AN: Update, sorry it's been a while, life and the AO3 curse have had me miserable and busy, but I'm back!!!! Also, what y'all think of Lilith's crumbs in season 2, and if you have any theories, let me know because I'm curious what everyone thinks
Evelyn POV
Scylla…
I love her—not romantically, never that—but in a way that runs just as deep, maybe deeper. She's probably the only being in all of Hell I can stand beside without feeling the weight of expectation settle on my shoulders the moment I open my mouth.
Even with Charlie, as much as I adore her, there's always a role I have to fill.
The steady one.
The older sister.
The backup plan when things fall apart.
With Charlie, I'm encouragement and reassurance, the quiet strength standing just behind her optimism.
I catch what she drops, soften what she can't yet bear, hold the line when her hope cracks under reality.
I don't resent it—I chose that role long ago—but it's still a mask I wear, polished and dependable.
With Scylla?
I don't have to be anything.
When I'm Evie the hellhound—fur instead of finery, claws instead of crowns—I don't have to think five steps ahead.
I don't have to watch my words or temper my reactions.
I don't have to calculate how every laugh, every expression, every mistake might ripple outward and become political.
Scylla doesn't look at me like a symbol.
She doesn't soften her chaos or sharpen her tongue around me.
She doesn't need me to lead, fix, or save.
She just… is. Loud, reckless, affectionate, unfiltered in a way that should be exhausting—but somehow isn't.
Around her, I can roll my eyes, snort when I laugh, complain without offering solutions.
I can be sarcastic, petty, dramatic.
I can be tired and admit it out loud.
And she never tries to fix that.
She treats me like I'm real.
I think that's why she can get away with so much—why I let her cling to me in public, why I tolerate her chaos brushing up against my carefully built walls.
Because when Scylla throws an arm around my shoulders, it's not reverence or fear or obligation.
It's familiarity.
It's Evie, not Evelyn Morningstar, heir and negotiator and quiet architect behind compromises that keep Hell standing.
It's a friend who knew me before the pressure got heavier, before the stakes grew sharper, before every breath started to feel like it mattered too much.
And I love her for that.
For seeing me when I'm stripped of titles.
For letting me exist without pretending.
For reminding me—if only for a few reckless hours—that I'm allowed to be someone who isn't holding the world together.
Even if it's only when I'm a hellhound walking the streets beside a clown-shaped menace with a fondness for explosions.
Especially then.
By the time we arrive, I'm expecting… well.
Fire.
Property damage.
At least one screaming news drone circling overhead.
Instead—
I stop short.
The street ahead is packed.
Not in the usual Hell way, not in the frantic, elbow-throwing, weapon-drawn scramble I'm used to seeing when Scylla announces an "event."
This is different.
It's… organized.
Strings of neon lights zigzag between buildings, flickering in bright, candy-colored arcs. Music pulses through the pavement under my paws—bass heavy enough to rattle windows but rhythmic, intentional.
Someone's rigged up a stage from what looks like three stolen food trucks welded together, and holographic fireworks spiral above it in shimmering loops.
Sinners fill the street shoulder to shoulder.
And they're not fighting.
They're laughing.
I blink.
Actually laughing.
A pair of imps spin each other in a sloppy dance near a glowing punch bowl.
A skeletal sinner with a guitar and a large afro cheers as confetti cannons blast overhead.
Someone's set up a banner that reads: "HALF-DAY SLAUGHTER, HALF-DAY PARTY!" in aggressively glittering letters.
My ears twitch, catching fragments of conversation.
"Can you believe it? Only half a day now!"
"Heaven got humbled—about damn time!"
"We survived another one, baby!"
I hadn't realized how much tension had been coiled through the city until I see it loosening.
There are smiles.
Actual smiles.
A few demons spot Scylla first and whoop, raising drinks in her direction.
She preens immediately, throwing finger guns and exaggerated bows like she orchestrated the entire Pride Ring herself.
Then—
A couple of them look at me.
I instinctively brace, expecting suspicion, maybe hostility.
Instead, one of them waves.
Just… waves.
"Hey! Sick jacket!" another shouts over the music.
I stare for half a second too long before awkwardly lifting a claw in return.
They grin and turn back to their friends.
No whispers.
No recognition.
No careful distance.
Just casual acceptance.
My chest tightens—and not in the bad way.
Scylla leans in close, voice somehow cutting through the music. "Told you it wasn't my usual chaos."
I swallow, taking in the scene again.
There are food stalls.
Real ones, not just black-market booths.
Someone's grilling something that smells suspiciously edible.
A group of sinners are setting off controlled pyrotechnics that burst into harmless glitter clouds instead of flame.
Even the explosions are… festive.
"You did this?" I ask quietly.
Scylla shrugs, though her grin gives her away. "I may have helped coordinate. Got some overlords to sponsor the lights and stalls. Bribed a few arsonists to keep it non-lethal. You know. Community outreach."
I huff a soft laugh despite myself.
Community outreach.
In Hell.
I look around again, slower this time.
For so long, the exterminations were a countdown clock everyone felt but never talked about.
That creeping dread building every year, every cycle. And now—even if it's only cut in half—it's something.
Breathing room.
A chance to celebrate surviving.
And I know, deep down, that some of this relief traces back to those negotiations and past meetings.
To the hours I spent across polished tables staring down angelic smiles and sharpened sanctimony.
Heaven didn't "get their asses kicked."
But they yielded.
And seeing this—seeing sinners dancing instead of sharpening weapons, seeing hellborn laughing instead of watching the skies—
It makes it feel… real.
A sinner with three eyes and glitter in their hair beams at me. "You here for the light drop later? Supposed to be insane!"
"Light drop?" I echo.
Scylla practically vibrates beside me. "Oh yeah. No bombs. Just synchronized firework drones and illusion magic. Totally safe. Probably."
I give her a look.
She flashes me a grin that says mostly safe.
A group nearby starts chanting Scylla's name, dragging her toward the makeshift stage.
She resists for exactly half a second before giving in dramatically, waving at me as she's pulled away.
"Don't go anywhere, Evie! You have to see this!"
I stand there for a moment, music thundering through my ribs, lights flashing against my fur.
And then something unexpected happens.
A small imp kid tugs lightly on my jacket sleeve.
I glance down.
They stare up at me with wide, glowing eyes. "You look cool," they say shyly.
That's it.
No fear.
No awe.
No bowing.
Just that.
I blink once, then crouch slightly so I'm not towering over them. "Thanks," I reply, softer than I mean to.
They grin and scamper back toward their family.
And I just… stay there for a second.
Watching.
Listening.
Feeling.
For once, I'm not overseeing this from a balcony.
Not hearing about it through reports or advisors. I'm in the middle of it—anonymous, unimportant, just another body in the crowd.
And Hell doesn't look quite as suffocating from down here.
Scylla's laughter erupts from the stage as confetti cannons fire again, music swelling louder.
I find myself smiling—wide and genuine.
Maybe this is what she meant.
No crushing.
Just chaos.
And tonight?
It almost feels hopeful.
Third POV
Sinners and hellborn fill the street from wall to wall, dancing and eating together in a way that feels almost unreal for Pentagram City.
Their bodies—too many shapes, too many limbs, too many colors to count—blend into a living, moving riot of motion, a chaotic rainbow pulsing in time with the music.
Horns brush against wings, tails curl around ankles, laughter cuts through the bass like sparks. Normally, this kind of proximity would end in violence or vice, but tonight it holds.
Evie weaves through the crowd at an easy pace, paws careful but unhurried, her glowing eyes taking everything in.
She passes clusters of sinners sprawled on overturned crates, sharing food and stories, grease-stained fingers gesturing animatedly.
A pair of hellborn argue loudly over whose turn it is to pick the next song, only to dissolve into laughter seconds later.
Someone bumps into her shoulder, mutters a quick apology, and moves on without a second glance.
Then she notices something that makes her slow.
A group of succubi and incubi lounge near the edge of the street beneath a flickering sign, drinks in hand, wings folded loosely at their backs. They're laughing, teasing one another, swapping stories like old friends—but there's no predatory hunger in their eyes, no calculated touches, no contracts whispered between smiles.
One of them offers another a fry. Another leans back, relaxed, watching the lights overhead.
They're just… hanging out.
The realization genuinely surprises her.
Hell is so often built on appetite and excess that seeing restraint—seeing people choose to simply exist together—feels almost foreign.
Evie's ears flick back slightly as she watches them, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in her chest.
The music thrums through the street, deep and rhythmic, vibrating through pavement and bone alike.
Near the center of the block, a massive sinner with four arms and a grin full of gold teeth mans a makeshift bar cobbled together from scrap metal and neon tubing.
He slides mismatched cups across the counter with surprising finesse, shouting cheerfully over the noise as he passes out drinks.
"First round's on surviving!" he bellows.
Cheers erupt around him.
Evie can't help the grin that tugs at her muzzle as she passes by, tail swaying loosely behind her.
This isn't careful optimism or forced cheer—it's real. Earned. A release valve opening after years of pressure.
Her gaze lifts toward the stage.
Scylla is right where she belongs—center stage, bathed in light, utterly unrestrained.
She dances like gravity is optional, movements wild and exaggerated, curls of white hair bouncing as she sings into a stolen mic.
Her voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and playful, pulling laughter and cheers from the crowd with every word.
Glitter cannons fire behind her, and illusion magic splashes color across the buildings, turning brick and steel into shifting murals of light.
The effect is immediate.
Joy spikes like a live wire.
Sinners jump and dance harder. Hellborn climb onto shoulders.
Someone starts chanting Scylla's name, and she feeds off it shamelessly, bowing with theatrical flair before launching into another verse. She looks radiant in her chaos—dangerous, ridiculous, alive.
Evie watches from the crowd, unnoticed, anonymous, and for once, she doesn't feel the urge to scan for threats or consequences. She isn't counting exits. She isn't calculating fallout.
She's just watching people be happy.
The music swells. Lights flare brighter. Laughter rolls through the street like thunder.
And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the color and movement and barely contained mayhem, Hell feels… lighter.
Just for tonight.
Charlie POV
Vaggie and I don't get a lot of days like this.
Days where there isn't a crisis to manage, a fire to put out—sometimes literally—or a stack of complaints waiting for my signature the moment I wake up.
So when we hear rumors drifting through the Pride Ring about a huge party happening downtown in Pentagram City, thrown by some sinner named Scylla, I latch onto the idea immediately.
A party.
A real one.
Not a riot disguised as a celebration.
Vaggie is… less enthusiastic.
"Charlie," she says, arms crossed as we hover above the street on our way there, eyeing the distant glow of neon lights and illusion magic. "You know this is probably a trap. Or a cover for arson. Or both."
"I mean," I reply, trying—and failing—not to grin, "everything down here is kind of a cover for arson."
She gives me the look.
"But!" I rush on, clasping my hands together. "I've been hearing really good things. Like—no mass violence, no turf wars, no explosions that actually hurt anyone. People are saying sinners and hellborn are just… hanging out."
Vaggie snorts. "I'll believe that when I see it."
That just makes me more determined.
I tug her hand and pull us down toward the street, and the moment our feet touch the pavement, I have to physically stop myself from squealing.
It's incredible.
The street is packed—wall to wall with demons of every shape and size—but it's not the usual chaos. No screaming matches escalating into bloodshed.
No territorial snarling. Just music, laughter, lights, and motion everywhere I look.
Neon banners sway overhead, illusionary fireworks bloom and fade harmlessly in the air, and the bass from the speakers thrums right through my chest.
Sinners are dancing with hellborn.
Actually dancing.
Not fighting. Not posturing. Dancing.
I see imps spinning each other around, laughing too hard to stay upright. A towering sinner with three heads shares a table with a group of smaller hellborn, all arguing cheerfully over food. Someone passes out drinks from a makeshift bar, and instead of shoving and shouting, people wait—impatiently, sure, but civilly.
My eyes shine as I take it all in.
"Vaggie," I whisper, squeezing her hand, "look at this."
She doesn't answer right away, too busy scanning the crowd, posture tense and alert like she's bracing for something to go wrong.
But even she has to slow when she notices what I do.
Succubi and incubi leaning against a wall nearby, wings folded, laughing over shared drinks. No seductive traps.
No deals whispered into ears.
One of them is animatedly telling a story while the others groan and throw napkins at her.
They're just… being people.
My chest tightens in the best possible way.
"This is—this is exactly what I've been talking about," I murmur, barely able to contain myself. "They're choosing not to hurt each other. No one's forcing this. They're just… enjoying being alive."
Vaggie exhales slowly. "Okay," she admits. "I didn't expect this."
The music surges, and a cheer ripples through the crowd.
I look toward the stage and spot the source instantly—a brightly colored sinner dancing and singing like she owns the entire street, hair bouncing, movements wild and theatrical.
She looks completely unhinged in the most joyful way possible, and the crowd is eating it up.
"That must be Scylla," I say, awed. "I've never heard of her before, but wow—she's got presence."
"Yeah," Vaggie mutters. "That's one word for it."
Scylla twirls across the stage, belting into the mic, and the energy spikes higher. People cheer louder, dance harder, laugh more freely.
It's like she's feeding the joy back into the crowd and getting twice as much in return.
I can't stop smiling.
This—this—is what I've always hoped for. Not redemption overnight, not miracles, just moments where Hell feels… softer.
Where people get a break from surviving long enough to just live.
I lean into Vaggie, resting my head briefly against her shoulder as the lights flash overhead.
"See?" I say quietly. "Change doesn't always start with big speeches. Sometimes it starts with a really good party."
She snorts softly, but I feel her relax just a bit. "You're impossible."
I grin up at her. "You love me."
She sighs. "Unfortunately."
We stand there together, surrounded by music and laughter and a crowd that—just for tonight—feels like proof that things don't have to be as bad as everyone thinks.
And I can't help but hope this isn't the last time Pentagram City feels like this.