Chapter 2: The First Private Performance
The war room doors shut with a heavy thud that echoed longer than it should have. No guards outside. No one stupid enough to knock.
The air was thick and hot. It smelled like brimstone and sweat and whatever cologne the Demon King wore when he was trying too hard to look intimidating. Nine black orbs floated over the obsidian table, throwing weird shifting shadows.
Old maps hung crooked on the walls with corners charred black. It felt private in a way that made my stomach twist. Not just dangerous, but intimate.
Beelzebub stood at the far end with wings half open like he could not decide whether to bolt or fight.
His coat was already on the floor. Just gold chains across his bare chest now. The links were dented and cracked from earlier when I had said one word: Strip.
He had not argued. He had not even blinked. But his breathing was shallow. His chest rose too fast.
His eyes locked on me like I might vanish if he looked away.
I walked toward him slowly. My new suit, some void thread nonsense that felt alive, hugged tighter with every step like it knew what was coming.
I stopped close. Too close. I could feel the heat rolling off him. I could see the way his pupils had eaten most of the red in his eyes.
The collar I had conjured sat snug around his throat. Electric blue letters pulsed faintly: PROPERTY OF DIRECTOR TANAKA.
I let the quiet hang until it hurt.
Then low: "Hands on the table. Palms down. Wings out. Do not move unless I say."
He slammed his palms down so hard the obsidian cracked in thin spider lines. Wings snapped wide. Twenty meters of black and flame edged feathers. His tail flicked once sharp then froze like someone had hit pause.
Every muscle in him went rigid.
I circled behind him first. I trailed one finger down the base of a wing joint along his spine. Ancient runes lit up white hot under my touch like they had been waiting for permission. He sucked in a breath when I pressed my palm flat at the small of his back.
He shuddered. The table creaked.
"Three thousand years," I muttered while leaning in so my lips brushed his ear, "and nobody has ever done this to you have they?"
A rough sound scraped out of his throat. Half growl. Half something broken.
I bit the side of his neck. Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to make him jolt.
His knees dipped for a second before he caught himself.
I kept moving. I dragged my hand over his hip and felt the muscle jump. When I got to the front my knuckles brushed the obvious strain under what was left of his pants.
He jerked like I had shocked him.
I stepped back. I pulled out his throne, the big ugly one at the head of the table, and sat. I crossed my legs. I leaned back.
I looked at him.
Two meters and change of apocalypse shaking because a guy in a suit told him to hold still.
It was ridiculous. It was hot.
"Performance review," I said while snapping my fingers.
A stack of red parchment appeared with edges dripping like fresh ink or blood. Complaints. Failed prophecies. Hero encounter logs stamped with more DENIED than anything else.
I lifted the top sheet and let it float.
"Fear output is down forty seven percent in the east. Mortals are calling your legions cosplay demons. Explain."
He swallowed. His voice came out rough. "The last team wore name tags. Matching ones."
I let the page catch fire. Black flames ate it then it reformed in his hand.
"Four Heavenly Kings have not left their rooms in six months. Burnout? Or are they just done with a boss who has not won anything in centuries?"
His jaw ticked. I could hear teeth grinding.
"And last year," I went on quieter now, "a fourteen year old with a stick got a hit on you. In public."
The room went cold then hot again. His shame and anger fought it out.
I stood. I walked over. I grabbed both horns firm not cruel and yanked his face down to mine.
"Beelzebub."
His true name hit like a slap. His eyes flickered to black.
"You are fixing this. All of it. Tonight. You are reminding everyone why your name used to scare people shitless."
I tightened my grip. He hissed through his teeth.
"And you are doing it with my collar on. Crawling if I want. Begging if it feels right."
Something in his eyes gave way. Ancient. Feral. But tired.
He surrendered.
I let go of his horns. I stepped back. I snapped again.
Chains rose from the floor. Black. Alive. They wrapped wrists ankles wings. Pinned him spread against the table.
He did not fight.
I walked to his side. I ran fingers over a chained wrist up his arm across his chest where his heart hammered like it wanted out.
I leaned close.
"Phase one," I whispered. "Dawn. Hit the human capital. No killing. No burning. Just terror. Make them remember what fear actually feels like."
I dragged a nail down his chest. Light line of blood that healed fast.
"Phase two: Come back soaked in their panic. Kneel. Tell me everything."
My hand drifted lower. I stopped just short.
"Phase three…" I breathed against his mouth close enough our lips almost touched. "If you have been good beg for your reward. And if you earn it…"
I kissed him hard claiming teeth and tongue and no room for doubt.
He groaned into it. Chains clinked as he strained forward and could not reach.
I pulled back.
"Maybe I let you finish."
Then I stepped away.
I snapped once more.
Chains smoked into nothing.
He dropped to his knees. Forehead to floor. Wings folded tight in submission.
I walked behind him. I threaded fingers through his hair. I tugged his head back gently.
"Good."
I let go.
I turned toward the doors.
"Dawn," I said over my shoulder. "Do not fuck it up."
The doors swung open.
I left.
I can't belive this is happening. Back in Tokyo I'm just a stupid overworked guy.
Is this a dream? I asked myself as I walked away.