuts, so don’t waste these,” he said, stuffing the food into the bag.

He bent down to zip up his bag—and paused. “Oh, right! Almost forgot somethin’.”

He dug through the bag for a moment, then pulled out a small box wrapped in glossy black paper. “Uh, here,” he said, scratching the back of his neck as he handed it toward Satan.

Satan blinked, clearly surprised. “For me?”

“Yeah,” Mammon muttered quickly, tossing the box his way. “Just… a lil’ somethin’ I saw from the human realm.”

Levi peered curiously over Satan’s shoulder as the blond carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a small cat-shaped reading light—the kind that clipped to books, with its little tail curving up into a tiny bulb. It was the same design as the one Satan’s favourite lamp that had broken last week.

Alongside it were a bundle of five ornate bookmarks tied with ribbons—sleek, gold-edged designs depicting constellations—and a pair of soft fuzzy socks patterned with tiny cats chasing yarn.

For a moment, Satan just stared at them. Then his lips curved faintly. “You remembered,” he said quietly.

Mammon shrugged, trying to look casual, though his ears were turning pink. “Yeah, well, ya wouldn’t stop complainin’ ‘bout that lamp breakin’, so I figured—uh—I’d just… y’know… replace it or somethin’. Ain’t a big deal.”

Asmo gasped, clapping his hands together. “Aww, Mammon, that’s adorable! You actually bought him gifts!”

Levi gawked. “Wait, you bought him that? Since when do you give gifts that aren’t cursed or, like, IOUs?”

Mammon’s face turned red instantly. “Wha—no! It ain’t like that! He helped us study, okay?! It’s a thank-you gift! Nothin’ more!”

Asmo giggled. “Mhm, sure~. Next thing we know, you’ll be knitting him mittens.”

“Shaddup!” Mammon snapped, his voice cracking halfway through. He turned to Satan, waving his hands defensively. “Don’t listen to ‘em, alright? I ain’t goin’ soft, or sentimental, or anythin’ like that. It just—look, it’s practical! Cats ‘n’ readin’—it’s yer thing, so I thought—”

Satan’s laughter cut him off—a rare, warm sound. “Relax, Mammon. I’m not making fun of you.” He reached out and gave Mammon’s arm a light pat. “It’s thoughtful. Thank you.”

Mammon blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Y-yeah, well… whatever,” he muttered, turning away quickly to hide his grin. “Just don’t go tellin’ others or nothin’. I got a reputation to keep.”

Levi snickered, recording. “Yeah, a reputation for being a tsundere.”

“I ain’t—! Ugh, forget it!” Mammon groaned, throwing his hands up. “Ya losers don’t deserve nice stuff.”

Asmo smiled warmly, leaning over the back of the couch. “We’re just teasing, sweetie. It’s cute. You should do it more often—thoughtful looks good on you.”

Mammon groaned again. “Ugh, I ain’t listenin’ to this.” He slung his bag higher, shoving the remaining snacks inside. “I’m headin’ out. Don’t wait up or nothin’.”

Satan tucked the gifts neatly beside his stack of books, still smiling faintly. “Be careful on your way out. The temperature’s dropping. It might rain—your crows won’t mind it, but you might.”

Mammon gave a mock salute. “Got it, professor.”

Levi waved lazily from the couch. “Don’t get eaten by your birds, normie!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mammon laughed, waving over his shoulder.

He started toward the door, bag slung over his shoulder. But before leaving, he turned back once more. The others were already slipping back into easy chatter—Levi excitedly showing Asmo something on his D.D.D., Satan quietly cleaning the table with that calm, measured focus of his.

For a brief moment, Mammon just watched them—his family. Loud, chaotic, infuriating, but… his.

The need in his hands was still there, faint but pulsing. The tug of his sin slithering in the back of his mind. But for now, he ignored it.

He had a reason to go out tonight.

He smiled faintly, called out, “Don’t stay up too late, ya nerds,” and slipped out into the hall.

As he stepped out into the quiet corridor, their laughter still echoing faintly behind him, something in his chest loosened—just a little. That lingering warmth from their teasing, their noise, their normalcy.

He pushed open the door to the courtyard. Cool night air swept over his skin, carrying distant echoes of unseen creatures. Mammon crossed the courtyard and kept going, boots crunching over gravel until it softened into grass, then forest floor.

A familiar flutter of wings greeted him from the shadows.

“Hey, Luci,” he called softly.

The crow hopped down from a low branch, landing neatly on his arm. Its feathers shimmered blue-black beneath the moonlight.

Luci’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, flicked toward Mammon every so often, as though studying his expression.

Mammon smiled faintly and dug into his bag, tossing a peanut into the air. “Ya been waitin’ long?”

The crow cawed softly, head tilting as if to say you took your time.

Mammon chuckled. “Yeah. Been busy.”

Luci tilted its head, clicking its beak once.

He fed the bird another peanut, then brushed his thumb gently over its wing. “I know the way, don’t rush me.”

He wasn’t shaking anymore—not as badly—but the dull tug in his chest hadn’t eased either.

They passed the line of old trees where the shadows grew thicker, darker. He stopped beneath one with a crooked trunk—a tree that had seen more secrets than it probably wanted to.

“Go on, Luci,” Mammon said softly, pointing toward one of the upper branches. “Get it.”

With a sharp caw, Luci launched upward, wings beating soundlessly against the air. A few moments later, the crow returned—something metallic clutched in its talons this time, and a sliver of folded dark paper pinched delicately in its beak.

Mammon held out his hand. Luci dropped both items neatly into his palm.

The pill case glinted coldly under the moonlight. The note, folded with precise corners, was unmistakably Caligo’s.

Mammon didn’t look surprised—this was exactly the kind of reply he’d expect when he sent a request through the crows.

Still, something in his shoulders loosened as he unfolded it.

Ink glimmered faintly on the page, the handwriting sharp and efficient:

Request approved. Five a week. I’ll adjust it.
Try not to eat through them like candy, greedling.
Silence is useful. Overuse isn’t. ;)
—C

A small exhale escaped him—something between relief and irritation.

Just acknowledgement. Agreement. Exactly the answer he’d expected. Exactly the one he needed.

And beneath it, a warning only someone like Caligo could phrase in a way that felt like a smirk and concern at the same time.

As soon as his eyes passed over the final initial, the note warmed between his fingers.
Thin tendrils of shadow curled along its edges, eating the paper in silent embers. Within seconds the note curled into nothing—leaving only a faint wisp of smoke that drifted upward and vanished. 

Gone. No trace. No evidence.

Exactly as intended.

Mammon flicked the latch open, staring at the black capsules nestled inside. His reflection warped faintly in the polished metal. For a second, the sound of his brothers’ laughter echoed somewhere in his head—the warmth of earlier still lingering faintly in his chest.

Then it dimmed.

He plucked out two capsules, tossed them back, and swallowed dry. The bitterness crawled down his throat, sharp as static.

The case snapped shut with a soft click.

“Thanks, pal,” he murmured, handing the case back to Luci. “Put it back where it belongs.”

Luci took it delicately in its beak and soared off again, disappearing into the dark canopy where Mammon knew the nest sat—hidden, unreachable, safe.

When Luci returned, the rest of the murder arrived with him—faint shapes emerging from the trees, soft caws and rustling wings surrounding Mammon. He smiled faintly, lowering himself onto the grass.

“Alright, alright, calm down, ya bunch of freeloaders,” he said, laughing under his breath as one landed squarely on his shoulder. “I brought snacks, didn’t I?”

The crows swooped low to circle around him, others perching boldly on his shoulders or lap. One even landed right on his head, peering at him upside-down.

“Oi, Junior,” Mammon laughed, lifting a hand to steady the tiny bird. “Ya still doin’ that? Ya know that ain’t normal, right?”

Junior blinked, then let out a cheerful caw.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re adorable. Whatever.”

He pulled the bag open, pulling out the leftover packets from earlier. “Got peanuts, some cracker bits, even a couple shiny wrappers. Don’t say yer boss never treats ya.”

A chorus of delighted caws followed as they flocked around him. Legion—a particularly mischievous one with a missing feather on his left wing—hopped right onto Mammon’s lap, pecking at the edge of a peanut wrapper.

“Oi, don’t be greedy,” Mammon scolded, flicking his finger lightly at him. “Save some for the others, yeah?”

Legion tilted his head, then snatched a peanut and flew off with a triumphant caw. The others followed in a flurry of wings.

“Brat,” Mammon muttered, amused.

Mammon Jr.—smaller, younger, and far too attached—was perched on his shoulder now, nibbling on a shiny coin he’d pulled from Mammon’s pocket. Mammon stroked his head fondly. “Ya like that, huh? Told ya, best treasure’s the one that shines.”

He dug further, pulling out a small pouch of shiny trinkets, then scattered a few into the grass: a broken ring, a keychain shaped like a fang, a bent earring that had belonged to Asmo (he wouldn’t miss it), some bottle caps, and a coin so polished it reflected the stars.

“Here ya go, knock yourselves out. Got all these shiny lil’ things for ya. Some of ‘em belonged to my brothers, but don’t tell ‘em, yeah?”

The crows chirped and croaked, gathering around the pile with delighted greed. They immediately started squabbling over the shinies—a whirl of wings and glittering reflections. Mammon leaned back against the tree, laughter rumbling softly from his chest.

“Ya bunch of greedy idiots,” he said fondly. “Guess I can’t really blame ya.”

The white haired smiled faintly, resting his chin on his knee.

“This right here,” he murmured, “this ain’t bad, huh? Just ya guys, no noise, no expectations.”

For a while, he just sat there, watching them bicker and hop around, the quiet forest alive with little sounds—feathers brushing leaves, soft caws, the faint clink of metal trinkets in the dirt.

It was peaceful. Almost enough to drown out the hum building under his skin.

The spark of Greed still tugged faintly at his ribs, coiling low, but he ignored it. The pills would take care of it soon. They always did.

Then, suddenly Luci stilled on Mammon’s shoulder, feathers puffing. The crow’s head tilted sharply toward the trees behind him.

Mammon frowned. “…What is it?”

The wind shifted softly through the branches. A moment later, the crunch of footsteps reached his ears—steady, calm, familiar.

Then a new voice broke the quiet.

“So this is where you disappear to.”

Mammon froze, his crows reacting instantly—some taking flight, others turning toward the sound with sharp, protective clicks of their beaks. But Mammon didn’t need to look. He knew that voice anywhere.

“Seriously? Ain’t this my lucky day.” He sighed, turning slightly as the tall silhouette came into view between the trees. “What’re ya doin’ out here, Lucifer?”

Lucifer stepped into the moonlight, arms folded loosely behind his back. His coat moved with the wind. His expression was calm—unreadable, though his gaze softened a little at the sight of Mammon sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by crows and shiny junk.

 “I could ask you the same question, Mammon,” Lucifer said, his voice a quiet murmur. “You know it’s well past midnight.”

Mammon grinned, feigning casual. “Just spendin’ time with my crows. They get lonely, y’know?”

Lucifer’s eyes drifted over the flock—now pretending to look innocent as they pecked at the snacks and glittering scraps. “They seem content.”

“Heh. They should be. I spoil ‘em.”

Lucifer arched a brow. “That much is obvious.”

Mammon leaned back again, scratching Junior—who had resumed his perch on Mammon’s head. “So what’re ya doin’ out here, huh? Paperwork not keepin’ ya chained to yer desk anymore?”

Lucifer huffed once—more breath than laugh. “Believe it or not, even I need a break every now and then.” He stepped closer, stopping just short of the nearest tree. 

Mammon snorted. “That so? Paperwork finally broke ya, huh?”

Lucifer’s mouth quirked, just a fraction. “It’s been a long few weeks. Between the investigation and the endless academy reports, even I can feel the strain.”

For a few moments, silence settled between them—the quiet kind that wasn’t awkward, just… full. The forest hummed softly, and one of the smaller crows hopped closer to Lucifer’s boot, pecking curiously at the hem of his coat.

Lucifer looked down. “…They’re remarkably tame.”

Mammon grinned. “Yeah, they know good people when they see ‘em.”

Lucifer shot him a dry look. “I find that hard to believe.”

Mammon laughed, loud and genuine. “whatever, ya love me, too.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes, but the faintest trace of amusement tugged at his lips. “You certainly make it difficult not to notice you.”

Mammon’s grin faltered just slightly at that, but he covered it up with a quick chuckle. “Heh, guess I’m just that good.”

Lucifer’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer—studying him with an unusually gentle awareness. Then he looked away, addressing the crows again.

“They’ve bonded to you strongly,” he said quietly. “They’re smart. And perceptive.”

There it was—pride, tucked carefully beneath the layers of his composed tone.

Mammon caught it, even if Lucifer probably didn’t mean to show it. He grinned, softer this time. “Yeah, they’re good kids. Been with me a long time.”

Lucifer’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, Mammon… despite your many flaws—”

“Oi!”

“—you have an undeniable gift for connection,” Lucifer continued smoothly. “Even when you don’t realize it. Perhaps that’s why your brothers rely on you more than they admit.”

Lucifer sighed, but his eyes softened—just for a heartbeat. “You’ve done well, Mammon. With the investigation. With your brothers. And… with them.” He nodded slightly toward the crows, who had begun preening each other.

Mammon’s chest tightened a little at the words, but he just shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta hold the place together when ya’re buried in paperwork.”

Lucifer chuckled under his breath. “You make it sound like a great burden.”

Mammon smirked. “Maybe it is. Ya owe me for my emotional labor, y’know.”

Lucifer gave him that familiar look—part exasperation, part fondness. “I’ll add it to your list of debts.”

Mammon laughed. “Heh, fair enough.”

Lucifer ignored that, gaze flicking toward the nearest crow—Luci, who had landed protectively on Mammon’s shoulder again, watching Lucifer with a piercing look. “They’re… loyal to you,” he said quietly. “Even the lesser demons don’t inspire this level of devotion.”

“’Course they are,” Mammon said, grinning a little. “They’re my crew. Ain’t that right, guys?”

A round of approving caws answered him.

Lucifer chuckled softly. “You’ve always had a way with creatures. Even before the fall.”

That earned him a raised brow. “Ya gettin’ sentimental on me, Luci?” Mammon teased, but the nickname slipped out naturally—the same one he used for his crow.

Lucifer’s smile widened, just slightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

Mammon laughed quietly, tossing another peanut into the grass. “So what’re ya really doin’ out here? Ain’t like ya to just stroll through the woods for fun.”

Lucifer sighed, lowering himself to sit on a nearby fallen log, crossing one leg over the other with practiced grace. “I needed air. I’ve been staring at paperwork and listening to my cursed vinyl for hours. I was considering another glass of demonus, but I decided I’d rather breathe fresh air instead of drowning in it.”

He glanced around. “This seemed… preferable.”

Mammon tilted his head, surprised by the honesty. “Ya? Admittin’ ya needed a break? That’s new.”

Lucifer’s brow arched. “Even I’m not immune to exhaustion.” He paused, then added, “Though I didn’t expect my respite to include an impromptu crow convention.”

Mammon laughed, feeding a few more birds. “Eh, they grow on ya. Maybe they’ll even like ya if ya stop glarin’ at ‘em.”

Lucifer’s gaze flicked around the clearing. “I’m not glaring.”

“Ya always glare,” Mammon said.

Lucifer’s eye twitched. “I do not.”

Mammon snorted.

A small silence settled between them—the good kind. Luci hopped down from Mammon’s shoulder and onto the grass between them, picking up a shiny bottle cap and proudly displaying it to Lucifer.

Lucifer blinked, then actually smiled. “A gift?”

Mammon smirked. “Guess he thinks ya deserve somethin’ shiny too.”

Lucifer reached down, taking the cap gently. “How considerate.” His tone was dry, but there was a warmth there Mammon rarely heard.

They sat like that for a while—Mammon surrounded by his loyal crows, Lucifer seated across from him, the air quiet save for soft caws and the faint rustle of leaves. It wasn’t often they had moments like this. No yelling, no scolding, no tension. Just… quiet understanding.

Lucifer finally spoke, “You’ve changed a little.”

Mammon stiffened. “Huh?”

“You’ve been Calmer.” Lucifer clarified. “More focused.” His gaze held him for a beat longer than usual—searching. “It’s unusual.”

Mammon forced a grin, tossing a cracker. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta balance out the others constant screamin’.”

Lucifer raised a brow, but didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He knew Mammon well enough to recognize a deflection when he heard one.

Instead, he added, “Try to maintain that balance. The Devildom is considerably quieter without your constant disasters.”

Mammon stared at him—caught between embarrassment and something that stung a bit too close. “Hold up. Was that a compliment?”

Lucifer smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Mammon grinned wide. “I’m tellin’ everyone tomorrow.”

Lucifer exhaled sharply. “Mammon—”

“Even Lord Diavolo—”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

The brothers stared at each other for a long second—then both laughed. A real laugh, the kind that melted the usual distance between them.

Then, his gaze flicked toward the crow still perched proudly on Mammon’s shoulder. “Tell me something,” he said, voice low but curious. “Which one of them is Luci?”

Mammon froze for half a second, caught off guard. “Huh? Ya—uh, ya heard that?”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Of course I did. You weren’t exactly whispering.” His voice took on that infuriatingly smug calm.  “I heard you say the name earlier. Luci. I can only assume you named one of your crows after me.”

His tone, graceful and obnoxious—far too pleased with himself. “Flattering, really. Though not surprising. Clearly, your favorite brother inspired your favorite familiar.”

Mammon blinked at him, face going crimson in the moonlight. “Wha—nah, nah, ya got it all wrong!” He waved his hands defensively, looking anywhere but at Lucifer. “I just, uh—it’s short for somethin’ else! Don’t go gettin’ a big head ‘bout it!”

Lucifer’s smirk deepened, stepping closer just enough for the moonlight to catch the amused glint in his eyes. “Oh? not after me, then?”

“That ain’t what that means!”

“Then what does it mean?”

“I—!” Mammon sputtered, fluster rising. “It ain’t like that, alright?!”

Junior, still balanced on his head, tilted its little head curiously, almost like it was enjoying the show.

Lucifer chuckled lightly. “You’re blushing, Mammon.”

“I ain’t blushing! It’s just—” Mammon gestured wildly, trying to come up with an excuse, his voice rising in that flustered pitch he always got when cornered. “Luci’s just—ya know—he’s my right-hand crow, alright? Don’t make it weird!”

Lucifer hummed, feigning deep thought. “So, your right hand carries my name. How interesting.”

“Quit twistin’ my words, dammit!”

Lucifer’s smile turned faintly wicked. “Perhaps you simply admire me more than you admit.”

Mammon groaned loudly. “Oh, for—! Listen, if anyone’s my favorite, it’s Mammon Jr.—Junior for short, got it? He’s named after me! That means somethin’. The great Mammon only lends his name to greatness!!”

On top of his head, Junior gave a cheerful caw, like he was proudly agreeing.

Lucifer chuckled softly, then arched a brow, clearly amused “Then I suppose that Junior must be a troublemaker too.”

“Hey!” He shot back, voice full of wounded pride.

“He ain’t a troublemaker! He’s just—uh—spirited! Charismatic! Just like me! Greatness comes with a lil’ chaos, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Lucifer said, tone dry but eyes warm. “So he’s greedy, impulsive, and constantly getting himself into trouble. How very… you of him.”

Mammon sputtered again, blush deepening. “Tch—ya just jealous ‘cause my familiars actually like me! Can’t say the same for ya, huh?”

He crossed his arms triumphantly. “Cerberus doesn’t follow ya around callin’ ya cool all day!”

For a heartbeat, even the forest seemed to pause—then Lucifer laughed. A genuine, low, smooth laugh that made the whole murder of crows tilt their heads in surprise.

“Jealous? Of a crow?” Lucifer shook his head lightly. “Hardly.”

“Yeah, sure.” Mammon smirked, finally getting his swagger back. “Ya’re totally jealous.”

Lucifer sighed, but there was warmth in his eyes now—soft, proud, unspoken. “You never change.”

“Wouldn’t be the Great Mammon if I did,” Mammon said with a grin, flicking a peanut toward Legion, who caught it midair with a triumphant caw.

The teasing settled into a more comfortable quiet, the kind that came only after years of knowing exactly when to push and when to stop. The night air was cool,  faint mist rolled between the roots of the trees, silver under the moonlight.

Lucifer watched Mammon for a moment—the way the younger demon laughed under his breath as the crows squabbled for shiny scraps, the faint tiredness behind his grin. He had always been able to read Mammon better than anyone else, even when Mammon thought he was hiding something.

And lately… something had been off.

His voice came softer this time, the teasing stripped away. “Mammon,” he began.

Mammon glanced up at him, wary. “Yeah?”

Lucifer’s gaze lingered on his face, studying him with that unnervingly sharp look of his—the one that always made Mammon feel like his brother could see right through him. “How are you holding up? With the investigation, work, and the upcoming exams.”

Mammon blinked, thrown off by the sudden seriousness. “…What, me? I’m fine.”

“Are you really doing all right?” Lucifer asked. The question was gentle, but there was weight behind it.

Mammon’s stomach dropped. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His heart thudded unevenly—the instinct to lie colliding with the desperate need to not sound like he was lying.

“Me? C’mon, I’m fine!” he said too brightly, flashing that cocky grin he used whenever he was cornered. “Don’t tell me ya startin’ to worry ‘bout me now. I’m the Great Mammon! Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle!”

Lucifer’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed just slightly—sharp, assessing. He could always tell when Mammon was overcompensating. Always.

Mammon felt the weight of that stare and tried to laugh it off. “Besides, ya think I’d let some dumb exams or paperwork get me down? No way. I’m just—”

He stopped himself before saying tired. Before saying empty.

“…busy,” he finished lamely.

Lucifer studied him for another long moment, then sighed. “You really are a terrible liar.”

Mammon looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Geez, you’re readin’ too much into it.”

Lucifer’s eyes didn’t waver. “You’ve been… quieter lately.”

Mammon froze for half a heartbeat. His fingers paused halfway into the snack bag. “Quieter? Me? Nah, no way. Ya must be hearin’ things. Maybe ya need more sleep.”

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, unconvinced but unwilling to push too far. “Perhaps.” His tone softened just a touch. “Still, just remember, if something is going on—anything—you know you can tell me.

He paused, and when he spoke again, it was quieter. “You can trust me with it.”

Mammon’s chest tightened. The pills in his system dulled a lot, but not enough to stop the ache that came with that.

He forced a grin, trying to look casual. “What, ya gettin’ sentimental again tonight or somethin’? You’re startin’ to sound like Barbatos.”

“I’m being serious, Mammon.”

The calm seriousness nearly made him flinch. It was worse than yelling—because it meant Lucifer truly meant it.

For a moment, Mammon couldn’t meet his eyes. His pulse picked up, nerves buzzing, panic crawling under his ribs. The pills hadn’t fully kicked in yet, the edges of his emotions still felt raw.

He laughed again, shakier this time. “C’mon, Luci. I’m fine, seriously. Just… pullin’ my weight. Helpin’ with the investigation, studyin’ so ya don’t get on my case, workin’, keepin’ the crows in line.” He shrugged. “Nothin’ new.”

Lucifer looked at him a moment longer, as if he wanted to press further. But he didn’t. He knew that pushing Mammon would only make him retreat. Instead, he nodded once, though the crease between his brows didn’t fade. “…If you say so.”

Mammon let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Told ya. Ya worry too much, man.”

“Someone has to,” Lucifer replied quietly.

That made Mammon glance up, caught off guard again. Lucifer’s expression was calm, composed—but there was something in his eyes, something warm and old and heavy.

The pride, the responsibility, the care he’d never quite learned how to show properly.

Mammon’s throat tightened for a second before he looked away. “…Yeah. Guess so.”

“Good.” Lucifer straightened slightly, his voice slipping back into that composed, authoritative cadence. “And… thank you.”

Mammon blinked. “For what?”

Lucifer allowed the faintest, smallest smile. “For the distraction. I needed it.” He gestured slightly toward the crows still watching from the branches. “It’s not often I get peace and company in equal measure.”

Mammon’s grin returned, brighter this time. “Heh. Told ya my crows are good company.”

“Apparently so.”

Mammon grinned. “Guess the Great Mammon’s good for more than just winnin’ bets and lookin’ pretty, huh?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Heh, sure thing, boss.”

A cool breeze slipped through the trees. A few drops of rain whispered through the leaves overhead.

Lucifer straightened his coat, stepped back, glancing toward the manor’s distant lights. “Don’t stay out too long, Mammon. It’s getting late. You’ll need a clear head tomorrow.”

Mammon nodded, feeding one last peanut to Junior. “Yeah, I’ll head in soon. Gotta make sure they’re all tucked in first.”

Lucifer huffed softly, almost amused. Mammon gave a lazy salute. “Aye aye, Captain Lucifer.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes, but there was no irritation behind it. “Goodnight, Mammon.”

Mammon watched him start back toward the manor. The familiar ache stirred again—guilt, warmth, longing, something nameless all tangled up together.

“Night, Luci,” he murmured, softer this time.

As Lucifer disappeared into the glow of the manor windows, Mammon stayed where he was, surrounded by his crows. The night was calm again, but the weight in his chest lingered.

Luci hopped back onto his shoulder, letting out a satisfied caw.

Mammon rubbed the crow’s head with his thumb. “I know, he can be such a softie under all that pride.”

Junior let out a chirp like a laugh.

Mammon chuckled, the warmth from earlier finally catching up with him. “C’mon, let’s get ya’ll home before the rain hits.”

As the first drops began to fall, Mammon rose to his feet—surrounded by his crows, pride and guilt both tucked under his grin—and followed the soft glow of the house lights through the trees.

Luci hopped down beside him, peering up with a soft croak. Mammon reached out, brushing his feathers gently.

“Yeah,” he whispered, half to himself, half to the bird. “I’m fine.”

But the words didn’t sound nearly as convincing this time.

The courtyard had gone still after Lucifer left, save for the soft rustle of wings and the faint, distant hum of Devildom’s night air. The crows settled one by one, curling into their nests or perching on low branches. Luci gave a small, approving croak before hopping up to rejoin the others.

Mammon lingered a moment longer, watching the flicker of shadows across the trees. The pills had dulled the edges of his nerves. The quiet was almost too still, but at least his thoughts weren’t clawing at him anymore.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I’m headin’ in. Ya guys behave, alright?”

A few soft caws answered him. He smiled faintly. “Good birds.”

By the time Mammon made it back inside, the halls of the House of Lamentation had gone quiet. The others must’ve already gone to bed, only the faint hum of the lamps lit the way up the staircase. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor, the weight of his bag bouncing lightly against his hip.

He passed by the common room, now dim and still. A few open books and stray notes were scattered across the table where they’d studied earlier. Satan’s neat handwriting, Levi’s messy scribbles, Asmo’s doodles of hearts in the margins.

Mammon smiled faintly in spite himself. They’d actually gotten stuff done tonight. And for a little while… he’d felt normal.

He dropped his bag onto the couch and sat down for a second, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands were steady now. No more tremor, no more restlessness clawing up his spine. Just stillness.

He reached up and rubbed his temple, feeling the edge of that dull quiet spreading through him—the same way it always did when the pills kicked in. The tension eased, but so did everything else.

And with it, a small part of him always felt… absent.

He leaned back, head tipping against the back of the couch. For a long time, he just stared up at the ceiling. The shadows from the lamp made soft, hazy shapes that swayed like smoke. His thoughts slowed, distant, disconnected.

Lucifer’s words came back to him, clear as if he’d said them again.

“You’ve been quieter lately.”
“If something is going on, you know you can tell me.”

Mammon exhaled through his nose, a humorless smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah right…” he muttered under his breath. “Like I could ever tell ya that.”

He closed his eyes, letting the weight of it sink in. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like anything, really. And somehow, that made sense.

After a while, he stood up, heading for his room. The floorboards creaked softly underfoot, the only sound in the quiet house. When he passed by Lucifer’s door, he slowed for a moment. The faintest light still shone from beneath it—paperwork, probably. Always paperwork.

For some reason, that small glow made his chest tighten.

“…Night, Luci,” he mumbled, barely audible, before continuing down the hall.

Inside his room, the air was cool, faintly perfumed with the scent of ink and the metallic tang of Grimm. His crows were already settled near the windows, tucked into their nests, feathers puffed and warm. Luci lifted his head briefly as Mammon entered, then tucked it back under his wing.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Mammon murmured, setting his bag down. “Get some sleep.”

After fetching his journal from under the pool table, he sat at his desk and flipped open his journal again, turning to the next blank page. The faint scratch of the pen sounded almost too loud in the silence.

Journal Entry (2) – Day 227

Didn’t think I’d write twice in one day. Guess I just can’t sleep.

Lucifer found me with the crows tonight. He said I’ve been quieter. He ain’t wrong. He’s just got no idea why.

He looked tired too. He won’t ever say it, but I know he’s carryin’ all this on his back — the investigation, the exams, keepin’ us in line. Maybe that’s why I didn’t wanna make things harder for him.

He already worries too much… even if he pretends he doesn’t.

He told me I could trust him with anythin’.

Kinda funny, huh? The one thing I can’t tell him is the thin’ he most wants me to.

…It’s easier this way. When I take the pills.

But it’s weird. When it’s quiet like this, I start wonderin’ if I’m even me anymore.

Maybe Asmo was right — maybe takin’ these makes us empty. But what’s worse? Bein’ empty or bein’ broken?

And… seein’ the others today… it bothers me.

They’ve all been workin’ so damn hard on this investigation. Tired, busy… just pushin’ themselves, tryin’ to get answers. And the whole time, I’m sittin’ there actin’ like I’m helpin’ when I know I could end it.

All I’d have to do is walk up to Lord Diavolo, hand over the pills, spill everythin’ I know ‘bout Caligo. End it.

Boom. Done. Case closed.

But I won’t.

Guess that makes me selfish, huh? No — not “guess.” I am. Too selfish to give up the only thing that makes me feel in control. Too selfish to go back to bein’ the idiot Greed demon everyone expects.

And I feel crappy ‘bout it — like, real crappy.

But it ain’t just ‘bout me.

These pills… they help other demons too. I’ve seen ’em out there. Lost ones. Scared ones. The kinda demons who ain’t got anyone lookin’ out for ’em. Who am I to say they can’t have the same quiet I get? The same… peace?

So yeah. I could end this. But I won’t.

Not yet.

Guess that makes me selfish as hell. Not exactly news.

He stared at the words for a long time, the pen hanging loosely in his fingers. The page looked heavy somehow—the kind of truth that felt dangerous to keep, even on paper.

Finally, he shut the journal and slid it back into its hiding spot under the pool tables hidden safe compartment.

When he straightened, the faint hum of rain tapping against the window filled the silence.

“Guess it’s gonna be a long night,” he muttered softly, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside—but paused as he passed the mirror.

At first, he barely glanced at it.

Then he froze.

It was nothing—just his reflection staring back at him, the usual tired eyes and tousled hair. But as he stepped closer, something in the glass shifted.

For the briefest heartbeat, he thought he saw something else.

The eyes in the mirror gleamed a deeper gold than his own, sharp and feral, catching the faint lamplight and twisting it into something hungry. Something like smoke curled at the edges of the reflection, shaping into wings and horns that weren’t there.

And just as quickly as it appeared—it was gone.

Mammon blinked hard, leaning forward, heart skipping a beat. “...Huh?”

Only his reflection stared back now.

Just him. Just Mammon. Normal, familiar, bored.

He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Great. Now I’m seein’ things.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out thin. Weak.

His movements were slower now, heavier. The pills made things smooth and still, but underneath that stillness… something shifted. Something restless and sharp—stirring faintly in the pit of his chest.

Something that did not like being silenced.

“Tch.” He shook his head and backed away. “Whatever. Probably just tired.”

He kicked off his boots, crawled beneath the covers, then lay flat on his back staring at the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains. His body felt weightless, his mind quiet.

Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips.

He thought about Satan’s faintly surprised expression when he’d handed him the gift—the way his voice softened, that rare, unguarded smile crossing his face. Thought about Levi rambling about his TSL cosplay. Thought about Lucifer, standing there under the silver light, pretending he wasn’t worried when he obviously was.

And his crows—Luci with that smug little puff of feathers when he followed orders, Mammon Jr. perching on his head, Legion trying to steal the snacks right out of his hand.

“Ha… guess today wasn’t all bad,” he muttered, tugging the covers higher.

Then Lucifer’s voice lingered in his head one last time before sleep claimed him:

“You’ve done well, Mammon.”

He smiled faintly. The words should’ve made him feel proud.

Instead, they just echoed into the silence—hollow, like everything else.

The lights flickered once.

He didn’t see the mirror ripple again—didn’t see the faint gold flare beneath the glass like an eye opening.

Didn’t feel the faint pulse of his sin waking, stretching, pacing inside the quiet hollowness the pills left behind.

His breathing evened out, slow and steady, while the quiet in the room deepened—thick, alive, like it was listening.

And in the silence of his room, where the rain whispered and the shadows curled…

Greed opened one unseen, golden eye.