The walk out of Ozzie's was quieter than the walk in.
No eyes burned into his back now at least, not openly. Conversations resumed, laughter exploded in pockets of intoxicated chaos, and Lust Ring carried on pretending nothing important had just happened.
But Malerion felt it.
A shift.
Recalibration.
Asmodeus hadn't just spoken to them.
He had measured them.
Catalogued them.
Filed them somewhere between threat and investment.
Verosika walked beside him, arms crossed, gaze forward but her silence wasn't annoyed or cold.
It was thoughtful.
Finally, as they stepped outside into cooler air, she exhaled:
"…You handled him better than I expected."
Malerion glanced at her.
"That surprises you?"
"No."
She flicked her hair back with the smallest smirk.
"It surprises me that he took you seriously."
That hung between them not insult, not compliment, just truth.
They kept walking.
Eventually, Malerion spoke.
"When we first heard he invited us, I thought it would be… shallow."
"Yeah." Verosika laughed once not mocking, more tired.
"Most people think that. Because the show he puts on is shallow. Loud. Flashy. All glitter and sex appeal."
She kicked a loose piece of gravel as they walked.
"Hell doesn't animate its rulers accurately," she muttered.
Malerion raised an eyebrow.
"…Animate?"
She waved a hand dismissively.
"Figure of speech. Metaphor. Whatever."
Silence then she added:
"People watch Ozzie on stage or in gossip, and they think he's just Lust. A walking stereotype. The horny circus king."
Her voice dropped lower.
"But that wasn't Lust at the table tonight."
Malerion nodded slowly.
"He was… observant."
"Surgical," she corrected.
"Yes."
They paused at the edge of the landing platform.
Wind stirred her hair as she looked out over the glowing sprawl of Lust Ring.
"You know one thing that pisses me off?" she said quietly.
"That people assume they know someone just because they've seen a piece of them."
Malerion studied her profile sharp, proud, and for a moment, vulnerable.
"That bothers you."
"It bothers anyone with depth," she muttered.
Another beat.
"People think they know me too. pop star. The flirt. The walking vice."
She tapped her temple lightly.
"But they don't know the parts that don't fit the script."
Malerion understood.
More than she knew.
"Hell likes categories," he said.
"Labels," she added.
"Predictions."
"And shortcuts."
They both breathed the same cold air for a moment.
Finally, Malerion murmured:
"Asmodeus isn't what he appears."
Verosika smirked sideways.
"Neither are you."
He didn't deny it.
She didn't need him to.
The helicopter descended, rotors slicing the night into controlled wind.
Before boarding, Verosika turned to him fully, expression unreadable then softening just enough to be real.
"Let this be your reminder," she said.
"Nothing in Hell is one dimensional. Not the rulers. the sinners. threats."
Her gaze sharpened slightly the performer fading, the strategist taking her place.
"And especially not the ones watching you now."
Malerion held her stare.
"Then I won't underestimate them."
"Good," she whispered.
"Because they definitely won't underestimate you."
They boarded the aircraft.
As the city fell beneath them, Malerion leaned back in his seat silent thoughts drifting back to the table, Ozzie's eyes, the measured interest in every word:
Hell hides depth behind spectacle.
And he realized something then something unsettling and necessary:
> The most dangerous enemies aren't the loud ones.
They're the ones who laugh, entertain, flirt
while quietly deciding whether you belong on the stage…
…or under it.